Philip Richard Johnson, AKA Hambone, Hambone3110 and HamboneHFY
The Deathworlders
Chapter 1
Chapter 0: “The Kevin Jenkins Experience” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
By Hambone 20 / Jun / 2015

The first chapter of what would eventually become “The Deathworlders”, was posted on 4chan some years ago now, as a self-contained story.
At first I thought it had received some pleasant comments and then sank without a trace. It was only after Reddit user “Guidosbestfriend” set his own story “Humans Don’t Make Good Pets” in the same universe and I confessed to having created the setting that I learned that “The Kevin Jenkins Experience” was considered a HFY classic.
Surprising as this was, I then decided to write a sequel, and from there the clamor for more has picked me up and swept me along.
For those who are upset by the strongly antitheistic content of part 0.2, I implore you to power on through it. You may be pleasantly surprised by the resolution to that content.
-Hambone
Chapter 2
Chapter 01: “Run, Little Monster” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Terri Boone could feel the bass power cords begin to thump at her bones as she entered the bar and couldn’t resist the feral grin that forced its way onto her face - it was exactly her kind of song.
For that matter, Afterburner was exactly her kind of bar. Affordable drinks, an Internet jukebox plugged straight into a set of speakers with the volume turned up full, three pool tables, a dartboard, and a couple of huge TV screens turned permanently to a sports channel. Right now, inaudible commentators were enthusing about the night’s upcoming game between the Vancouver Canucks and the Arizona Coyotes. If she didn’t live halfway across the country, she could have seen herself becoming a regular here.
She knew the man she was after by description and it didn’t take long to see him working the bar, jawing with the regulars as he opened a couple of bottles and handed them over. Browned skin, full beard, a cross tattooed on his right forearm and a curious bald patch just forward of his left temple, that was her guy alright.
She slid up into a bar stool as the patrons vacated it and was treated to a warm grin.
“Not seen you in here before darling.” He said, floating his voice over the rampaging music with practised ease. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a Bud, please.” she called back, fishing out a bill from her purse. “Hey, is your name Kevin Jenkins?”
“Ah.” He grinned as he retrieved the bottle from its fridge and uncapped it. “Should have known. You’re here for my alien story.”
“You get that a lot?”
“Got to be at least fifteen nutjobs in here a month asking me about it and telling me about the thing they built in their garage so they can get in touch with the mothership.” Jenkins said, swapping her bills for change.
“So you claim to be an alien abductee but think others who claim that are nutjobs?” she sipped her beer.
“Oh yeah. You can always tell the bullshitters who’ve convinced themselves they got taken from the ones who really did.” Jenkins replied. “The real abductees don’t want to go back.”
+++
The Brood had no music, nor did they need to shout. They were perfectly capable of vocalizing, but that clumsy mechanism was reserved only for speaking with other Broods. Within each Brood, the intimate cybernetic wiring that allowed full thoughts to be sent in their entirety had made language entirely redundant.
One said: +<trepidation; question> the watchful Prey have not seen us?+
Another said: +<confidence; statement> They have not. <sneering> Nor have the beast prey.+
This provoked a wave of amusement that circled around the entire Brood. By their standards, the wry assumption that a non-sentient Prey species could hope to detect a cloaked Hunter vessel was the height of humour.
The youngest said: +<fear; query> The Prey are a death world species. We saw what just one of them did to the Brood of Five Poisons. Respectfully, Alpha, are we sure that all of our Brood shall return from this hunt?+
Alpha said: +<Impatience; terse rebuke; instruction> If you fear them so, you may remain aboard the transport.+
It - their species did not reproduce in a gendered manner analogous to male and female - addressed the remainder as the youngling radiated sullen apology. +<inspiring reminder> We are the Hunters, they are the prey. Death planet or not, we will have the technological advantage and surprise. An ambushed prey is meat in the maw. Our cousin-Broods will remember our triumph as we return with trophies from this formidable prey, they will know our courage and our skill. And for the prey, they will know their place in the order of things.+
It turned to the one that operated their ship’s electronic warfare suite. +<Query> Do you have an appropriately high-profile target?+
That one replied +<statement> I do, Alpha. Their whole species will witness our hunt.
The Brood vocalised as one for the first time, expressing their approval. The hunt was on.
+++
“I’ll be honest, I don’t believe a word of it.” Terri told him.
“I don’t blame you.” Jenkins said. “But, look at this.” He leaned forward and turned his head so that she could inspect the bald patch on the left side of his head. Up close, it was an intricate web of fine white scars that produced a pattern which looked disturbingly like circuitry.
“That’s where those grey fuckers shoved an experimental translation implant into me.” Jenkins said. “It worked, but the doctors who took it out of me said it was a pretty damn crude one.”
“These would be alien doctors.” Terri said. She had to admit, the scars were compelling evidence, but she was a natural skeptic. It went with the job.
“Yep. See they greys - “Corti” is the pronunciation used by species that have mouths which work kind of like ours - apparently they had this big eugenics program and turned themselves into a civilization of immoral scientists. They abduct pre-contact species, figure out how we tick, and use that data to corner the market in translation implants and other biotech when we make first contact. Real assholes. Most of the others are pretty cool though.”
He thought about this. “Actually, some of them are as dumb as a bag of beans. There’s one species, look kinda like six-limbed giraffes with blue stripes. Those guys are about as sharp as a sack of wet mice. But most of the critters out there are cool.”
Terri waggled her empty bottle by way of asking for a replacement “So if they’re mostly pretty cool, why wouldn’t anybody want to go back out there? Flying among the stars and all that sounds pretty fun.”
“It will be, when we’re out there.” Jenkins said, grabbing a replacement. “But for now, because we haven’t invented FTL travel, we’re legally considered to be non-sentient fauna rather than intelligent people. Even when there are trade ships out there captained by beings who’ve got all the brains of biscuits and gravy by our standards.”
“Why the interest, anyway?” He asked her, all of a sudden.
“I’m a private investigator.” She replied. “My client’s paying me a lot to travel the whole country looking for what he called ‘genuine’ abductees.”
“Do I fit the bill?” Jenkins asked.
She truthfully told him that she didn’t know - her client had only asked me to hunt down people who weren’t obvious crazies. He’d taken her to a UFO convention in New Mexico, gestured to the whole room and said ’Ms. Boone, this is the kind of people you’re not trying to find for me.’
It was a pretty nebulous description, but the client’s generous travel budget and seemingly limitless ability to keep up with her fees had kept Terri happy and comfortable on a road trip all over the USA for the best part of half a year, and if it meant she got to drink in exactly the right kind of bar interviewing a bartender who - she had to confess - was exactly the right kind of rugged sexy, then those were the kind of contracts she had dreamed of when she became a P. I.
“I guess he didn’t want me accidentally giving away what kind of answer I was looking for.” she finished. “If it helps though, I don’t think you’re crazy. More… bitter about something.”
Jenkins laughed. “Yeah, Kirk said pretty much the same thing”.
“Kirk?”
“Oh yeah. The coolest guy out there. His species has a language that sounds like ball-bearings in a blender, but the first syllable of his name sounds a bit like “Kirk”, you know, like from Star Trek? So that’s what I called him. He told me a few weeks before I came back to Earth that I seemed bitter about something.”
“Was he right?” Terry asked.
“Could be. See, there’s this species called…”
"What the fuck?! Hey Jenks, are you seeing this shit?!"
+++
With nary a ripple of displaced air, the Hunter raiding vessel slipped down into planetary atmosphere. Unnoticed by even the most sophisticated surveillance and interception network on the planet, it sashayed through cloud and current until it found its destination - a city of gleaming steel-and- glass towers on the banks of an inland sea, surrounded by snow-capped mountains. It settled above a dome-roofed building that nestled squat and low among the skyscrapers, causing some minor static in the transmissions coming from within, which were quickly compensated for by the small army of technicians who kept the broadcast going out all over the world.
+<Query; intrigued> Combat trials, perhaps? Ritualized training to do battle in cold-weather conditions?+
+<Terse; impatient> We are not anthropologists! Brace yourself, siblings. We drop in a full hand of pulses.+
+<Eager; aggressive> Meat to the maw!+
The traditional hunting cry reverberated in silence among their collective minds, and then their boarding torpedoes erected their stasis fields, keeping any and all external forces from doing anything to their occupants. When they opened again a subjective non-event later, they had been fired through the roof of the Rogers Arena and each stood upright in a bullseye of cracked ice.
As one, the Brood stepped out of their assault torpedoes, spun up their heavy Kinetic Pulse guns, and opened fire indiscriminately into the stunned players, officials and spectators.
+++
“Shit! Oh my god those poor people!”
The music had been shut off, and the sound of the sports channel turned up. The commentators were going delirious trying to describe the sight of an alien attack right in front of their eyes. Terri’s hand was across her mouth in a shocked reflex, watching them viciously lay into a mass of humanity that had, up until mere seconds earlier, been completely unaware of their existence.
“Hunters.” Jenkins said. He did so quietly, but everybody nearby suddenly glanced at him. Alone of everybody in the bar, he was the only one not apparently appalled by the sight. Instead, he had an expression of savage anticipation.
“Oh, y’all believe me now?” he asked. “Yep, those are the hunters I told you about. The ones I - me, your barkeep - personally beat the fuck to death with my own bare hands.”
His grin broadened. “And the stupid bastards made the mistake of raiding a hockey game? This, boys and girls, is going to be fucking funny.”
+++
Alpha stepped from its assault pod and fired directly into the chest of the first Prey it saw - one of the armoured ones on the ice. Instantly, the Prey’s bewildered stillness gave way to the panic that all Prey fell victim to when the Hunters arrived. Many emitted high-pitched squeals of alarm, many more stampeded to escape. Around it, the Brood stepped onto the ice and launched Kinetic bolts at anything that moved.
Each shot knocked Prey flying, and Alpha felt a savage surge of pride. Their Brood would gain much respect for taking on death planet predators and scattering them like any other herd. Alpha could imagine the praise songs and taste the honour-feast already.
And then the Prey it had shot stood up.
+++
“See, they have this planetary classification system for temperate worlds like ours.” Jenkins said amiably, as on the screen one of the players hauled himself back up onto his skates, clearly a bit winded but otherwise no worse than if he’d taken a hard body-check from one of the Arizonan players.
“Category one is, like, the Garden of Eden. You could drop any species in the galaxy down there completely buck bare and they’d be happy as Larry for the rest of their lives.” he continued, as Canucks and Coyotes players helped one another to their feet. Alien though their body language was, everybody could see the alarm and surprise the Hunters were feeling as every single one of the humans they had shot turned out to be not only alive, but angry.
“Most planets are like, a four to six or so. You don’t want to get caught in the rain and you’ll need to work for your food, but generally it’s pretty easy living on those worlds.”
The aliens fired again, punching the players off their feet again.
“Anything above Class ten is considered a deathworld.” Jenkins continued as, yet again, the players got back up, and this time they started skating around the invading aliens, which formed a defensive corral and began to fire wildly at the circling sportsmen. It quickly became apparent that their reflexes and aim were remarkably sluggish and that the circling skaters were just too fast to hit. Shot after shot splashed harmlessly on the plexiglass.
At first, the people behind the barrier cowered, but that plexiglass was rated to a much, MUCH higher resilience than even the heaviest Kinetic Pulse fire. It didn’t take long for the cowering fans to realise this, and begin to chant: “Kick their ass! Kick their ass!”
Jenkins went on, raising his voice slightly above the swelling, bloodthirsty chant. “Deathworlds have things like high gravity, poisonous plants and critters, lots of carnivores, nasty little microorganisms, natural disasters like earthquakes or volcanoes, acid rain, high background radiation, stuff like that. Like I said, a deathworld is everything Class Ten or above, and anything that evolves there is supposed to be really goddamn dangerous.”
By now on TV, the crowd were roaring at full volume: “KICK THEIR ASS! KICK THEIR ASS!”
+++
Alpha brodcast: <Shock; dismay; terror; disbelief; shame>
Then one of the Prey hurtled towards it, at speeds that simply defied understanding.
The last thing it ever broadcast was: <PAIN!>
+++
Most eyes in the bar closed and turned away from the carnage on the ice in disgust. Terri Boone watched out of morbid fascination. It seemed impossible that things which looked so menacing might break so easily.
Kevin Jenkins opened a beer for himself.
“Earth,” he said, with vicious satisfaction. “Is a Class Twelve.”
Chapter 3
Chapter 02: “Aftermath” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
“I’ll spare you as much of the jargon as I can, eh?”
Not for the first time, General Martin Tremblay was struck by the youth of the scientists working on this project. If it had been up to him, the whole thing would have been as hush-hush as possible, locked up behind layer after layer of need-to-know statuses and classified stamps. But, his way had to play second fiddle to the reality of aliens on live sports news, right here in British Columbia. When he’d delegated the task of bringing in biologists, physicists and engineers from across the globe to one of his staff, he hadn’t quite anticipated that she would opt for a team that was practically fresh from their doctorates.
Oh, sure, there were plenty of grey hairs around, but Tremblay was feeling decidedly venerable surrounded by all this buzzing enthusiastic youthfulness.
“I’d appreciate that. Let’s get to the meat.”
He regretted the turn of phrase immediately as the biologist - a rotund and jovial man with a habit of roaring with laughter at the slightest joke, deliberate or not - released his characteristic chuckle and then turned to the report, which was mercifully brief.
“From what we were able to scrape off the ice in Vancouver after the hockey teams were done with them, they’re… kind of unimpressive, actually.” he opined. “The endoskeleton seems to be based around comparatively large crystals of silica, with not a trace of collagen in sight. Remarkably fragile. Musculature is… we think their muscles can pull, push and twist, where ours can only pull, so they need fewer muscles overall to get the same range of motion, but each muscle’s far weaker than our own - the samples we have, bruised and crushed as they were, had a tensile strength about that of smoked salmon. Even accounting for tissue damage, they’re decidedly weaker than we are, and they couldn’t possibly move as fast as we can. Just not enough force or leverage.”
“That explains why they broke so easily.” Tremblay said.
Dr. Taylor nodded. “It’s weird, it’s like their whole physiology never evolved to deal with even a fraction of the daily challenges ours did. I mean, there’s a lot we can’t test given how badly damaged all the specimens were but what we DO have says that an average guy could probably rip the arms off these things if he tried.”
“So what the hell did they think they were going to accomplish?” Tremblay said. “Interesting as this is, my job is to figure out what kind of a threat they pose, and to do that I need more than an analysis about how squishy they are. I could see that just from watching the game.”
Taylor’s colleague, Dr. Betty-Anne Cote, cleared her throat at that one. She tended to let Taylor do the talking - he was the kind of large personality who filled a room, while she was more the ‘quietly get things done while nobody’s watching’ type. They complemented each other well, not least because when she did venture an opinion, Taylor tended to shut up and let her share it.
“We’re, like, the only people on the planet who could claim to be experts in xenopsychology” she said, though unbeknownst to everyone in the room she was completely wrong. “So we’re starting from scratch. And I guess the first assumption we have to make is that, to them, their physical frailty would be normal, and we’d seem freakishly strong and durable.”
“It would explain the weaponry.” Taylor commented. “You’ve seen the interview tapes?”
Tremblay indicated that he had. All of the athletes had given a roughly similar description of what it felt like to be shot with an alien gun - pathetic. While the shots had knocked them off their feet, to a seasoned hockey player in full gear the impacts had been little worse than irritating. The goaltenders had felt hardly anything at all.
Careful testing had suggested that the guns delivered, by some as-yet unidentified mechanism, a discharge of kinetic energy that propagated along the direction of fire at the speed of light. The weapons had plenty of advantages - they were portable, agile, had no recoil at all, and seemed to convert their stored energy very efficiently, but they stood no hope at all of seriously threatening a well-conditioned soldier in full battle gear.
“If we assume that the average target for those weapons is about as tough as the idiots who landed in Vancouver, then those weapons start to make sense.” Dr. Cote told him.
"Merde." Tremblay pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really don’t want to go to NATO and the Commonwealth with a report to the effect that these things pose about as much threat as an angry twelve-year-old.” he said.
“Well, from what we’ve gathered so far, sir, that would be the truth.” Taylor shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’d prefer to give a report to the effect that we’re hopelessly outmatched and can kiss our collective derrieres goodbye?"
“Well, no. It’s just a bit…. anticlimactic.” Tremblay said.
As she returned to her work, Betty Cote muttered a heartfelt “Amen to that.”
++
+++
“Dumbasses.”
That insult woke Terri Boone up, and she sat up straighter and adusted her seatbelt, embarrassed to find that she had fallen asleep. It took her a few seconds to get up to speed, but the target of the insult turned out to be obvious - a mass of people filling the road, waving signs and chanting. Most of the signs showed variants on the theme of alien faces, most the classic large-eyed Roswell green or grey cueball, some actual cartoon versions of the things - Hunters - that had attacked Vancouver, one or two of the sleek black aliens fought by Sigourney Weaver and, in one case, an ET puppet impaled atop a steel pole in a way that implied he’d never be phoning anybody at all.
Between the car’s air conditioning, the impatient traffic and the general disorganised noise of protestors not getting the timing quite right on their chant, it was hard to tell what, exactly, their protest was about, other than that they apparently disapproved of extraterrestrial life in general, and wanted somebody to do something about it. A few wags had infiltrated the crowd with signs like “down with this sort of thing” and “DER TERK ER JERBS”, and the police were fighting an uphill battle just to keep the whole situation relatively peaceful and respectful, never mind the task of trying to disperse the mob and restore something that resembled normalcy.
As if there was any such thing now that the world had conclusive proof of the existence of intelligent alien life, and hostile alien life at that.
She reached over and turned down the radio, where some self-appointed authority was bemoaning the way that the alien vehicle had fled into space and vanished in a burst of Cherenkov radiation, and was insisting that the Royal Canadian Air Force had “screwed the pooch” by failing to intercept, ground and study it. His guest’s patient attempts to explain that the vehicle in question had gone from a standing start to Mach 5, meaning that interception would have been completely impossible, were being dodged, mocked, or outright ignored.
It was the third time in one week they had encountered a mob of some kind, brandishing signs either welcoming the aliens to Earth, or expressing unspecified antagonism towards them. Kevin Jenkins reserved tolerant disdain for the former, and naked contempt for the latter. For her part, Terri still wasn’t sure she believed his story, but if it was true, she thought she could sense why he might react so strongly. After all, the first group were just naive airheads. The latter compounded that crime with prejudice, and prejudice seemed to really irritate Jenkins.
He claimed that reflex was largely due to the year and a half he had spent vagrant in the galaxy, surrounded by weird and varied alien species and lacking the basic rights that protected any of them. He had been on the receiving end of quite a lot of prejudice himself. Terri suspected that he was being a little unkind to interstellar society - being mixed-race, he’d undoubtedly suffered the same on Earth, albeit with the law on his side. Sure, being treated legally and officially as a non-sentient animal probably hadn’t been great for his esteem, but the bitterness with which he spoke of his experience didn’t quite gel with the fact that they had practically bent over backwards to get him home in the end.
“Are we there yet?” she asked. He shook his head and glanced at the car’s GPS.
“This is Columbus.” He told her. “It’s about thirty miles to Shelbyville.”
She examined the map on her phone and frowned. “Why did we leave the Interstate?”
“I’m hungry.” he replied, and her own stomach voiced vigorous agreement with that sentiment. He took the first opportunity as the protest moved on to pull over, into a strip mall where they ordered a Domino’s and watched the sea of banners meander out of sight at about the same speed as their pizza crawled through the oven.
Terri was famished: she inhaled her five slices before Jenkins had finished his third, and was only saved from the temptation of stealing a sixth when he ordered some sides for her. She had to admit, he was a good travelling companion - paid his share of the gas, took more than his fair share of time behind the wheel, had a knack for finding the least terrible radio station in any given area, and mostly left her alone with her thoughts.
She was beginning to realise, however, that despite these qualities, and as attractive as he was, she didn’t actually like him very much. He was a little too… intense. He was at once both detached and too focused, as if whatever he might be doing or discussing was an unwelcome distraction from some more important business, to be given his full attention and dealt with swiftly and efficiently, minimizing the time until he could return that attention to where it belonged.
He was terse, both choleric and melancholic, self-confident to the point of arrogance, and had a particularly annoying habit of passing disparaging commentary on (or at least frowning at) pretty much every church sign they passed which, this being Indiana, happened about once every minute or so. Terri, being Catholic, had quickly had to master the art of diplomatic silence.
She drove the remaining half hour to Shelbyville, with Jenkins lounging silently in the passenger seat, sketching or writing - she couldn’t tell which
- with cheap K-Mart stationery held against his raised knee. Occasionally he would pull out his cellphone and consult it.
Terri hadn’t become a Private Investigator out of a shortage of curiosity, and her resolve finally wore out as they drove past the water tower at the edge of town.
“What’re you working on, anyway?”
He glanced up, apparently surprised as if he had totally forgotten about her, then seemed to collect himself and showed her a few pages of sketchbook. The drawings were angular and rough, clearly the work of an amateur, but also both recognisably non-human and recognisably plausible life-forms.
He tapped one which appeared to have a prosthetic limb. “That’s Kirk.” he said.
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask about that. Kirk?”
“His name sounds like a rock stuck in a garbage disposal.” Jenkins said. “But the first syllable sounds a bit like ‘Kirk’.”
“Does he hang out with-” she began.
“Dammit, I don’t want to hear the Spock joke again!”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds, and then he regained his composure.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”
“I understand, you’ve heard it too many times. It’s okay.”
“That ain’t it. I’m just… on edge.”
They turned onto a residential street and Terr quickly saw the address they were after - a little brown house with a little white porch and a ubiquitous stars-and-stripes hanging limp on a flagpole in the garden.
“Why?” she asked him as she parked. “You’re, like, the only person I’ve even heard of who seems to have a real handle on things now that the whole world’s gone alien-crazy.”
“Yeah. And I don’t like it.” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt.
She followed him out of the car. “What’s not to like?” She asked. He shrugged.
“Call me crazy, but it just don’t seem right that anybody could “have a handle” on something this big, least of all a dumbass like me, you know?”
She wanted to reassure him that he wasn’t a ‘dumbass’. It would have been sincere, too - Jenkins was disparaging about his own intelligence, but she’d quickly seen that he had a frankly incredible memory, which in her book counted for a lot, intelligence-wise. But the door opened before she could say it.
She’d seen a picture of the woman they were there to meet - early 30s, average height, and a slightly unusual hairstyle, which started as a long angular bang swept just away from her right eye and got progressively shorter around her head until the hair at her left temple was all but nonexistent. She had tired eyes and a general air of weariness about her, though the infant she was cradling on her arm and hip probably had much to do with that.
“Mrs. Naylor?” Terri asked, receiving a tiny wary nod by way of confirmation. She extended her hand. “I’m Terri Boone, we spoke by email.”
“Right, yeah. The investigator.” Mrs. Naylor shook the hand, hoisting her son up onto her hip a little as he chewed on a fist and stared at the strangers.
“May we come in?” Terri asked her. Naylor shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said “but I’m getting real sick and tired of people asking me questions. Seems like every idiot UFO hunter in the midwest wants to hear my… Oh, sweet baby Jesus Christ, you’re for real.”
Terri followed Mrs. Naylor’s gaze over her shoulder. Kevin Jenkins was holding up his sketchpad to show off a menagerie of alien life. Mrs Naylor stared at it slack-jawed for a second, and then seemed to wake up a bit. Her parental fatigue practically evaporated off her face even as Terri watched, and she stood up a little straighter.
“You’d better come in.” she said. “And you can call me Hazel.”
++
++
Martin Tremblay was used to phone calls waking him up at odd hours of the night. His partner Stefan just slept through them nowadays, not even rolling over or reacting to the phone in any way. Phone calls for Martin were just part of the bedroom nighttime noise.
“Tremblay.” He answered, digging rheum out of the corners of his eyes so that he could focus on the alarm clock and then rubbing his stubble. 05:23. At least he’d got six hours.
"General, it’s Major Bartlett here, sir. The US have got something for us."
“Something?”
"Apparently NASA was fed an anonymous tip a couple of days back. Seems there’s some kind of an… object orbiting Saturn that shouldn’t be there, sir."
“Two days ago? What kind of an object?”
"They had Cassini take a look at it, and apparently that takes a while, sir. As for what it is… best guess is that it might be a space station of some kind."
“…I’ll come right in.”
Shaving, showering, dressing, grabbing a travel coffee and securing a mumbled, sleeping farewell from Stefan were skills he’d honed throughout his career, and he drove on empty roads through pre-dawn darkness listening to AC/DC to help the coffee wake him up. By the time he’d cleared security at the base and reached the briefing, he was sharp and alert.
He didn’t even bother with the formalities. “Brief me.”
To his credit. Bartlett didn’t miss a beat, and just slapped a brown-covered folder stamped “CLASSIFIED” down onto the table. “On Tuesday, thirty hours after the incident in Vancouver, NASA receive an anonymous message delivered straight to Administrator’s office, apparently from inside the Agency. The message detailed coordinates in orbit around the planet Saturn, directly opposite the planet from Earth and therefore invisible from here. We’ve not been informed what, exactly, was in that message that convinced the Administrator to order that it be taken seriously and investigated, but at oh- two-hundred UST yesterday they got…” He tugged a mostly-black square out of the folder “…this image back from the Cassini probe.”
Tremblay examined the picture. The object was either very large or very distant, and so the probe’s cameras hadn’t taken a particularly sharp image, but it was hard to deny that, between a high albedo that looked an awful lot like steel panels and a hint of its shape - a cigar wearing three thin rings - it looked decidedly artificial.
“Cassini’s been up there since…?”
“Launched in ninety-seven, made orbit on July First, two thousand four, sir.”
“It’s been out there that long and never spotted this thing?” Asked one of the other officers, Colonel Williams.
“It’s a big sky, sir.” Bartlett told him. “And no offense to the NASA guys, but it’s an old camera, too. They had to point right at these coordinates to see it.”
“Besides.” Tremblay added “We don’t know how long that thing’s been there. For all we know, it was only built last week.”
“Fair enough.” Williams conceded. “But what are we going to do about about it?”
“What CAN we do?” Tremlay countered. “It took seven years for Cassini to get out there. We send a mission, they aren’t coming home until their babies are going through puberty. We send a missile, even if we had a missile that can get out there, they’ll see it coming years in advance. We’ve already got a robot probe out there but it belongs to somebody else.” he shrugged. “We’re being watched. And I’ll be honest, that fact doesn’t bother me too much.”
“Why not?”
“Well, A: it means that we’re worth watching, which is flattering. But more importantly, it means B: that the psychos who hit Vancouver aren’t the only life out there.”
Bartlett frowned. “How do you figure that, sir?”
“Because if that was their listening post, gentlemen, then they’d have been better prepared.”
There was a general nodding and a few grins. Much as it had turned the world upside-down, watching the alien raiders get their laser-guided karma had been inspiring.
Bartlett cleared his throat. “And C, sir:”
“Yes?”
“We now know faster-than-light travel is possible.”
++
“Councillor?”
‘Kirk’ raised his head. He had taken to napping in his office chair at every available opportunity - it was the only way to keep up with the amount of sleep he required. The Hunters slipping the quarantine net around Earth had become a major diplomatic incident, as much because of the questions about how the humans would respond, as because it showed just how far their stealth technology had come. Stations, fleets and facilities all over the galaxy were rushing to deal with that latter problem, but within the halls of power, the fact that the humans now officially knew there was something out there had rapidly become the cause of greater alarm.
His aide, a Vzk’tk by the name of Rkrrnb, indicated that, within the sea of messages and information screens floating in the volumetric projection above his desk, one was blinking red in a steady one-two-three-pause-one-two-three- pause rhythm, indicating an internal message from somewhere on the Observatory, highest priority.
He thanked the young being with a wave of his prosthetic upperarm, while the remaining organic one grabbed the message and performed the interface gesture to open it.
He swore, making a sound rather like a plastic bucket full of bubblewrap being crushed by a backhoe.
The image was of the human research probe “Cassini”, which had been left intact on the grounds that its destruction might arouse suspicion.
Its largest camera was pointing directly at them.
He stared at it for a few long seconds, and then tapped a few physical controls on the desk. Rkrrnb retreated from the room as it began to erect a top-level diplomatic secrecy field. The volumetric display on his desk didn’t need long to begin filling up with the floating heads of his counterparts. Wherever you were, whatever you were doing, if an emergency session of the security council was called, you answered. Within minutes, the limited AI that served as the council’s speaker and impartial mediator called the session to order, and granted him the floor.
“We’ve been discovered.” he said.
Chapter 4
Chapter 03: “An Eventful Month” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
It had been an eventful month, and an expensive one. Between the gasoline, motels, food and occasional laundrette, parking charges, and one or two fines, Terri Boone’s one-woman trip from California to Texas had become a convoy of driven individuals across the whole of the mainland US. They had everyone - a harassed single mother who’d left her kids with their grandparents for the duration, an older couple in a Winnebago, three teenagers from New York, a Romani woman from Ohio, a quiet guy from Birmingham whose battered olive-green windbreaker seemed to contain an infinite supply of cigarettes, a trucker who had been born in the UK, a construction worker from Florida, an Arizona state trooper.
She felt like something of an outsider. Every night, no matter where they stopped - motel, parking lot, truck stop, wherever - the Abductees always took some time to talk, to share their experience, and if Terri hadn’t believed them before, the way their stories all corroborated one another soon dispelled any doubt. Hazel Naylor had turned out to be a better artist than Kevin Jenkins, and was bus providing the artwork for a dossier on alien life that he was compiling out of all of their accounts. It was already remarkably thick.
It was also… discomforting. Terri had taken the opportunity to flip through it one day as Jenkins drove at the head of the convoy, leading them to meet their next Abductee in Colorado. The life it displayed came in a bewildering variety. Small, skinny, large-eyed aliens with pointed ears who were clearly the inspiration for both the Roswell Greys and, she suspected, even older legends about elves. Tall, gangly, long-necked aliens which apparently came in two varieties--one with four legs and two arms, one with six and four. There were three-eyed aliens which one Abductee had aptly named “Cthulhu-sheep” who walked on their long fingertips and who apparently sounded like pigeons speaking Welsh. There were three-fingered humanoids three times as tall as homo sapiens with huge ears the size of mixing bowls, who dripped with jewelery and lavish but scandalously revealing clothing.
There were huge brutish-looking humanoid ogres with four arms who apparently built wondrous cities from spun glass and polished, any one of which was beautiful enough to make a tourist weep. There was a species that would have seemed vaguely insectoid if not for the feathers and who apparently acid- etched their tribal markings into the chitin of their foreheads. One lifeform, and Hazel insisted the depiction was accurate, looked like nothing more than a flat, meaty worm in a square and ponderous-looking robot suit.
There were enormous shaggy-furred aliens with disproportionately small heads that looked like a cuttlefish with floppy bunny ears, aliens which looked like a bizarre cross between a reptile and an ant, the things that had attacked Vancouver, seven-eyed ugly monstrosities where you couldn’t tell where the flesh ended and their cybernetics began.
There were sketches of non-sophont alien life, too. Round little rat-things which were kind of cute if you didn’t look at the face. scuttling ceiling- runners that seemed to combine the best properties of a squirrel and a centipede, loping dog-like things which one Abductee swore had evolved to graze on bushes that could run away. A cat, a perfectly ordinary house cat sitting prim, sleek and contemptuous in the middle of a menagerie of hexapedal, septapedal, decapedal, betentacled and limbless pets and fauna. One Abductee even claimed that there were actual honest-to-God dragons out there, though everybody was a little too skeptical to include that one in the folio.
With the exception of the non-sentient fauna, they all had one thing in common
- next to the reference human drawn on the same page, they all seemed tall, or at least slender and gracile. Speculation among the Abductees was that humanity was so comparatively small because if you grow up in a high-gravity world of course you would be small and sturdy.
There were illustrations of alien technology. Variants on the theme of rifle - the Abductees called them “Kinetic Pulse Guns” - which looked melted and useless until they were sketched in the hands of various races, at which point, while still recognizably being the same object, they had deformed and stretched into an appropriate shape for each one. There was a note at the bottom of that page: “We aren’t in their database.”
There were alien starships in design ranging from the sleek and aesthetic to the square and functional, complete with sketchy but technical descriptions of their role and capacity, and provisional names. A light police gunboat was included for scale on the next page alongside an orbit-to-ground military dropship, a boxy affair which was pretty much nothing but steel, engines and arcane equipment which had been tentatively identified as “inertial compensation”. That in turn served for scale next to a light transport vehicle, which served as scale for the heavy bulk transport - a narrow spine flanked by ten huge boxy cargo bays each big enough to contain several shipping containers- and then that provided a scale reference for…
The Observatory. Those who had been there claimed it orbited Saturn, forever hidden from Earth’s direct view. They noted the module on the end of an arm that its builders had graciously tacked on to give human visitors an environment at Earth’s surface gravity and atmosphere. They noted that the station itself had only point-defence weaponry to defend itself from the risk of Hunter raids, and no other military equipment whatsoever. It had its own FTL “jump” system, which allowed it to hop instantly to the site of an appropriate beacon, though the beacon itself had to be carried by another ship at ordinary FTL speeds.
They had taken the time to Xerox a few copies in one town, and now all they needed to do to ascertain whether an Abductee was real or not was hand over the booklet. It was uncomfortable too look back at the long line of cars, trucks, campers and even the occasional big rig that they’d acquired and understand that, by the evidence of it, all these people really HAD been taken by alien beings. Their stories all meshed, with all the seamless reality as if the same number of people had all been on vacation to London - there was just too much for even this many to have experienced it all, and everyone added something new, but the essentials were all identical.
She wasn’t clear what the objective of their little pilgrimage was - it just seemed to be snowballing into this quest to personally check every single person in the USA who claimed to be an abductee and to add as much detail as they could, and it swept them up as it passed. Only a handful so far hadn’t promptly thrown together a suitcase, grabbed their car keys, made a few phone calls and put their lives on hold.
She wondered where it would end.
++
++
It had been an eventful month, and a hectic one. A whole new facility was under construction, about halfway between Vancouver and Calgary, among the trees of a previously unheeded little town called Scotch Creek, and all of the alien specimens recovered from Rogers Arena had been transported up there in a military convoy under incredibly heavy guard just as soon as there’d been a cold locker for the bodies and enough crates for the technology.
The plumbing hadn’t even been working on base when General Martin Tremblay had first set foot in Scotch Creek, and he’d been distracted the whole way up by what had bordered on being an argument with Stefan the night before he left about the sudden change of life. It wasn’t drastically long-distance, but it did mean that they wouldn’t see each other every night. Stefan had not taken that well, but he’d been with Martin long enough to keep a level head and work through it rather than throw a tantrum and storm out.
Now, Tremblay took a deep breath and looked around the bare-plaster walls of his unfinished office, for lack of something better to do while an IT technician worked on getting his desktop hooked into the base network. The whole thing was an exercise in throwing together a working facility as quickly as possible. Scientists had to excuse and apologise their way past men on ladders installing the lighting or wiring the computer network in a building where they hadn’t even finished pouring the concrete on the third floor. Meetings with the physicists became meetings with the architects and builders, became meetings with his superiors, became a phone call to the Minister of Defense and the Prime Minister, became a sandwich and coffee with Bartlett as he received a sitrep on NASA’s unfolding mission to investigate the alien station around Saturn, became a meeting with the plumbers, became… and so on. It was nice to get a moment of calm and quiet, even if that moment did involve waiting awkwardly for somebody to finish installing some programs he could probably have installed himself.
There was a knock on the door. One of the physicists, Captain Claude Nadeau, saluted him. “we’ve had a development with the alien weaponry, sir, and we’d like to demonstrate.” he said.
So much for quiet moments. Tremblay stood up and joined him, and they wove between stepladders, toolboxes, cables and busy workers to the firing range which, being the least sophisticated room in the whole building, had long since been finished.
There was a pig carcass hanging at one end, and some technicians fussing around both an alien weapon and, next to it, a tangle of wires, components and bits that looked so experimental that it might catch fire.
“Okay. why the pig?” He asked.
“Pigs make a good human analogue.” Nadeau explained. “They’re pretty similar to us in terms of density and composition.”
“Okay…?” Tremblay gestured for him to continue.
“Right. So, um… alien gun. You know about these already but we’ve just got it here for demonstration purposes. if we fire it…” he turned and shouted: “clear downrange?!”
“Clear!”
Nadeau nodded, and then clicked on something on the laptop that had been wired into the gun. It discharged with its characteristic "thwoomp!" and the pig jerked on its chain as if punched. Tremblay had seen it before, and it was equally unimpressive now.
“Okay…?” he repeated.
“and now we fire the prototype.” Nadeau said, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. He turned to the laptop again.
“Proto-?”
THWOOOMB!!
A slurry of liquified meat and red, wet bone shards slapped all over the banked sand against the back wall of the range. There was a pop and sizzle from the box of electronics, and one of the technicians hastily trained a CO2 fire extinguisher on it.
Nadeau was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “More power!” he exclaimed, quoting an old TV series.
“That’s… Impressive. Okay. So we know those things can get powerful enough to kill us, then.” Tremblay said, and cleared his throat. Nadeau sobered somewhat.
“Well… yes.” he conceded. “But there are a few snags. That rack over there…” he pointed at a van-sized structure against one wall, which was plugged into a generator in the corner, and connected to the prototype weapon via a wrist- thick black cable. “…is a buttload of supercapacitors. We’re still working on reverse-engineering the alien capacitors from the gun we took apart, and we think those are likely to be a couple of orders of magnitude more efficient per kilogram than ours. But even if we get the capacitors figured out, that’s only half the job.”
“Not enough power to feed them?” Tremblay asked.
“That’s the second snag, yeah. Try as we might we haven’t even begun to understand how the generators inside these guns work. We’ve built what we think are exact replicas but when we try to turn them on they either do nothing, melt, or explode. Once we’ve cracked those…"
The captain shrugged. “But for now it takes us half an hour on that-" he indicated the generator in the corner - “to charge up for a pulse that’d even hurt. We had to charge it all night to prepare for this demonstration.”
“If you ran that kind of voltage through me all night, I’d be dead.” Tremblay pointed out.
“And there’s snag three, they’re hugely wasteful of energy. Chucking that kind of power through a gauss gun would be a much more effective way to kill something. And this is a weapon, boss, so we have to assume that from ET’s point of view there’s some advantage to these things that excuses the drawbacks."
“What might those be?”
“Well, zero recoil for a start.” Nadeau ticked off on his fingers. “Literally none. Which, if these things are as weak as the biologists think is probably a huge boon. And I guess with no barrel to accelerate a physical projectile the gun can reconfigure itself for any anatomy without having to accommodate a long, straight component with a mechanism at the end. Solid-state electronics can be a lot more flexible. Low maintenance, too: it can’t jam because there’s no moving parts. And if your generators are able to extract huge amounts of power out of rainbows and wishes like these alien ones seem to, you’ve got unlimited ammo, too."
“But for our purposes they’re effectively worthless.” Tremblay concluded for him.
“Far from it. The potential applications of an electrostatic force field generator are incredible, both for the military and for civilian use. Never mind the capacitors, generators and nanoelectronics.” Nadeau pointed at the prototype. “And make no mistake boss, that’s all us. There’s not a single alien component in that whole projector, so we’ve cracked the pulse emitters. The capacitors and generators will follow soon enough.”
Both men looked up and cocked their heads as the tannoy called for General Tremblay to his office.
He clapped Nadeau on the arm as he turned to leave. “Outstanding work, Captain. This is the best news I’ve had yet since we started planning this facility. Keep me posted.”
“Will do, sir.”
++
It had been an eventful month, and a frustrating one, and “Kirk” was once again cursing his own sense of integrity. He doubted that any of the other councillors had even heard the name Niccolo di Bernardo dei Machiavelli, let alone read his books, but frankly it didn’t matter. Whether your species were ten-limbed gracile grazers, compact little bundles of raw predatory strength, or shambling hillocks of shaggy fur who communicated in part via bioluminescence, the universal constant seemed to be politics.
Kirk was not cut out to be a politician. He was too honest and forthright. Sure, the constituents loved him and so long as he kept bringing in votes then his party were happy to turn a blind eye to the inconvenient way in which he continued to tell the straightforward truth to a camera lens, but winning public opinion was much less than half the job. At the debating table, straight-talking honesty just meant that you were following an easily intercepted, easily interfered-with trajectory, and your position needed an overwhelming momentum of truth, morality and - above all else - vacuousness if it was likely to succeed. Few politicians were willing to commit to a policy that actually achieved something, on the grounds that if it was capable of doing so, then it was also capable of a spectacular backfire.
But, the Vzk’tk Domain had signed up to the newly-formed Interspecies Committee on Dangerous Lifeforms and, being both a member of the Interspecies Dominion’s security council and its undisputed expert on humanity, Kirk had been assigned there. It was gratifying that the Dominion was taking the Committee seriously at least, because most of the other major galactic powers
- the Corti Directorate, the Grand Houses of Kwmbwrw, the Rauwryhr Federation, the Chehnash State, the Clans of Gao, plus the Corporate Coalition, the Alliance of the Uplifted and the Guild of Free Spacer - all seemed to have used it as a dumping ground for their most obfuscating, obtuse and obstructive delegates.
Fortunately, the Guvnurag Confederacy seemed to be taking the issue seriously as well, and Kirk therefore had a staunch and constant ally in Councillor Vedregnegnug, an old and constant friend and a rather more shrewd operator. They formed a “good cop, bad cop” team at the table, with Kirk playing the firebrand, forthright bad cop who bullied the Committee with proposals that had actual substance, and Vedreg playing the good cop who wheedled, placated and silver-tongued them into agreeing to do what they had, minutes before, been staunchly opposed to on principle. It was a potent combination but slow going, and Kirk was glad when the mediator program declared that the day’s deliberations had come to an end. His head felt hot and densely-packed from too many long hours listening to too many insufferable bores repeat too many variations of the exact same stance, which he could have summed up in a single word had he wanted.
“Caution.”
“I beg your pardon, councillor?” asked one of the station’s janitor drones, programmed with a limited AI that would forever fall just short of actual independent thought, but had attained unfailing innocuous politeness.
Kirk started at the query and raised his head: He had clearly dozed off and was now alone in the meeting room save for the custodial machines. “Nothing. Where the hell are my aides?”
“They judged that you desired some time alone, Councillor. Shall I summon them?”
“No.” he stood and stretched, rolling the long neck for which both the species of the Domain were famed and enjoying the feeling as the long flexible sheath of cartilege that protected his spinal cord was massaged by the gentle motion. It took some time. Then he asked of the drone, which was playing a kinetic manipulation field across the carpet under the table, collecting fallen detritus, shed fur and skin-dust: “Does this station have an observation deck?”
“It does councillor, though Councillor Vedregnegnug has flagged that query with his personal recommendation that you might prefer the biodeck.”
“The biodeck?” Kirk repeated, having not heard of such a thing before.
“The councillor added it as an extension to his personal suite. Access is limited to only yourself and himself. Shall I program the elevator to take you there? I understand that there will be fresh Cqcq leaves.”
“Yes, please.”
The elevator needed a full minute to run the full length of the station from the meeting room to the VIP residential ring, but when he stepped out of it, Kirk’s impatience evaporated. It was stunning. Vedreg must have spent an enormous amount of money in having this structure tacked on to his apartments. Even now, at the height of an ongoing interstellar civilisation that had lasted for nearly a thousand standard cycles (five hundred years) space was at a premium aboard stations, and was expensive.
Nevertheless, Vedreg had acquired a substantial area, and turned it into a garden, here in space, with a geodesic shell that afforded a wonderful view of the stars and shone tuned simulated sunlight into each of the simulated biomes. the containment fields that kept the air and temperature from mingling between each one were barely-visible scarlet sheets of iridescence in the air, and behind them was a little patch of soil crowded with plant life from several major planets.
Kirk wandered entranced past a Nurugvugundrugevdrevegnagnugnum reef from Vedreg’s own homeworld. The name translated literally as “Place where all life is welcome and thrives as one, harmoniously.” Some of the plants fluoresced at him as he walked past, turning to capture a fraction of his body heat. Elsewhere, he saw a sandy Cortan biome, full of sandstickles and triproot tended by little tumbling Rockskitters. Kirk paused to admire a lush frond of Cqcq from his own homeworld, and was contemplating leaning in past the containment field to sample some of its rich leaves when his gaze alighted upon the centerpiece of the biodeck.
This field was stronger and more visible, and as he approached it, subtle warning markers appeared, displayed holographically along its top and bottom in the universal “danger blue” used all over the Interspecies Dominion to warn of hazards. They stated simply that the field was set to be impassible, and that the environment beyond contained biohazardous atmospheric contaminants, dangerous airborne allergens and venomous fauna.
He recognised what stood in the middle instantly: three young trees, an Oak, an Apple tree, and a Cherry, the latter currently in full lush bloom. Around their bases, being tended by a variety of small gardener drones, was a bed of flowers. His implants received the relevant information as he studied them: Pansies, Hellebore, Lilac, Puschkinia and more. Golden-and-white fish mouthed lazily in a lenticular pond to one side, and bees hummed back and forth from a hive opposite.
“I thought you would find the centerpiece most interesting.” Vedreg commented, and Kirk started. His friend had been present all along, seated on a bench configured for his species and apparently enjoying the exact same view.
“Beautiful!” Kirk exclaimed. “But how can it be here? Earth is a protected world and a Class 12, how could you possibly have acquired these?”
“Wealth and influence.” Vedreg declared, and his bioluminescent flank turned a shade of contrite taupe. “An intimate working knowledge of the minutiae of galactic law and, of course, the knowledge that three of the most successful antibiotics that the Corti have released in the last fifty cycles were derived from samples collected on Earth.”
“I don’t follow you.” Kirk told him.
“The laws only apply to samples directly collected from Earth. As these are cultivars or seed from specimens collected on Earth before the quarantine came into effect, they are, legally speaking, exempt from it. I assure you, every single one is completely legal to own.” bands of smug yellow and blue stippled down him. “A councillor cannot be caught in possession of contraband, after all. Arranging that these specimens would not be contraband was, how do they say it? Child’s play.”
“Aren’t they dangerous?” Kirk asked.
“Sterilized to a fare-thee-well, though the necessary Mycorrhizal fungi in their roots would prove to be extremely tenacious should it escape into another of these biomes, not to mention fatal for the unfortunate flora it infected. The pollens, however, would have us both in anaphylactic shock very swiftly indeed should the field fail. Securing against that scenario was very costly indeed.” Green swept up his flank backwards - the equivalent of a sniff. “From what I understand, even humans with their fearsome immune systems can suffer quite profusely from their effects. The warning about the venomous fauna is purely a legal requirement, while those bees could land you in the medical bay if they stung you, they won’t, as a rule, since doing so is fatal to them also.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Remarkable creatures. Survival of the whole in one of the galaxy’s most hostile competitive environments through instinctive self-sacrifice of the individual. Have you read Richard Dawkins?”
“I haven’t, no.” Kirk detected the steady soft glow of purple light that indicated Vedreg’s approval and respect, though whether for the author or for the insect was unclear.
“I suspect only a Human would have been in a position to pick up on the concepts he did. “The selfish gene”, he called it. Excellent book. It explains that the process of evolution is an inherently selfish one, from the perspective of the allele. I’m no biologist, but I understand much more of what they’re saying for having read it.
“If it’s selfish, why aren’t all our worlds like that?” Kirk asked, waving one of his longer, uppermost arms at the Terran terrarium.
“Because on most worlds the optimal selfish survival strategy for your average gene is to not rock the boat. Life enters a reciprocal, interconnected harmony and stays there, changing only slowly if at all. But life on Earth has too many factors outside of the food chains stirring things up: asteroid strikes, storms, intense seasons, climate shifts, tectonic activity… delicate webs of interdependent species would collapse wholesale down there in short order the first time a major eruption increased the particulate dust in the atmosphere. Only the aggressive survive.” He glowed yellowish-green stippled with blue, white and bands of darkness - a complicated emotional cocktail of respect, admiration, intimidation, and sadness.
“It’s no wonder the humans struggle so hard to remain balanced and in-tune with nature.” He said. “Their whole genetic history has granted survival only to those that ruthlessly seized every opportunity for advancement.”
“Are you always this melancholy, Vedreg?” Kirk asked.
“Only when I have received terrible news, old friend.”
“What news?”
“My government is taking matters into its own hands and preparing to enforce the Quarantine around Earth with extreme prejudice.”
Kirk stood still, processing this. Finally, speaking delicately, he asked. “Could you please define “extreme prejudice?”
Vedreg’s strips were completely inert, showing no colour at all, not even a neutral paleness, a sign of deepest sorrow and regret. He handed over an infopad.
“As of right now, a fleet of warships is en route to Sol. Their objective is to deploy an experimental device.”
“A weapon?!” Kirk couldn’t believe it. He began scanning the files as Vedreg replied.
“Mercifully not. Panicked herd beasts though they are, my people are not genocidal. No, this device will simply erect a containment barrier around the entire system. Powered by a fraction of Sol’s own radiation, it will last for several million cycles.”
His flanks became a line of dark, angry green for just a moment, before shading to blue - bitter amusement. “No, we are not genocidal, but, it seems, we are happy Apartheidists. For the simple crime of evolving on the wrong world, the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy has sentenced the species homo sapiens to indefinite incarceration.
“Effective when?”
Vedreg sighed - one of the few emotional vocalisations his species had available to them.
“Effective, my dear Kirk, as of [twenty minutes] ago."
Chapter 5
Chapter 04: “Quarantine” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
“ALL of them?”
“We haven’t had enough time to count ALL of them, but, uh… yes, it looks that way.”
“Well, what does it mean?”
Major Bartlett’s expression contorted into the open anguish of somebody completely at a loss. “Every single star in the sky suddenly becoming eight percent less luminous? The only scenario I can think of that would explain that one scares the shit out of me.”
General Tremblay folded his arms. “Well? Don’t beat around the bush, what is it?”
Bartlett cleared his throat. Somehow he almost couldn’t bring himself to believe what he was about to say. “Well, the only scenario I can think of which would explain a uniform decrease in luminosity from our perspective of every star in the sky would be if we had become encased in an almost transparent shell of some kind.” he explained.
“‘We’ meaning…?”
“The whole planet sir. Maybe the whole system. It depends on whether the outer planets have undergone a similar drop.”
“Find out.” Tremblay ordered, and Bartlett spun away to comply. “Somebody get Nadeau and whoever he thinks is his team’s premier expert on these electrostatic fields up here. And get me the defense minister.”
“He’s already on the line sir. He called you.”
“About this?”
“Yes, General.”
“How in the fuck did he find out?” Tremblay demanded.
“Apparently it’s all over the news, sir…”
++
The Abductees listened to the radio in silence for several hours. So, it seemed, did everybody else.
For those few short hours, for the first time ever, a subject commanded the entirety of the human race’s attention. Humanity forgot its wars and differences. Prejudices were set aside, wars ceased to rage. Across the globe, people gathered around radios, television sets and any device with Internet access as the world’ media collectively sifted, ground down and filtered the facts from the speculation.
There was much, much more of the latter, than of the former.
The same questions circled the globe, gaining just a little more force and passion with every repetition until, even if the individual humans may not utter the word aloud, the communication networks of an entire planet thrummed with one collective outraged cry:
“Why?”
Only a handful of people on the whole Earth knew the answer to that question. Most thought they were alone, and kept the answer to themselves. Some few were part of a convoy that had temporarily paused at a campground in Wyoming.
In San Diego, one withdrew a slim smartphone from his dapper, tailored suit and, by activating a very modern app, enacted a very old contingency plan.
++
The galaxy’s interest in the Sol system reached fever pitch with the news of the Enclosure. Official footage released by the quarantine fleet showed the experimental containment generator being established. It was an alarmingly small and unassuming little edifice - a metal ball scarcely larger than the average being, three or four meters in diameter, with an utterly featureless mirrored surface. It was guided into place by the tractor fields aboard a Confederate corvette, injected into a smooth orbit between the seventh and eighth planets of the Sol system, well inside the outer cometary cloud, and then, without fanfare or ceremony, was activated.
The only sign that this had happened at all came in the form of a few ghostly streamers of turquoise energy as the solar wind and energy output briefly battled with the field boundary, until they reached a stable equilibrium. Only scientific equipment could detect that the brightness and albedo of every object on the far side of the field edge was reduced by a small amount.
Aboard the Observatory, which had used its jump drive to relocate to orbit around Neptune, one Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk, Councillor for the Vzk’tk Domain, gave a brief and passionate speech angrily denouncing what he proclaimed as a “miscarriage of justice against a young and vibrant species, unfairly and illegally sentenced without trial to indefinite imprisonment for the simple crime of being who they are.”
His words did not pass without support. Far from it - protests erupted all across the galaxy, and the interstellar communications grid practically locked with messages, videos, sensory recordings and essays condemning the move.
But a good third part of the traffic pointed out that if the Hunters had been similarly quarantined upon their discovery, their gruesome and horrific meat- slave raids and farms would never have happened. These messages pointed out that here too was a species that consumed the meat of even quite intelligent fauna species on their homeworld, whose history was one of ceaseless warfare, and whose physical durability and prowess in the field of violence would render them completely unstoppable should they prove to be hostile.
Footage circulated of a lone, unarmoured human slayinging Vulza with nothing but a fusion scythe, authenticated by reports from troopers who had seen the event first-hand. An expert witness - a Corti researcher with a particular interest in human biology - declared that the human in that footage showed clear signs of malnourishment, lack of exercise, and fatigue, meaning that he was operating considerably below peak efficiency. The same witness produced reports on a family of Vzk’tk who had required stasis at a class 10 experimental hospital for more than a standard cycle before they were finally able to be cured of the diseases that they had caught from only a few seconds’ contact with one escaped human specimen, and that these disease specimens had required immediate destruction lest they fall into the wrong hands and be used to engineer a viral superweapon. One brief video showed a human accidentally breaking a being’s medial spine with a single hearty slap: the contextual information revealed that the crippling gesture had been intended as a friendly one.
Countering these damning accounts came footage from elsewhere in the galaxy. A human giving her life to vent a hazardous materials spill into space and save the station she was aboard and its thousands of inhabitants, wading through radiation that would have fried the nervous system of any other being in moments. Footage of a human calmly holding down a struggling Vgork alpha male in Musth who had tried to enter a creche. The survivor account of one young Kwmbwrw who asserted that a human had carried her on his shoulders for three local days across the tundra of the planet V’chnbritz, delivering her nearly [120 kilometers] to a hospital after the passenger transport they had been on had crashed, before guiding rescue workers back to the crash sight. A Gaoian matriarch who passionately attributed her survival and liberty to a human.
Talking heads from all species tossed these facts and accounts back and forth between them, circling but never quite approaching a conclusion on whether the Enclosure had been the wrong thing to do. In the background, various governments quietly lined up alongside the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy and congratulated them on their foresighted action.
Brooding in his office aboard the Observatory, Kirk received a message. He read it three times. He was still considering its implications when he received a second one. This, he read only once.
Then, cybernetic hand shaking, he tendered his resignation.
++
++
♪♫_The good guys dress in black, remember that, just in case we ever face-to- face and make contact…_♫♪
Terri had set her phone to play Will Smith’s “Men In Black” whenever her mysterious client called her. It had seemed appropriate given the nature of the job. Now, as some of the nearby Abductees gave her a strange look, she slightly regretted it. They had heard that song on the radio a LOT lately.
She walked away from the group a little way and answered.
“Terri Boone, it’s a pleasure to hear from you, ‘Mr. Johnson’.” she carefully pronounced the quotation marks around his alias. She wasn’t naive and at times like this the chance to prove it was welcome.
“And from you, Miss Boone.” Mr. Johnson had a curiously accentless voice. Just a hint of clipped British, just a pinch of DC politician, just a touch of Hollywood star, a whole lot of anywhere in the English-speaking world. “I think you’ll understand if recent events have made me eager to learn how your commission is going.”
“It’s… well, it’s gotten a little out of hand, to be honest.” Terri admitted.
“I hoped that it would.” Johnson said. The confession was made perfectly level and calm. “In what way?”
“I think we’ve picked up every genuine Abductee east of the Rockies.” she reported. “There’s some kind of a pilgrimage going on here, and I don’t quite know what its objective is. They all seem to be singing from the same hymnbook, but I don’t know the words.”
“Very religious.”
“I’m Catholic.”
There was a pause. An unnatural one - Terri realised she couldn’t even hear Mr. Johnson breathe, or laugh, or whatever he was doing. She almost jumped when he spoke again.
“Miss Boone, I think I consider your commission in the matter of finding the Abductees to have been satisfactorily completed. If you would care to leave the contact details with which I provided you in the care of whoever seems to be in charge, I have another situation in San Diego which requires your attention. Oh, leave them the credit card I gave you, too.”
“You don’t want to meet them?” Terri asked.
“I had an inkling that they would behave like this.” her client explained. “Your ‘pilgrimage’ was just waiting to happen, all they needed was somebody to set it in motion. If you could relay to them that their destination is a town called Scotch Creek, in British Columbia, then I think they will have all that we need.”
Terri shrugged. “You’re the man with the money.” She said, internally noting the “we” rather than a “they”.
“It’s always a pleasure doing business with a professional, Miss Boone. Please, call me once you’re back in San Diego and have taken a night’s rest.”
“Wait, I’m supposed to leave them the credit card AND get back? How am I going to pay for gas and motels?”
“Given that your commission has been completed,” said Johnson “you should find that your bank balance is replete. There’s even a bonus in there for travel expenses. I assume you have your own cards?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Very good. I would prefer if you could fly back down, Miss Boone. Time may not be of the essence, but the sooner you are here, the better we can maintain our momentum.”
“I’ll… see you ASAP then.” Terri said.
"Bon voyage, Miss Boone."
Johnson hung up. Terri stared at her phone for a minute, and then made use of the campground’s wifi to check her bank account. It was the first time she had ever looked at it and seen six figures before the decimal. And such a large six figures, too.
She glanced up at the sky, thinking. Whatever was going on up there was a mystery. Terri hated mysteries, and she could sense that the answer was wrapped up with the Abductees somehow. Was that kind of money really so important now that galactic forces had apparently taken an interest in Earth?
But then again… the world hadn’t actually ended, yet. And in light of that, it seemed probable that it would continue to not end. Mr. Johnson’s second project was clearly important enough to leave the first unsupervised, and if he had paid so well for the first, well…
A sensible, frugal woman could satisfy her curiosity all she wanted on that kind of money, well invested.
++
Perfection was a prosperous Class Three planet that had been granted independence from, and protection by, the four species whose territory encroached on the volume of space around it. Originally it had been simple neutral ground, but the Perfection system’s Platinum-rich asteroid belt and the verdant ecosystem of the planet Perfection had both contributed to making it wealthy. Interstellar trade conglomerates had taken an interest and the system was now, after several consecutive hundred-cycles of growth, a thriving commercial and industrial hub, the most densely-populated planet for some considerable distance in any direction.
The system capital city, Idyll, had long since ceased to live up to its name. Admittedly from a distance its gleaming skyscrapers, spun in glass and ultratensile steel that smouldered in the sunset, were breathtaking and the wealthy citizens who could afford to live in those buildings that caught the sun for an appreciable fraction of the day lived at the pinnacle of luxury.
But Idyll was as notorious for its festering streets and ghettos as for its glittering prosperity, and that squalid underbelly of Perfection was Kirk’s destination.
Given that his resignation was still echoing around the news channels as another act in the unfolding drama over Earth and the Humans, he had elected, rather than take a public or diplomatic shuttle, to splash on buying a new ship of his own. It had taken a bit of money on such short notice, but he had acquired an expensive star-runner that was little more than a bed, ablution cubicle and control seat bolted to the front of an enormous Domain fusion plant and the latest model of Corti black-box FTL engine. It was incomprehensibly fast, and about as safe as space travel could get: it could just outrun any interception.
Flash starships in most of the Idyll sprawl were prime targets for theft, but not where he was going. There was one specific block, he knew, where even the most expensive and rare collector’s-item ship could land and be completely safe, because the kind of beings who parked there had a reputation. He exploited that reputation to its fullest, wearing a full-length black coat with a privacy field generator in the hood. The most any witness might tell would be that they had seen a Rrrrtktktkp’ch.
Those witnesses would all know where he was going - none of them would tell. He passed a similarly cloaked figure and they exchanged anonymous gestures of recognition, and parted ways. The Contact kept to a mechanically precise timetable.
The Contact was a Corti. This particular Corti sat politely at a desk behind a modest computer terminal, and welcomed him with insincere warmth as Kirk entered.
“You are punctual. I like that in a new client.” she said.
“If only I were a new client, Vakno.” Kirk said. He lowered his hood, and the privacy field shut off. Just for a second, her composure slipped, and he allowed himself a little moment of private triumph.
“Officer A’ktnnzzik’tk. I had not expected to do business with you again.”
Kirk allowed her a tight smile. “We didn’t do business, Vakno, I arrested you.” He said. He enjoyed the way she winced as he speared her with her real name.
“Would it be too much to ask how you knew where to find me?” Vakno asked him. She waved a slender-fingered hand through the control field of her computer and it went dark.
“It would.”
The Corti hopped down from her chair and a door hidden seamlessly in the wall slid open, revealing a rather more comfortable suite of rooms hidden behind the office. “And here I thought I had learned not to underestimate you.” She said. “Please, come in.”
“Your schedule?” Kirk asked, joining her.
“On hold. When the most notorious Councillor in the galaxy walks into my office, I give him my fullest and most special attention.” She replied, a little too smoothly in Kirk’s opinion. “Are you here to arrest me again?”
“Are you trying to smuggle virus programs onto my station again?”
“You can plainly see that I am not.”
“Then you’d be outside my jurisdiction even if I was still a member of a station security force.” Kirk said, dismissively. “Just between us, and considering that the case is long-since closed and you did your time for it, what would those have actually accomplished?”
Vakno affected an air of wistful regret. “Oh, they would have got me the passwords to the private communicator belonging to a Xarx actress who was laying over on your station shortly after my visit. I had reason to believe it contained incriminating footage of her satisfying her mating urges in the company of a litter of Kwen siblings. Lucrative data, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“And you wonder why the galaxy considers Corti to be morally bankrupt.” Kirk said.
“No, I don’t. Please, shall we get to business? I assume you didn’t visit just to reminisce?"
Kirk agreed, and sat down. “Humans.” He said.
“Ah, of course. What other subject would you be interested in right now?”
“I want to know how many of them the Directorate abducted.”
Vakno delivered the Corti equivalent of an, again, insincere and disdainful little laugh. “You think I have access to that kind of information. Your sense of humour has improved over the cycles, it seems.”
“The only thing that gets a Corti kicked out of the Directorate is directly acting against the interests of the Corti species as a whole. I KNOW you have access to that information.” Kirk retorted. “But all I want is to know how many humans are outside the containment field. That seems benign enough, doesn’t it?”
“Where humans are concerned there is no such thing as 'benign’, Councillor A’ktnnzzik’tk. Every time one of them has escaped our zoological teams, or was released by well-meaning animal welfare officers, the results have been unpredictable and alarming." Vakno displayed intense emotion, her grey skin flushing decidedly blue around the mandible. “The Directorate’s officialy policy regarding that species is 'Do not underestimate them.' Lone humans have changed the course of wars, infected whole cultures with strange new ideas, even triggered the development of whole new exotic technology branches."
“All the more reason to keep tabs on the ones not quarantined on Earth, then.” Kirk said.
“What’s that charming expression of theirs? Bullshit, Councillor. Don’t expect me to believe that the same being who was loudly proclaiming how this quarantine is a travesty and a, quote: "Violation of their rights as a sentient race" end quote has suddenly had a change of heart and intends to help us enforce it."
“And if I could pronounce that ‘charming expression’ I’d repeat it back to you. The Directorate doesn’t stand to profit if that field stays up. You’re the ones with all that hard-earned technology, all those products you’re ready to sell to the human market if and when it becomes available. You don’t stand to gain a damn thing by enforcing that quarantine. Quite the reverse, that’s a lot of investment written off.”
Vakno dismissed that. “Affordable.”
“Why accept an affordable loss at all when there’s a lucrative opportunity to be had? I buy that information off you and… well, we shall see where it leads. As you say, Humans are unpredictable.” Kirk paused. “Of course, being unpredictable could equally mean that they might breach that shield on their own. If and when that were to happen, don’t you think it would be more lucrative to be counted among the species that advocated and contributed to their freedom?"
“I don’t have that kind of authority and you know it.” Vakno snapped.
“No Corti does, I know. That’s not how your species works.” Kirk agreed. “But if the Directorate haven’t got plans to play both sides and put a positive spin on it when they turn out to have been on the winning side all along, well, then you’re not the pragmatists that I know you are. Especially you personally, Vakno.”
He settled back and played his best card. “Or of course I could spread the word that The Contact wasn’t able to help me…”
There was a long, chilly pause, and then Kirk’s personal implants acknowledged receipt of a file transfer.
“Just so you’re aware, A’ktnnzzik’tk, I will be notifying the Directorate to amend our official policy.”
“You will?”
“Oh yes. It seems we shouldn’t underestimate Humanity’s allies, either. Get out.”
++
“Faster-Than-Light travel.”
“Yes, General. Technically, a variant on the Alcubierre warp drive.”
Tremblay stared blankly at the report. Much of it was incomprehensible physicist jargon and blocks of arcane mathematics. “Alcubierre?”
“Miguel Alcubierre Moya, a Mexican theoretical physicist. He proposed his warp drive ideas in ninety-four, but there are some… issues with it that kept it purely theoretical.”
“Spare me. This is a variant on his design?”
“Well, it was never technically a design as such just the mathematical…"
"Major."
Bartlett paused, and the rebuke finally got through the intellectual haze that he had been swimming in from the day he had first laid his hands on the alien technology.
“Sorry, sir. Uh… effectively, yes. In layman’s terms, sir… It’s kind of like walking on the moving walkway at an airport. You might be doing five kilometers per hour, but if the walkway’s doing that too in the same direction then you wind up travelling at ten KPH, right?”
“I’m familiar with the phenomenon.” Tremblay said. “So that’s what this warp drive does?”
“Kind of, sir.” Bartlett’s tone of voice suggested that the analogy was far from adequate, but he forged ahead. “The principle hinges on expanding and contracting spacetime around the ship. Some of the tech in those alien pods that shot through the arena roof held the key.”
“The key being…?”
“Well, they’re so fragile, how the hell would they survive slamming through reinforced concrete at that kind of speed? We wouldn’t, and it looks like humans are much tougher than those aliens were.” Bartlett consulted his own notes at this point. “The report has it that the pods contained devices which temporarily suspended the flow of time inside the field they generate.”
“And that led us to faster-than-light travel somehow.” Tremblay finished for him, and examined the report in front of him. “Something to do with space and time being the same thing, it says here.”
“Spacetime, yes. And if you can stop time, you can stretch space. And once you can stretch space then you can stretch it so that your spaceship-on-a-walkway is going faster than light.”
“How much faster?" Tremblay asked him.
“That depends on how much juice you give it, sir. More power, more speed.” Bartlett said. “I couldn’t give you exact numbers, that’s going to take a lot of experimentation.”
“I think we can take my okay for a working warp drive as read, Bartlett.”
“Thank you sir, but it isn’t quite that easy. We can’t test it down here on Earth. If we want to go ahead with this, it’s going to have to go up to the ISS.”
“Why?”
“Because if we get it only mostly right the resulting explosion would be like a nuke going off." Bartlett wobbled his head. “Plus, you know, we’re testing an FTL drive here. You need a lot of room to work with just to measure the results.”
Tremblay sighed. “I guess it was only a matter of time before we started having to share this stuff outside of NATO. I’ll contact the Defense Minister, pass the buck to him and the PM. Any other crazy surprises come out of those pods that I should know about?”
“Not today, sir.”
“Right. Carry on, Major.”
“Sir.” Bartlett left, poring over his notes as he went. For the first time in several days, Tremblay suddenly found himself with a spare and quiet moment. Robbed of anything to distract him from it, the fatigue of the last few days hit him at full force and he sat back, rubbed his face, ran his hands back across his scalp and stretched in his seat, resolving to take ten hours to sleep tonight rather than reading base reports in bed for a few hours.
He must have dozed off anyway, because he woke with a snort when there was a sharp knock on the door. He stole a glance at the wall clock as he cleaned himself up and straightened his clothes - “Come.”
Tremblay had worked with Sergeant Ramsey, the base’s chief of perimeter security, for years, and the only thing stopping the two men from being good friends was the demands of professionalism. They still played poker with a few other senior staff every Sunday though. For the duration of those games, they were just Steve and Martin. Right now though, Ramsey ripped off a salute.
“I thought you’d want the buck passed on this one, sir.”
Tremblay stifled the urge to yawn. He trusted Ramsey’s judgement, implicitly, and so simply replied “Okay, pass it.”
“We’ve had a… I guess the best word is “convoy” show up, sir. About thirty cars, vans, all civilian. They’re staying on a field down in town, but one of them delivered this to the gate guards.”
He placed a plastic binder on the general’s desk and stood back, watching as Tremblay flipped it open. A few wide-eyed seconds later, Tremblay looked up.
“I want to talk to the man who delivered this.”
“Yes sir. He’s at the gatehouse. He said his name is Jenkins, sir.”
Chapter 6
Chapter 05: “Deliverance” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
++Four years previously.++
Everybody loved a home side win, except for the tourists. Amir didn’t feel like a tourist, but Pakistani people supported the Pakistani cricket team, even if - like him - they had been born in Birmingham, had never left England, spoke English more fluently than their supposed “native” language, with an accent that was as British as tea and wet weather.
“Amir!”
His best friend Muhammad and the rest of his friends had started heading in a different direction while Amir was zoned out. “You coming?” he asked.
Amir knew what the answer would be, but he had to ask anyway. It was how things worked. “Where?”
“For a drink! Come on bruv, we may as well have SOME fun tonight.”
Amir shook his head. “You know that’s haram." he said. It was their one constant conflict that Muhammad was only a Muslim when it was convenient. The rest of the time, he was just another nineteen-year-old, high on life and not interested in the consequences.
“We’re all sinners, bruv.” Muhammad told him, amicably.
Amir turned away “I’ll see you tomorrow.” he called over his shoulder.
At least there were no catcalls or anything. They respected his faith that much, even if they didn’t respect it enough to practice it properly themselves. He just wished that his best friend wouldn’t use “we’re all sinners” as an excuse. It may have been true, but that didn’t mean he had to exploit it. That just didn’t feel like Islam.
He didn’t preach though. He was no Imam, he didn’t know how to be. All he had was his job delivering takeaway food, a council flat, and his religion. It was enough, most days.
He knew from experience that the bus stops near the Edgbaston cricket ground would always be heaving after a one-day game. He didn’t mind the walk: it was mid-July, and even the famously inclement British weather had decided to produce a warm night. So, anonymous and alone with his thoughts, he weaved through streets of Friday-night partiers, just another brown face in a crowd that ran the full gamut of human shades, hunched and with his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his pockets.
He was so shrouded in melancholy that he didn’t even see the person he walked into, but they felt solid as a rock. Knowing full well that a Pakistani face in this day and age could get into serious trouble with a surly drunk, he stepped back a pace, and got halfway through his “sorry mate” when he realised that the other man wasn’t moving. In fact, he still had his back turned.
Nobody else was moving either. Nothing else was moving. Traffic stood as still as scenery in the street. The pavement was solid-packed with warm, clothed, human statues, penning him in - he couldn’t even shove them aside to weave through the crowd. He stared at a young woman - she was in the middle of flicking her hair aside to answer her phone, and it stood out impossibly parallel to the ground. Even the light had a strange quality - he swore it took his shadow a brief instant to react when he moved.
And then that shadow became much better-defined as the night-time street orange was flooded out by whiteness. He looked up, and it filled his vision.
One man looked around in confusion, rubbed his back, and returned to his conversation. The streets didn’t even notice that Amir Bahmani was gone.
++
Kirk was a rich being - a Councillor of the Domain earned a handy sum of money from their position, not to mention the royalties from his biographical accounts, political sponsorships and some shrewd investments. Nevertheless, between buying his ultra-fast ship and then having it fast-tracked through a refit drydock at a corporate freeport where the owners were happy to sign an anonymity contract for an appropriate fee… well. His accounts were looking rather less healthy than they had done in some time.
They would, however, bounce back. He was a client of one of the best investment brokers in the business, after all. And the refits had been worth it. The little life-support blister with its bed, ablutions cubicle and control console had been dismounted from the hull, and behind it had been installed a somewhat larger and more luxurious living suite. Below that, a workshop loaded with the latest in nanofactories and CAD/CAM tools, a dense and comprehensive automated laboratory that could double as a sickbay.
And behind that, the enormous generator and the sealed unit that was the Corti blackbox drive. Mass made no difference to a Corti drive - any ship, any size, any tonnage, the only thing that mattered was how much energy you could force down that little box’s throat, and the behemothic bulk of the fusion reactor that made up by far the largest part of the ship’s size and mass was rated to power city districts.
There was one last addition: an excursion chamber, equipped with all the gear he could need to remain safe on practically any planet up to and including a Class 12. And it was necessary - the first destination on his list was a Class 10, an unclaimed world (after all, who in their right minds would want to claim a death world?) with the uninspiring designation “Main Yellow 2.554 67-1.002 09-0.141 3-57.888 11-3 Terrestrial Temperate 10” - literally nothing more than the type and location of the planet and of the star it orbited.
He slept most of the journey out. The downside he was discovering to his ship was that, having as it did a stupefying turn of speed, the trip times were barely long enough for him to complete the in-flight checklist and get some rest. By the time his alarm woke him he was already within the last hundred or so interstellar units of final approach. There had barely been time for his neural implants to convert the slow-access digital data on his destination into working organic memory.
But, they had. He knew everything that it was practical and useful for him to know about that world, barring any gaps in the data, which was how he handled its unique upper-atmospheric turbulence with practiced ease despite having never previously landed without guidance from the ground.
It helped that his target co-ordinates were experiencing a clear day, and as hoped he found a thermal contact within only a short distance of the information that had been in Vakno’s file. Best to land a little way from it, he thought.
He did so. Landing a ship that was effectively a couple of small rooms tacked onto a highly oblate spheroid was a challenge in its own right under MY210 573TT10’s gravity, which was nearly 20% higher than the galactic standard norm. Not as high as Earth’s, but enough to be uncomfortable once he stepped outside of the ship’s generated gravity field. Once landed, he performed those few post-flight checks that any good pilot concerned themselves with, and then retreated to the excursion room.
It took only moments to select the appropriate harness and don it. The device had its own onboard gravity generator that would mitigate the local field, and the rest was a biofiltration force field that should keep anything nasty from coming into contact with him.
Time to meet the first human he had seen in the flesh for three years.
++
Amir had expected a ramp. Instead, the whole room slung under the ship’s equatorial ring descended to ground level, and a pair of large and very solid doors opened, gracefully and silently. He hefted his spear. If it was another of those grey-skinned devils, it wouldn’t know what hit it.
Instead, what stepped out and blinked in the sunlight was a six-legged being fully twice his height, upright atop a complicated pelvis. It raised both its pairs of hands in a gesture of peace and surrender and, with exaggerated care, produced a piece of technology which it set on the ground. The alien clicked at it, producing a sound not dissimilar to a strip of cardboard in a bike’s spokes. This was, apparently, some kind of a language, because once it had finished clicking, the little device on the ground spoke in flawless, though unaccented, English.
“Please, I couldn’t harm you even if I wanted to. You don’t need the spear, Mr. Bahmani.”
Amir practically fell over. It had been years since he had last heard any human language at all, let alone his name.
“H…” the words wouldn’t come at first. He could barely remember speaking aloud other than to recite the Adhān to call himself to Ṣalāt five times a day, and the Rakaʿāt. He had not spoken anything else in… years, probably.
They had been important. Only his faith had kept him going throughout those years. He didn’t have the first idea which way Mecca was, and so had simply settled for facing toward this planet’s east.
He cleared his throat and tried again. “You know English?”
This generated a chattering sound from the being’s lower abdomen, which he decided was probably laughter, followed by another barrage of clicking and crackling noises. “I couldn’t begin to pronounce English, I’m afraid. But my translator here can. You are Amir Bahmani though, yes?”
“I… yes. How do you know?”
The being made a gesture that he couldn’t identify - its body language was unreadable.
“I paid good money to get my hands on a copy of your abductor’s records.” It told him. “My name is…” <an unintelligible sound like plastic beads in a blender> “…but other humans have nicknamed me “Kirk”.”
“Kirk… like, Star Trek?”
“That’s the joke I think, yes. Though it’s also a fair approximation of the first syllable of my name.”
“My abductors… You’re not with them are you?” Amir hefted his spear again, and “Kirk” retreated a step or two, holding up four placating hands.
“No, no. I draw the line at abduction, vivisection and experimentation upon sentient beings. No, I’m here to offer you the chance to leave, if you wish.”
“You’ll take me home?!” Hope swelled in Amir for the first time in a long while. Earth! people! He mentally corrected himself at that one - Human people!
“If only I could.” Kirk told him. “But Earth is… well. The focus of much attention right now.” He looked around at Amir’s camp. “Actually, I’ll just be blunt about it. The rest of the galaxy found out about your species and collectively shit themselves in fear. Earth has been quarantined - they put up a force field around the whole solar system, nothing gets in or out. I… disagree with that decision. I have a plan, and it starts with finding every abductee I can and offering them the hope of a way home.”
He extended a hand, and Amir noticed for the first time that it was made of sleek plastic and metal rather than pale flesh. “Are you in?” Kirk asked. “Shake carefully please, it doesn’t matter so much if you break the prosthetic rather than my actual hand, but they’re a pain to repair.”
"Bismillah! You have to ask? I want to go home."
They shook hands.
“I promise, I’ll try.” Kirk told him.
++
Having a uniformed chauffeur waiting at the airport holding up a sign with “Terri Boone” on it was a novel experience. The chauffeur was efficiency itself as she took Terri’s bags and politely delivered her into the back seat of a sleek black Audi. Next to the expensive car with its buff leather upholstery and general air of wealth, her travel-stained jeans, battered leather jacket and the faded hoody from Chamonix she had owned since a teenage skiing vacation that she wore under the jacket all looked not just dishevelled, but downright squalid.
She entertained herself on her phone as the chauffeur weaved in the comfortable silence of money through freeway and midtown traffic to her apartment, and was surprised when the chauffeur not only brought in the bags, but insisted that no tip was necessary. After quickly discussing what time the car would arrive to take her to Mr. Johnson’s office, she was left alone to re-acquaint herself with her neglected home.
She threw open the windows and lit some scented candles to drive out the scent of emptiness that had built up in the months she had been gone and then, in a move that would have surprised anyone who did not know her extremely well, she emptied all the drawers out of the chest next to her bed and lifted it up, revealing a small, slim box stashed underneath.
From this she withdrew a device of some kind and a USB stick, which she plugged into her PC and launched some programs from, before spending nearly two hours carefully inspecting every nook and cranny of her apartment with the device. Eventually, and apparently satisfied, she returned both to their box and rebuilt the hiding place.
Only then did she boot up some more programs. She spent half an hour alternately typing and watching the screen intently. That done, she took a spin through the shower, combed her hair, threw on some fresh clothing and the same old leather jacket, grabbed her handbag, and departed.
She would have been thoroughly disappointed to learn that her sweep for bugs stood no hope whatsoever of detecting the ones that had been installed a month previously. Among other things, finding them would have required a microscope. ++
“Nope, not organised at all.”
Kevin Jenkins was patiently explaining things and going through the notebook as some of the biology and medical teams examined the peculiar scar on his temple. They had made it as far as the political situation.
“I mean, before a few years ago, legally speaking we were all “non-sentient indigenous fauna”. It’s a bureaucratic mess out there, believe me.”
Tremblay examined the notes again. Mostly it was full of observations about the governmental structures of dozens of different species. the Dominion especially was troubling him. “Left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing?”
Jenkins shrugged, ignoring a lab-coat’s protest to keep his head still. “Left hand could fill in a couple forms in triplicate requesting a third-party committee add a debate to their agenda on whether there’s grounds to start the process of commissioning an independent review on what part of the right hand’s up to." he sneered.
“You make it sound… inefficient.” one of the junior officers commented.
“The Dominion couldn’t find whatever passes for their ass with whatever passes for their hands without three policy meetings and a vote.” Jenkins replied, tersely. It wasn’t quite a snap, and certainly not aimed at the officer, but there was definitely bitterness in the way he said it. “It’s all there in the manual.”
“And what’s in the manual is disturbing.” Tremblay said. He turned a page, and arched an eyebrow. “Roswell Greys? Really?"
“That was pretty much my reaction.” Jenkins said. He had a resigned expression as one of the scientists laid a ruler against his scalp and took a picture.
“According to this they call themselves the Corti Directorate and are the ones primarily responsible for alien abductions on Earth.”
“Hence how they became the Roswell Greys, I guess.” Jenkins sniffed. “But they’re not as bad as some of the motherfuckers out there. At least you know where you stand with the Greys, even if that is under a microscope.”
“Under a microscope still sounds pretty bad.”
“Eh, they’re just self-serving, cowardly, apathetic and practical to a fault. At least we can understand how they think. There’s things out there that think in ways I don’t even know the words for.”
“Like those things that attacked Vancouver, I’m guessing.” Tremblay turned to that page. The sketches were remarkably detailed. The biologists had gone into ecstatic paroxysms over them - the high-definition TV footage from the hockey game had been useful, but the panicked and shell-shocked cameramen hadn’t done the world’s best job of focusing on them and what had been delivered for necropsy had been thoroughly pulverised. A sketch was no substitute for having the real thing under the knife of course, but the detailed drawings of the cybernetic interface between creature and gun had answered some unresolved questions.
“Yeah. They scare me, but not for the right reasons.” Jenkins said.
“The right reasons?” That was Doctor Sung, the base’s counsellor and psychologist. He had, hitherto, been silent, content to just sit in the corner and watch the man who claimed to have spent years wandering the galaxy.
“Look, those bastard things… you know how some people see morality in terms of black, white and shades of grey? Well the Hunters see it in purple, orange and shades of fucking tartan. They’re notorious across the whole galaxy for not only eating the meat of sentient beings, but apparently preferring it to, like, farming a cow or something. That sounds like the right reason to be afraid of them, to me. They’re actual honest-to-shit space monsters. But that’s not what scares me about them.”
“What does?” Sung asked.
“You saw what happened in Vancouver.” Jenkins replied. “Well, that was no fluke: I’m telling you, I personally beat the crap out of three of those fuckers with their own limbs, right after I tore said limbs clean off. It wasn’t even difficult, man."
He shrugged helplessly. “The worst nightmares in the galaxy and some random barkeep from Fuck-Nowhere USA can literally dismember them bare-handed. Worst I had to show for it was a black eye. That scares me.”
Sung cocked his head to one side, curiously. “Being powerful scares you?”
“I didn’t do shit to deserve it, you know? It’s not like you can just say “Hey, I EARNED that”, we’re, like, Kryptonians. We’re Superman, and the worst part is we - the human race, right? - we never had Ma and Pa Kent to teach us to be all about protecting people and all that shit. Before Vancouver, every day the news was full of the latest trending fucking atrocity."
He stood up, raised his arms and adopted a goofy parody of a TV presenter. “it’s time for Wheel of Paedophile, where we reveal which TV icon of yesteryear was fiddling little girls! And after that, which journalist got beheaded for God today, kids? Tune in and find out on The Humanity Show!"
The moment of sarcastic enthusiasm died, and he sagged back down. “Hell, it’d still be full if that shit right now if we didn’t have bigger things on our minds. And pretty soon we’re going to go back to being fucked up to each other when it turns out that whatever we do we’re still, like, probably years from even heading out to the barrier and knocking.”
He sighed. “That’s why the Hunters scare me: because despite that they scare the shit out of everything else, The Hunters never got a reaction like this. Which means that somebody up there thinks we’re WORSE than the Hunters, and I’m scared they might just turn out to be right.”
“You don’t think very highly of people, do you.” Tremblay commented.
“You’re damn right!” Jenkins exclaimed. “But, y’know, individuals can be kind of cool, so we’ve got that going for us." he sniffed. “Which is nice.”
++
“I know who you are. You’re a Dominion security councilor.”
Kirk nodded slowly. “That I am.”
He was standing in the office of the ‘mayor’ of an asteroid mining facility deep in Reef Space, a string of systems that had endured the migration of a black hole spat out by the galactic core some few millions of years in the past and which had long since vanished into intergalactic space. Every one of the fifty or so systems in the region was flagged with a navigational hazard warning thanks to the erratic, disturbed orbits of their planets.
Many of those planets had been broken up entirely, leaving behind huge mineral-rich continents of drifting rock just waiting for the miners. The mining colonies of Reef Space were rich. They were also, by and large, unregulated. Nobody knew how many there were, most of them didn’t answer to the Dominion or the Alliance, they certainly didn’t pay their taxes, and the laws were made and enforced locally. And often poorly.
It took a certain kind of ruthless individual to rise to the top in such circumstances. Mayor Brelm was one of the most ruthless. He was a cold, calculating bastard even by Corti standards.
And he was utterly irrelevant as far as Kirk was concerned.
“I heard you quit. Coming to an asteroid facility like this one is a step down for you, isn’t it?” Brelm tapped a slender finger on his desk. “What is it that you want from me?”
“You?” Kirk feigned disinterested surprise. “Forgive me, mayor, I am not here for you. I came here for your bodyguard.”
The slim human woman who had been leaning sulkily against the back wall looked up at him sharply.
“You’re… for her?” Brelm twisted in his chair and looked at the deathworlder behind him. “Did you know anything about this?”
“You are Allison, are you not?” Kirk asked, as the human shrugged at her employer. “Allison Buehler?”
She kicked off from the wall and stood up straight. From what Kirk knew of human females, she was tall and slim. Next to most other species however she still had that pure strength, though Allison compounded it with a kind of fierce confidence. She tucked her thumbs into her belt and frowned at him. “…That’s me.”
“How would you like to go home?”
Allison shrugged. “Earth? No thanks.”
Kirk hit a mental wall. He hadn’t anticipated a straightforward ‘no’ at all. Suspicion and questions maybe, but simply being turned down wasn’t a contingency for which he had planned.
“You… would not?”
Allison shrugged again. “What’s there for me? You know what I used to do on Earth? I fixed bikes and cars, I served coffee, and guys used to stare at my ass. No thanks.”
“…Oh.”
“Why d’you ask, anyway?” she inquired, and Kirk finally managed to place her accent. Boston. “What, you got a ship full of humans you’re taking back home?”
“Yes, actually. Though, you are only the second I have found.”
“Yeah? Shit, you’re a regular good Samaritan, ain’tcha?”
“I suppose…” Kirk agreed.
Allison gave him a long, calculating, discomforting stare and then shrugged again. “Okay. I’m in.”
It was Brelm’s turn to be wrong-footed. He gaped at her. “You… what? You can’t leave, you have a contract!”
Allison laughed. “Brelm, if you can find some asshole on this station who could stop me then go hire them for your bodyguard instead. Being your hired muscle was getting dull anyway.”
She had a gun on her hip, Kirk noted. An actual human firearm. How had she acquired one so far from Earth? Had she had it on her when she was abducted, or had she somehow built one?
However she’d done it, the “friendly” way she rested her hand on that weapon drove the point home for Brelm.
“You-! …Fine. But our contract is void and you forfeit the rest of this cycle’s pay.”
“You never paid me enough anyway,” Allison ambled across the room. “So what’s your name, mister Samaritan?”
“Most humans call me Kirk.”
Allison shook his hand. “Nice to meetcha, Kirk. Let’s go find some folks who want to go home.”
++
“Miss Boone. A pleasure to meet in the flesh at last.”
Terri didn’t know what she had expected from Mr. Johnson exactly, and really, he lived up to that lack of expectation. He was a dapper, handsome man of about fifty years, with a grey-flecked beard, grey-flecked hair and grey- flecked eyes, wearing a tailored charcoal suit and grey socks. The kind of guy she’d have happily picked up in a hotel bar if she was in the mood for a couple of nights with an older, wealthier man, but no long-term entanglements. He had that curiously accentless voice too, that gave nothing away about where in the world he had been born.
Still, she shook his hand, prepared for - and duly receiving - the circulation-halting firm grip of a man who shook hands for a living.
She was immediately convinced that, whoever he really was, Mr. Johnson was not actually her client. If he turned out not to be a proxy for the real deal, then she would have happily eaten her treasured Chamonix sweatshirt.
Not that this suspicion bothered her much. The amount of money on show meant that frankly the client could have contacted her via strippergram for all Terri cared.
“It’s been a pleasure getting paid.” she said, deciding that playing along with the politeness game could go shove it. “What’s the new job?”
Johnson didn’t seem fazed in the least by this blunt approach, and simply handed her a folder. She flicked through it, seeing names and faces but not bothering to really examine them. One stood out, however.
“Hey, I recognize her. She was that film student who went missing from Vancouver a few days before the attack, right?”
Mr. Johnson smiled the thin-lipped professional smile of somebody who was being paid far more to smile thin-lipped professional smiles at her than she was being paid to receive them. “Xiu Chang, yes. Based on the information you recovered from the abductees, it seems likely that she was abducted herself. The others in that dossier are similar cases, most from this country, a few others from elsewhere in the world.”
“You want me to look around, try and find some more?” Terri asked.
“You have it exactly. That dossier should provide a template for the sort of thing we’re after. Circumstances, factors common to all abductees, and so on.”
“And for this you’re offering me…?”
“A million dollars, Miss Boone. The dramatic turn that events have taken recently means that we’re keen for this to be done with the utmost expediency.”
We, Terri noted. Her sweatshirt was definitely safe.
“I don’t usually say this to the man with the cash.” she said, carefully. “But… why? Everyone knows that the best working theory for the Darkening so far is that there’s some kind of barrier up around the whole solar system. If these people are outside it, then what’s the rush in finding them? What good is that information?”
“And if they’re wrong, Miss Boone?”
“Are they?”
“That’s hardly relevant.”
“True, it’s not, really. After all even without a giant force field imprisoning us, it’s not like we’ve got hyperspace or whatever, so while I’m grateful for clients who pay so well, I do wonder why you want to spend so much on getting this done “with expediency”.”
“And you will continue to do so, I fear. You understand the assignment?”
Terri sighed. “Chase up on missing persons cases that match the profile of these apparent abductions, report them back to you as I find them, for which I will receive a million dollars.” she said.
“Precisely. It is always a pleasure to do business with a professional, Miss Boone.”
“Sure.” Terri replied. “A pleasure.”
Johnson waited a minute or so after she was gone and then stood, unlocked the side door to his office, and stepped through.
There was a coffin-sized metal-and-glass object along one wall of that room, and the being within - small, naked, grey-skinned, large-eyed and bulbous- headed, stared out at him lazily from where it floated in a gel bath inside.
“She agreed.” he said.
“Good. She is just the right mix of clever and mercenary. An excellent find.”
“Thank you, sir. She does, however, raise a very good point. Exactly what good will this information do us?”
“The more we know about who’s out there, the more I can assist the being who’s tracking them down. I didn’t come here to live out the rest of my life on a pre-warp deathtrap of a planet, Johnson. I want to go home.”
The Corti approximated a grim smile. “I want that barrier down.”
++
Maria Sadowski didn’t know what to make of anything. She had got used to the idea of alien life, got used to scavenging whatever scraps they could be bothered to deign to kick her way. Her ribs and bones were visible everywhere, her gums bled constantly, and the sores just wouldn’t heal.
And then just like that, the attitude had changed. One minute, she was ignored by aloof creatures who barely deigned to acknowledge her at all, now they saw her and walked across the other side of the transitway. If she went into an eating-house to beg, before she had been lucky to get scraps - now she got as much as she could stuff into herself while around her tables vacated and the owner carried itself in a way that suggested that, if its species could sweat and if that sweat meant what it meant in humans, it would have been sweating.
She hadn’t had enough time to figure out why when she heard the first recognizable word to fall on her ears in months.
“Maria?”
It was an alien. one of the tall white ones with too many legs, though those were usually friendly. Behind it - him? - stood two humans honest-to-god humans. A tall blonde woman who could only be an American with a belt buckle like that, and a shorter, browner man who gave her a nervous smile.
She didn’t care that neither of them looked like they spoke a word of Polish, right now it was enough just to see somebody the right size, with the right number of limbs, eyes, fingers…
Weeping, she slammed into the man at a dead run and hugged him tight, oblivious to the way nearby beings stepped back in alarm at the solid sound their dense deathworlder bodies made. He made awkward comforting noises and rubbed her back.
The American woman put a hand on the shoulder and said something. They obviously had a translator or something, because Maria heard and understood every word. “She’s in a bad way, Kirk.”
‘Kirk’ shook his mane out and ignored the comment. Instead, he put his own hand on Maria’s other shoulder and spoke softly. “Do not worry. Everything will be alright now, Maria. You are going home.”
++
“Extraordinary guy.” Dr. Sung commented, once Jenkins had agreed to go under an fMRI scanner and departed with the medical technicians and biologists.
Tremblay made a strained noise. “Seems like a bad case of PTSD to me. Not that I’m an expert.”
Sung had the trademark dry humour of psychologists everywhere. “Well, speaking as an expert, I don’t agree with that diagnosis.” He said. “I think he’s just naturally a cynic and maybe had a few bad experiences. Besides, he actually makes a valid point.”
“Don’t tell me he’s turned you into a misanthrope too?”
“Confidentially? I think he’s the opposite of a misanthrope. The impression I got is that he’s the kind of man who’s a bit too driven by his compassion. But step back and think about it for a second. Personally, I believe his account, which means that he’s more or less the only man on Earth to have the chance of really getting to know what it’s like out there - apparently only a handful of the rest ever got that translation implant, and none of them were out there for as long.”
Tremblay leaned against a table and folded his arms. “Meaning?”
“Meaning he knows how ET thinks. He’s got a bit more of an outsider’s perspective than the rest of us. Maybe the reason he’s so bitter on the species is because he can see what they see in us." He smiled uncomfortably. “It’s notoriously difficult for people to acknowledge stuff like that.”
“True. Self-deception’s a powerful thing.” Tremblay said, helping himself to a mug of the coffee that had been percolating in the corner of the lab since they arrived. Sung flipped through the document the pilgrimage had assembled.
“Which means by extension that self-awareness is a powerful thing too.” he said. “The whole world has been going over the question of why an alien civilization would bottle us up, and really the answer’s so obvious when you look at it from Jenkins’ perspective. We’ve been quarantined and the only reason to quarantine something is because it’s dangerous."
Tremblay sipped his coffee, and poked around the lab, pausing at a sample of alien bone that was attached to a detailed report on its composition, strength, density and toughness - all depressingly inferior to the human norm, to judge by a summary of percentages that ran down one side of the page. “I suppose it’s hard to argue with that.” he mused. “Hmm.. hand me that notepad a second, would you?”
Sung did so, and availed himself of the coffee as well while the general flipped through the contents of the Abductee handbook, logged on to the lab’s computer and watched the footage from Rogers Arena, referring back to the notepad several times.
“Something up, sir?” he asked.
“Just… looking at things from a military perspective.”
Tremblay picked up a pen and tapped the screen with the reverse end. “See here? The way they exit those pods.”
“What about it?”
“It’s not aggressive enough.” Tremblay said. when Sung raised an eyebrow and gestured a need for more information, he stood up and put down his coffee. “Okay, so when a soldier enters a hostile area full of known threats, they move like this…"
Miming holding a gun, he barged forward, pretend weapon tucked tight into his shoulder and pointed almost along his sightline, weight forward, posture loose but coiled, ready to spring in any direction as danger demanded. Sung blinked and the general was half-way through dropping some virtual targets with a volley of precise shots. The burst of simulated violence lasted no more than a second or two before he relaxed again.
“Bear in mind that I’ve not done that for real in about ten years, and I’m fifty-one years old. I’ve slowed down a lot. But you get the idea - aggression. You throw yourself into the fight economically and efficiently - little movements, big effect, make the best possible use of the moment of surprise.” Tremblay told him. “Now the aliens moved like this…"
Despite being deficient two pairs of legs, Tremblay’s imitation of the beasts on the screen was uncanny. This time, the posture was upright and proud, the invisible gun held awkwardly level with his solar plexus and out away from his body. His progress across the room was notably slower, more like arrogant strutting than a hostile rush, and his “weapon” was much slower to aim. Everything looked more sluggish, less precise, less deadly compared to the study in focused violence that had preceded it.
“I follow.” Sung nodded.
“Yep. But then we get to… here…" Tremblay clicked forward in the footage to the point where one of the players swept in and smashed one of the aliens to the ice with his hockey stick. Obviously panicked though they were, as the remaining Hunters drew together in a defensive circle, their posture changed as well, into a stance much more like the one the general had first demonstrated - compact, focused, precise.
“That did them no good of course, but it shows that they at least know how to do things properly, so the question is, why weren’t they moving like that in the first place?”
“You have a theory there?” Sung asked him.
“I do. And it’s one that bears out Jenkins’ account of these things being the boogeymen of interstellar space. They practically swaggered out of those pods as if it didn’t matter if they did things the right way or not, like they seriously believed they were invulnerable." Tremblay picked up his coffee again. “They got cocky.”
“Does that scare you?”
Tremblay shrugged, shaking his head very slightly with a wide-eyed expression. “I don’t know what to feel, yet. I’ve not had first-hand experience or years to get my head around the idea. It just doesn’t seem real, somehow.”
They sat in silence for a while, Sung sensing that the general was in the mood for a little peace and quiet, and content to give it to him. Eventually, both their meandering trains of thought were brought back to the here-and-now when Jenkins returned with the scientists.
“Well, you’ll be pleased to know the fMRI corroborated my account.” Jenkins said.
Tremblay accepted the summary and afforded it a quick reading.
“Fine. I think I’m convinced” he said. “But interesting as all of this is, the information’s a bit academic, isn’t it?”
“Yep.” Jenkins agreed. “But I wanted to make sure you’d got your heads around a few things before I dropped the real surprise on you."
“Which is?”
Jenkins grinned, and retrieved the battered hiking pack he’d been carrying when he first arrived at the base. Buried at the bottom under his spare shirts and underwear was a padded manila envelope, which he presented to the general.
Tremblay opened it and tipped its contents out onto his hand - a small, featureless silver box, about the size of a hard drive. The only feature of note on its surface was what appeared to be a power socket on one end, though not of a make that Tremblay recognised.
They all leaned closer, jaws dropping. Sung broke the silence, though only barely. “Is this…?”
Jenkins’ grin would have put the Cheshire Cat to shame. “Alien, yep. I managed to get my hands on it while working in a ship salvage yard on Freeport Fifty- Two. Smuggled it back to Earth when the observation team finally agreed to strip out my implants and bring me home.”
“What is it?”
The spacefarer’s smile broadened even further.
“This, gentlemen… is an FTL engine.”
Chapter 7
5.5: Ultimatum | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Author’s Note: While I think this interlude stands on its own, it was written in response to the events described in Rantarian’s “[Salvage: Positions of Pow er](http://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/2jepu0/ocjenkinsverse_positions_of_po wer/) and you may benefit from reading that series up until then first.
By long tradition, the Alpha of Alphas’ place of repose during a Grand Conclave of the Broods was atop the skull of a Vulza. This was not an inherited throne - Hunters did not recognise inherited authority, they recognized only the skilled and tenacious. The Alpha of Alphas therefore rested upon the skull of a Vulza it had personally slain. To their culture and psychology, there could be no better indication of fitness to lead.
It accepted a cup from its personal meat-slave as it listened. For now, it was patient. It had found, over the long years of incumbency, that the patient stalker that surveyed the land, watched its prey and set its trap, could succeed at tasks that the brash predator that simply attacked and counted on its own superiority would be crushed by. Best to let the lesser Alphas bicker and argue and make their declarations and then strike when the meat was sweetest.
Usually. As it listened, as still and patient as the day it had ambushed and slain the Vulza whose skull it now straddled, the burgeoning susurrus as more of the Alphas arrived and added their thoughts to the debate turned first into a roar, then a mental cacophony of Alphas all broadcasting at once. Isolating individual words was impossible, and in any case not necessary - each thought was accompanied by a set of emotional tags, qualifying sentiments to convey the full emotional weight of what its articulator had meant, rather than merely what it had said. The result was a blizzard of emotion swirling around the trophy-hung Conclave chamber, its intensity swelling with each pass.
Ten brood-transports. A thousand hunters. All sent to kill a single human: all dead. The shock and dismay was palpable.
Alpha of Alphas decided that the time had come to settle the Brood of Broods.
It broadcast: +<Impatience; anger; command> ENOUGH!+
The mental noise ceased. Lingering emotions hung on the air like brittle harmonics.
It broadcast: +<Resolve; statement> These new things have stolen what is rightfully ours. They have stolen the fear of the Herd. They have slain five broods of our finest hunters. <Declaration; resignation> I name them Predators, the first species we have known that is not prey.+
Barely-suppressed shock rippled through the minds of the gathered Alphas, but Alpha of Alphas noted the undercurrent: lack of surprise. It was gratifying to know that at least some of the gathered Broods were led by hunters that could see the future pattern of things so acutely.
It broadcast: +<Statement> There can be only one Predator.+
Only one of the senior and most respected Alphas, leader of the Marrow-Gnaw brood, dared respond to that.
It broadcast: +<Agreement; frustration; Query> The Alpha of Alphas has the truth of it. Yet it has not offered an explanation for how the barrier around their world may be bypassed. The humans are beyond our grasp. Must our vengeance wait until that obstacle is destroyed?"
The Alpha of Alphas acknowledged the point with a gracious tilt of its head, away from the Marrow-Gnaw - a gesture of respect.
It broadcast: +<Rebuttal> The Herd erected that barrier, the Herd will be coerced into lowering it.+
Several others broadcast at once: +<query> How?+
The Alpha of Alphas did not answer them immediately. It instead turned to the meat-slave, which cowered at his attention, naked and wretched as was appropriate.
It was pleasing to the Hunter sense of morality, and to their unique sense of poetry, that a meat-slave should be young and female. As such, young females only just entering their breeding age were prized meat-slaves, reserved as tokens of prestige for only the most powerful Alphas. To devour the Prey was Right: to symbolically devour the future of the prey was Righteous. It was a gesture of supremacy, an enactment of the reality that the Predators held the true power. It was also a test of wisdom - to glut on and waste the future of the Herd might be to deprive the future of the Hunters in turn.
The Alpha of Alphas extended a claw, and hooked the slave gently under her jaw bone, dragging her forward by the delicate exposed tissues of the throat. She was a fur-face, scarcely a morsel to a Hunter of the Alpha of Alphas’ size, but the newness and novelty of their species - and thus their rareness among the meat-stock - only served to enhance her value.
The Alpha of Alphas vocalized, speaking in sound waves for the benefit of the quivering being which did not have the Brood-Mind implants.
It said: “You have served well, Meat.” the word “meat” rippled backwards along its jaw as a wave of cruel teeth, and the slave shook on the point of its claw. “I grant you a boon. What would you request of me?”
The slave closed her eyes and squeaked her reply, in the proper respectful form. “If it may please the master of masters, I humbly request that my death be painless.”
It dragged her closer, and she rose on to the very tips of her little paws, standing as tall as her species could, to resist the talon that threatened to open her flesh.
“Your boon is… denied, little one.” the Alpha of Alphas told her, and relished her sob, relished its power over her. “I grant you what you truly crave - your freedom.”
The slave practically fell over then and there, but remained upright still teetering to avoid the cruel point that was dimpling the flesh of her throat.
“…F… freedom, Master of Masters?” He was pleased to see that the light of hope in her eyes was dim. This prey knew not to rejoice until the meat was in the maw, at least.
It released her, and she collapsed, grovelling before it.
“You will be granted a trophy, a ship of the Herd species. You will fly it back to the territory of the Herd, and you will thank me for your life by delivering a message.” It declared.
The slave contrived to bow even lower than she already was, striving to dig into the solid stone of the Conclave chamber. “Command me, master of masters.”
The Alpha of Alphas checked that it had the rapt attention of its subordinates, and broadcast its next words with the full force of command and proclamation that it could project.
“Tell them that any place known to harbour a human will be raided, not by a pack-ship, nor even a brood-transport, but by the Swarm of Swarms.” it said. “Tell them that any such place will be destroyed, any Prey that lived there devoured. If it is a world, it will be poisoned. If it is an orbit, it will be seeded with mines. Tell them that I shall lead every such raid personally. Tell them that, once there are no humans left abroad in the galaxy, we shall begin the Hunt of Hunts, culling and consuming all that we find until such time as the barrier around Earth is removed.”
It paused. “And tell them that we shall only be satisfied to return to our quiescence once the humans are all devoured. Tell them that the Hunters WILL be feared above all others.”
The prey-slave could not hear it, but in its mind, the combined shout of ten thousand Alphas was deafening, despite containing no words. It was just a simple emotion.
+<APPROVAL>+
++
Poker continued to give Kirk problems.
Memorizing the values and suits of the cards had been trivial. Memorizing those combinations which were valid for Poker and their hierarchy of value, simple. Memorizing the bidding rules, easy.
Learning to read the possible combinations that every player at the table might potentially have held had been something of a challenge, but he had mastered it
Doing all of that AND trying to make snap decisions about the relative value of his own hand compared to every other player’s while simultaneously attempting to both mislead them and avoid being misled by them was where things descended into the downright hard. His sole advantage was that he had a cybernetic translator assisting him in reading their expressions and body language, while his own remained impenetrable and alien to the humans.
Or so he hoped. That particular theory was starting to look a little shaky given that his bluff had been successfully called four times in a row now, and while he did have two pair, Nines and Queens, the river card had opened up the possibility of a full house.
Would they suspect that he was bluffing again? It wasn’t a weak hand, and only the possibility of a full house after all….
“All in.” he decided, pushing his last few meager chips into the middle.
Maria was looking much better for her time aboard Sanctuary. She’d been able to get some proper nutrition and vitamin supplements, exercise properly, and have an actual social life with interpersonal interaction thanks to the translator she now wore constantly on her wrist.
She was also terrifyingly good at cards, which was why her expression didn’t so much as flicker as she considered Kirk’s move before pushing part of her own, much larger stack into the middle.
“Call.”
She turned out to have two pair - threes and Queens, and Kirk allowed himself a subtle gesture of relief as he collected the pot. He was still in the game.
They had dealt the next hand and Kirk had thrown in the little blind when there was a soft but obtrusive chime that rang through the whole ship. The four humans at the table all looked around bemused at the sound, but Kirk was already standing up when Amir - who had refused to join the game on the grounds that gambling was Haram, forbidden by his religion, called through from the flight deck, where he was learning how to fly the ship with the aid of the simulator systems that Kirk had installed for that very purpose.
“Uh… Kirk?”
The rising, querying note in his voice was one that Kirk knew from long movie nights indicated alarm, warning and an urgent need to draw his attention to something. He was quite impressed with himself that he even managed to beat the other humans to the front of the ship.
Amir was examining one of the most important devices on the ship as they entered. “What’s this thing again?” he asked.
Kirk gritted his teeth. The unit in question was one of the most recognizable on the ship, as it looked almost aggressively low-tech compared to everything else on the flight deck. It had no volumetric projection, no tactile gesture interface, just buttons and a simple, hardy text box designed to weather anything up to and including the destruction of the ship itself.
“The Dominion Emergency Notification System” Kirk told him. “Every Dominion ship has one.”
Inside the device, a handful of Helium ions had ceased to be entangled with another handful stored at the network’s central repository. Centuries of experimentation had finally found a loophole in the principle that quantum- entanglement could not carry information - namely, that it was possible to tell whether or not a particle was in an entangled state and, by breaking that entanglement, send a single bit of data. The process of creating such entangled pairs in useful quantities was hideously expensive, and so the system was used only to send terse and urgent messages that needed to be known immediately by every Dominion ship everywhere, no matter where it might be or what it might be doing.
This particular message read:
ULTIMATUM FROM HUNTERS: DEMAND ALL HUMANS BE TURNED OVER ELSE QUOTE SWARM OF SWARMS ENDQUOTE WILL RAID KNOWN HUMAN LOCATIONS. ALL SHIPS, STATIONS CARRYING HUMAN PASSENGERS ADVISED: JETTISON IMMEDIATELY. NOTIFICATION ENDS.
There was a long, shocked silence, broken finally by Allison.
She spoke quietly and her voice was choked with emotion, but the one that dripped from it like deadly acid was contempt.
“Those cowardly sons of bitches.”
Chapter 8
Chapter 06: “Taking Back The Sky” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
One year and seven months after the Vancouver Attack
One broadcast: +<awe; respect; statement> The Alpha-of-Alphas is here.+
Another broadcast: +<anticipation; glee; eagerness> The first human meat to the Alpha-of-Alpha’s maw!+
The Alpha-of-Alphas broadcast: +<rebuke> The quarry is dangerous. Remain focused.+
Chastened, the Brood-Guard fell into line respectfully around and behind the Alpha-of-Alphas as it emerged from its vessel. It stood nearly a head taller than even the largest of the lesser Alphas, and had undergone yet more extensive cybernetic upgrades, bonding all manner of arcane technology - reputedly of its own design - into its own flesh. The result was a mountain of metal and seething power, with seven blinking eyes gazing balefully out at the world of prey around it, covering all the angles, never resting.
Despite its size and bulk, the Alpha-of-Alphas moved in almost perfect stalking silence, a display of its long experience and skill as an apex predator. Without further communication, the Guardian Brood followed their master as it pursued the most recent contact report.
They paused as the lights flickered, and an instant later the deck heaved and rang to another impact - a stray shot from the battle in the void outside. The Dominion’s vessels were selling themselves dearly, even self-destructing rather than accept capture and the fate of all prey. But this was the first time the Swarm-of-Swarms had shown itself, and not even a third of it was committed to the battle. most was still cloaked, on standby for the event that Dominion reinforcements should arrive. By the decree of Alpha-of-Alphas, the Hunters were yet to show their full strength. That third, however, was still many thousands of ships, and the defenders had either fled or were being swept aside in their suicidal bid to protect the station for as long as possible.
The part inside found their quarry when a Brood-lesser tumbled into the corridor before them, crushed and broken, dead before it had stopped sliding.
The Alpha-of-Alphas broadcast: +<command> Release the drones.+
They did so, a swarm of insect-sized devices that would record what happened next and inject the footage directly onto the prey’s data networks. This, they knew, would prove to the prey beyond any doubt whom they should most be fearing.
The microdrones zipped up and out, retreating to the corners and ceiling of the room the dead Hunter had been thrown from, and then The Alpha-of-Alphas stalked through the door.
++
Caleb wouldn’t admit it, but he was starting to get scared. The children were hiding in a storage locker behind him, and so far he’d kicked the ass of every white freak that had come for him, even ten at a time. But he was tired - exhausted, even. Punch-drunk from so many of those weak-ass ray guns, floating in a shaky sea of stale adrenaline, bleeding from his nose and ears, bruised over practically every inch of his body, he still willed himself to stand up and face the next monster that came to challenge him.
This one, unusually, came alone. It was larger than the others, and armour- plated. It did not, however, seem to be carrying one of those pulse guns. Caleb was no idiot - he wasn’t about to assume that the monster was unarmed, and he doubted that he could have got past that armour when at his peak, let alone now. He could see the writing on the wall, and felt strangely at peace because of it.
“Time to die, huh?” he asked the monster, which surprised him by growling a reply in English. it actually spoke the English, too, he could tell the difference.
"Yesth. Ti-ime to die. M-eat to the m-aw." it said.
“Fuck you.” Caleb told it.
He charged.
The alien raised its arm, aimed at the ground in front of him and fired, once.
He died.
++
The Alpha-of-Alphas broadcast: +<Satisfaction> The builders are to be commended. These nervejam grenade launchers work exactly as anticipated.+
The servos of its powered exoskeleton whined as it picked up the dead human by the back of his neck. The quarry seemed even heavier in death - the co- ordination and balance that had kept it upright and agile during his life was gone now, replaced by a few lingering twitches as the last jolts of the Nervejam effect rampaged around that delicately-optimized masterwork of a nervous system. All that was left was a mass of meat and bone as heavy as the Alpha-of-Alphas itself was even in its exoskeleton, and a fraction of the size.
No matter. The Prize awaited. Its helmet dismantled itself, dissolving into a swarm of construction nanites that crawled back into their hive at the nape of the Alpha-of-Alpha’s neck. It considered its limp prize for a second, and then opened its jaws as wide as they would go, bit into the human’s throat with all the strength it could muster, and - with some effort - ripped free a mouthful.
The meat was indescribable. Dense, lean, rich, full of that indefinable spark of sentience. It exceeded even the Alpha-of-Alpha’s most extravagant fantasies.
+<ecstasy> MEAT TO THE MAW!!!+
the cry was taken up among the brood, it spread to the swarm, and from there to the Swarm-of-Swarms and through them, every Hunter in the Galaxy.
The first Great Hunt had been successful.
Two years and Five Months after the Vancouver attack
Captain Rylee Jackson. It was a good name, and she hoped that people would remember it, and for the right reasons. She hoped that she would be remembered for earning this mission on skill and merit, rather than being sneered at as a diplomatic bit of political correctness, given the job just because she was a black woman.
It was a crazy mission. She’d gone to church, said her prayers, prepared herself as best she could. There was a non-zero chance that things could go horribly wrong, but all test pilots knew that. You just had to trust your sled.
“Houston, Pandora. Final checklist complete." she intoned, her tone steadier than she felt.
“Copy Pandora. There’s no window here, Rylee, so just go whenever you’re ready for it." She knew that her flight operator down in Houston was probably just as scared as she was, but there was that voice, the calm and steady one that said everything, no matter how dramatic, with perfect clarity and confidence. She knew that even if she disintegrated in a few seconds, that professional tone would never crack. She could become a smear of plasma across half the heavens, and add her name to the victims of humanity’s odyssey, and that voice would coldly describe her demise as a “malfunction”.
In its way, that was comforting.
“Houston, Pandora… Let’s take back the sky."
She allowed herself a smile of triumph at not repeating Armstrong’s mistake and choking on her big quote. Still congratulating herself, she pressed the button. Two seconds and a billion kilometers later, with a ferociously ecstatic whoop, Rylee Jackson entered the history books as the first human being to outrun light.
Jenkins’ bar erupted. The entirety of the Scotch Creek base staff had crowded in to watch the moment when their two years of hard work had paid off, and paid off it had, in style. From Claude Nadeau’s breakthroughs in electrostatic field emitters that had allowed Pandora to fly on gargantuan weightless wings of pure force-field and boost itself into space for a fraction of the expense required by a traditional rocket, to Ted Bartlett unravelling the secrets of spacetime field distortion technology and inventing a distortion drive that actually worked on a reasonable budget of energy, without any awkward relativistic time dilation and without ripping apart the sun in the process.
General Tremblay smiled indulgently as the crowd of ecstatic scientists formed a circle with their arms around each other’s shoulders and launched into a drunken, cacophonous rendition of “We Are the Champions”.
“Heck of a day.”
He turned to Kevin Jenkins, who had been the one to start the song on the bar’s music system. He had fit into the base perfectly, falling comfortably into his niche as the Scotch Creek Research Facility’s resident purveyor of alcohol, caffeine, filling food and televised sports matches. Probably two- thirds of the major breakthroughs at the base had taken place over coffee and bacon cheeseburgers at the bar’s increasingly-scuffed wooden tables.
“Heck of a day.” Tremblay agreed, trying to make it sound like his heart was in it. Jenkins just handed him another coffee - black, two sugars - with an expression that said he could see straight through the general’s attempt at positivity. He was as bad as Dr. Sung sometimes.
“Shitty time for a divorce, general.” Jenkins said.
Check that. Jenkins could be far, far worse than the doctor sometimes. He didn’t have a professional code of conduct stopping him from being blunt.
“How… how did you guess?”
“Doesn’t take a rocket surgeon.” Jenkins told him. “You’ve been sitting there staring at your wedding band looking like you took a dump and found a kidney in the bowl.”
“Is there such a thing as a good time for a divorce?" Tremblay asked.
Jenkins thought about it. “When you wake up the morning after a night out on Vegas and there’s a shaved orang-utan in your bed?”
Tremblay couldn’t resist it: he laughed. Jenkins gave a satisfied nod. “how long were you married?” he asked.
“Ten years. Stefan’s a great guy and I love him so much it hurts, but… y’know, he wanted me to retire and adopt a couple of kids with him. But then Rogers Arena, this base…” Tremblay sipped his coffee as he trailed off.
“Life happens, man.” Jenkins told him. “At least it’s not boring. Be a whole lot worse for you if you were moping around at home lovesick and not knowing what to do with yourself.”
“True. At least I can focus on my work…” Tremblay smiled at that, his first genuine smile of the day, as he looked at the big-screen on the wall, where mission control at Houston was just starting to settle down from its jubilation and get back to work. “And we did good today, didn’t we?”
“You did damn good, man.” Jenkins said. “Sure, that kid Jackson’s the name everyone will remember, but she’d never have got up there without you. Hell, it was you persuaded the treaty members to unify their space programs. I guarantee that Pandora would never have been funded without that."
Tremblay nodded, and put his drink down. “Thanks, Kevin. I needed that.”
“Anytime, Martin.”
“She has been in there for <two months> now. We think she managed to tap into a water pipe and from the smell she maybe even set up a Dizi Rat farm in there. And she refuses to come out."
“Would you, when the galactic news is full of members of your species being thrown out of the airlock?”
“Look we weren’t going to do that. We were just going to… you know, evict her. Give her a little ship and some nutrient spheres and point her towards a nice Class Eleven somewhere. She’s from a Class Twelve, right? She should have no problem surviving there."
Kirk issued the equivalent of a frustrated sigh. Like all Rrrrtktktkp’ch, he was fond of his Vz’ktk cousins, but they really were as dense as a bag of gold sometimes.
“I did some research on this one. She used to sell insurance before the Corti took her. She used to sit in an office with a headset on talking to people over audio-comms. On her days off, she used to fashion garments out of spun animal hair, and went swimming in a heated, disinfected pool. She may be native of a Class Twelve but frankly I think she might have starved to death on a Class Six.” he said. A thought struck him and he chuckled. “They abducted her on the way home from that pool, actually. Think she knows where her towel is?”
“Her…Towel? Uh… I don’t… nobody ever…”
“In-joke. Never mind.” It was hard being a fan of human literature sometimes.
“…Okay? Well. I don’t know how you’re going to get her out of there, nobody can fit in there except maybe for a Gaoian or Corti, and even if they could, she’s human. She broke a security officer’s leg accidentally!"
“Oh, it’s okay. I think she just needs to see a friendly face.”
The Vz’ktk security officer looked up as the door cycled to admit Maria, Amir and Allison, the latter of whom flipped a jaunty mock salute to the stunned officer before she and Amir stooped slightly and presented their linked hands to boost Maria up into the open ventilation duct below which Kirk and the officer had been conversing. A second later, Amir boosted Allison up into the vent as well, and then leaned against the wall and waited, watching the tall blue being with that unsettling binocular gaze that seemed to flicker all over him, taking in every detail.
“You brought more?!"
“Several.” Kirk said, secretly enjoying himself. “Don’t worry, they’ve all got disease suppression implants.”
“But.. don’t you know how dangerous…?"
“Who, them or the Hunters? They’re nice people. A little strange, some of them, and I really can’t tell if that’s because of the isolation or if that’s how they always were, but trust me, every single one’s as moral and good- natured a being as you could wish to meet. And the Hunters don’t have the first clue my little flying sanctuary exists, so far as we know. Besides, if this goes as well as it usually does, she’ll be on board among her own kind and we’ll be gone soon enough.”
“Sanctuary. You’re… keeping them safe?”
Kirk nodded. “Somebody has to take care of the poor little monsters when the galaxy’s losing its mind.” he said.
There was a scuffle from the vents, announcing Allison and Maria’s return. Behind them was Abigail, the woman they had come to rescue. She dropped lightly to the deck in the - for her - light gravity, shot the officer a glare that wished it could be as deadly as the rest of her, and shook hands with Amir, who extended a friendly arm to invite her back to the ship.
Kirk was secretly delighted to notice that she had a large beige towel draped over her shoulders.
“See? Problem solved. Now you can put out the word that your station is a human-free zone and the Great Hunt will pass you by, hmm?”
He said it lightly, but there was an accusatory edge to the apparently benign observation. He regretted it when the officer wilted slightly, and reminded himself that it wasn’t the poor young male’s fault - he was just following orders, in a job not dissimilar to the one Kirk himself had held only a few years ago.
On a whim he decided to repair things and sent a small currency gift to the officer’s personal network.
“Here. Get yourself some tllktrrk’nq or something. My treat. You’ll get in touch if any more humans show up?"
The officer offered a defeated gesture of assent. “Sure. Yes. I will.”
“Good. Thank you. It’s been a pleasure.”
He swept from the room. Behind him, the pressure of sheer charm that he’d been keeping up the whole time slowly deflated, and the security officer recovered himself enough to glance at his personal funds, the ceiling vent, and the door.
“What the sh’rrt." he muttered.
++
“Okay, I’ve seen some fast-talking in my time, but you had that guy just swallowing every word you said within seconds of meeting him.” Allison commented during the walk back to the Sanctuary. “How’d you do that?”
“Vz’ktk have an instinctive respect for the judgement and intelligence of my own species.” Kirk explained. “All you have to do is keep talking in an amiable ‘I know everything about everything’ tone of voice and they’ll agree to sell you their sister if you keep it up long enough.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Exaggerating.” Kirk allowed. “but they really do grow up with the idea that we’re the smart ones. That builds a degree of innate respect and trust.”
The Sanctuary had been modified yet again since the Hunter Ultimatum, growing three rings of cabins that encircled the reactor, enough for four times its current population. Given that they were sized for the average species, they were huge by human standards - the beds large and luxurious, with plenty of room for floor exercises. Kirk had permanently set the gravity, temperature and pressure on those decks to mimic sea level on Earth, and left the human passengers to their own devices.
That ultimatum had made Kirk’s job much easier. Ships, bases and stations across the inhabited galaxy had scrambled to appease the Hunters, and the humans living aboard them had understandably reacted to protect themselves. Finding abductees was now as simple as following the requests for military support from the Dominion’s naval forces.
And of course, the humans they found were more than happy to leave. Showing up with three friendly homo sapiens and sharing the name of the ship seemed to be pretty much all it took, now. The most time-consuming part was all the traveling.
Still, in two years they had averaged slightly less than one new rescue a month. Too many times they had arrived to find the human they were chasing had already left. A few times, they’d arrived to find their sought refugee had been gassed, or had their hidey-hole depressurized.
One station’s overseer admitted that they had resorted to Nervejam, and Allison caught Maria’s wrist just in time. If that grief-driven slap had connected…
The station’s overseer still got an up-close and personal introduction to the wrong end of Allison’s pistol, however, and a personal promise that there would be a reckoning someday.
The whole ship had been in a subdued mood for several days after that incident. They’d held a “wake,” a kind of bawdy funeral service. Kirk hadn’t joined in. Twenty-two humans throwing a party to help themselves feel alive in the face of futility and pointless death was more than even he could handle.
Three of the twenty-two - twenty-three, now - only rarely showed their faces, preferring to lurk up in the cabins and avoid him. The rest were happy to spend time in the large recreational area, playing games, watching movies, or just hanging out and talking. He was pretty sure there was a fair amount of sex going on in the cabins, too: months or years of isolation without seeing others of their own kind had left many of the refugees with unresolved tensions that they were vigorously and gladly resolving.
Kirk had first started researching human sexuality long ago when the Observatory was first established. What he found had initially disturbed him, and then later made him jealous. Among his own kind, the point of reproduction was reproduction. It brought emotional fulfilment and intellectual pleasure to carry out the act of continuing the species, and the act itself was reportedly pleasantly intimate and had some enjoyable sensations. Kirk didn’t know first- hand, having fathered no children.
For Humans, however, the act itself seemed to bring intense physical pleasure, as well as considerable emotional satisfaction and positive social repercussions. Like everything the species did, there were conflicting norms and etiquettes everywhere. There was a stigma to having no sex and a stigma to having too much. There was a stigma to having never had sex, and a stigma to having it prior to engaging in a legal bond-partnership. There was a stigma to sex with members of the same sex - and the fact that this was even an option had been a source of major confusion for Kirk at first - and yet most humans seemed to be to some extent inclined to bisexuality.
Then there were gender identities: ones that correlated with the biological sexes, ones the directly opposed them, and gender identities that had nothing to do with either of the available biological options at all.
The whole thing was bewildering and strange, but also exciting, and made Kirk feel a little envious. He had long since realized that for all their physical impressiveness and mental agility, humans were still just as fragile as anybody else in their own ways. To learn that they had a whole type of pleasure available to them which Kirk would never be able to experience for himself felt a little unfair.
He was wondering how it had helped them survive the conditions on Earth when his train of thought was interrupted by a call from the ship. He had left Lewis in charge of the ship’s sensors and comms.
“Kirk man, uh… like, we just got some pretty big news, dude.”
Lewis was… interesting. They’d picked him up at a Corti research facility on a barren planet that officially had no name but which Lewis insisted was called ‘Kerbin’ on the grounds that he’d been the first to name it. Although he’d originally been taken there as a test subject, his ‘escape’ had apparently consisted of amiably disabling the forcefield on his containment cell before letting himself into the lab to explore some avenues of research that his abductors hadn’t even considered. He was the only one on the crew who’d needed persuading to leave, though it hadn’t been a difficult negotiation: His objections had faded the instant he realized there were ‘chicks’ aboard Sanctuary.
Kirk hadn’t yet managed to figure out if his speech pattern was due to the permanent influence of some Corti experiment or a lifetime of recreational narcotics, or if was just an affectation. Whatever the explanation, it was clear that behind that dopey dude attitude was a mind to rival the very greatest alumni of the Corti Directorate’s education system.
Strangely, he and Amir had become instant best friends. Kirk had no idea why.
“Share it.”
“Uh… news from Earth, dude. Looks like our guys just went FTL for like the first time ever.”
Kirk came to a dead halt in the hallway, oblivious to the beings that were edging around the knot of three humans to get past him.
“Uh… Kirk? Why are you smiling, man?”
“Oh, no reason. It’s just nice when your friends impress you.”
“Meeting is called to order in the chair and so on let’s get on with this. HOW did they get FTL so quickly?”
The scribe scrambled to finish the block of formalities that were the usual preface to meetings of the Dominion Security Council, and then gave up in bewilderment as the representatives of five different species all tried to speak at once.
While most of the remaining representatives just looked silent and glanced sideways at one another, one raised a huge hand and waited, radiating a patient pink.
“Councillor Vedreg?” the chairman addressed him. “You have an opinion.”
“I do.” The clamour died, and they turned to listen to him.
He took a moment to gather his shawl of office around his upper shoulders and strike a suitable statesbeinglike posture before launching into his explanation.
“We have reason to believe that a functioning wormhole beacon may have been smuggled to Earth during the early years of the Observatory program. Despite having been moved outside of the barrier, the Observatory still exists and has been monitoring spacetime distortions around Earth and its near orbit. Among the many traces we found in the subcycles preceding the launch and test flight of this human craft, were some that corresponded to the generation of experimental wormholes.”
“Reverse-engineering a working Apparent Linear Velocity drive from the temporal stasis technology contained in Hunter assault pods would have yielded FTL technology ahead of schedule anyway, gentlebeings, but when coupled with access to a working jump beacon…”
The Rauwryhr delegate interrupted him at that. “Jump beacons are useless by themselves.” she pointed out.
“For travel, maybe. For the purposes of learning the fundamentals of spatial distortion science, you could not ask for a better specimen technology.” Vedreg explained calmly.
The Gaioan delegate - a venerable male with long streaks of white around his eyes and muzzle - spoke up. “Need I remind the council that while the reforms to Dominion law concerning the status of intelligent non-FTL capable species is still being negotiated, the law has always been clear that once a planetary civilization has successfully and safely caused one living member to travel faster than light, they are official sentients and must be afforded the full rights and protection of a provisional member?” He said. “I must repeat that it is the official stance of the Clans of Gao that the quarantine field is a crime against the human race and that it should be removed as soon as possible.”
There was the general equivalent of nodding and “hear, hear.”
Vedreg’s flanks flushed a complicated medley of reds and purples. “In a purely personal capacity, Father Vyan, I agree, and I would like it on record that I voted against the proposal when it was first tabled in the Confederate Assembly.” he said. “I was outvoted, and it remains beyond my power to countermand that decision.”
Kirk’s replacement as the representative for the Vz’ktk Domain spoke up. “But it is not beyond your species’ power to ignore the Founding Charter.” she retorted. “The Confederacy is constitutionally obligated to remove that quarantine field.”
Vedreg clamped down on emotional luminscence, allowing only a forthright grey shaded with firm dark orange to show. “You are correct, of course. However…” He trailed off, searching for the correct way to phrase his next explanation.
The Corti representative finally chimed in, deploying a careful “…however?” into the conversation at the precise moment it would do the most harm to his confidence.
“However the barrier cannot be removed.” Vedreg explained.
“It must be.” asserted the Corti representative, calmly.
“I do not mean that my government is officially unwilling to remove it - though that is in fact the case - but that we do not in fact have the ability to do so.”
This was met with an incredulous silence that he rushed to fill.
“Humanity have attracted the ire of the Hunters. FTL-capable sentients though they may now be, they lack the orbital defensive infrastructure to protect themselves from the “Swarm of Swarms” should it descend upon an unprotected Earth. The best guess of our own Xenopsychologists is that the Hunters are not afraid of humanity, but are instead jealous of them. The humans have, after all, attracted considerable attention and fear in recent cycles, and the best guesses we have into Hunter psychology is that they view it as imperative that they be feared.
“The existence of a species which we, their prey, apparently fear even more than the Hunters themselves, is a direct affront to them. So, dropping that barrier would result in the almost inevitable genocide of a species that, for all their physical and mental tenacity, could not hope to survive a sustained orbital barrage.”
Again, the Corti spoke up. “A morally sound reason” he said, making the words “morally sound” carry the same weight of emotional opinion as he might have said 'financially questionable’. “So let us hear about your inability to remove the barrier. Your own experts designed it, did they not?”
“Indeed… to defend our own systems from external military threats. Converting one into a containment barrier was done hastily by the simple expedient of programming the emitter nexus to wrap itself up inside its own field.”
“Surely it can be remotely deactivated?”
“You must understand, Councillor, this was a defensive tool. The risk that it might be hacked and disabled by an appropriately skilled communications expert would have been a military liability. The device does not communicate with other systems via anything other than a physical connection.”
The Corti nodded understanding. “Which is now impossible to establish thanks to the way it is contained within its own field.” He sniffed his disdain. “Rather an unfortunate oversight by your engineers.”
This sentiment was echoed around the table.
“The Confederacy will make all appropriate reparations to the human race of course.” Vedreg said, hurriedly.
“A safe assertion, considering that they appear to be indefinitely contained.” the Gaoian said. “The Mother-Supreme of our clan of females will be notified of this, however. If you cannot make appropriate reparations to the human race, you can at least offer all necessary steps to compensate those humans who were stolen-” here, the furred councillor shot a glare at the Corti representative, which the latter being totally failed to acknowledge “-from their homeworld and have taken up residence in the galaxy at large, and to those species and organisations that have taken it upon themselves to provide them with sanctuary and a place to live.”
“Meaning Gao, I assume.” the Domain’s representative noted, with all of a Rrrrtktktkp’ch’s dry wit.
“Among others.” the councillor agreed, defiantly. She was about to offer a sharp retort when Vedreg held up one enormous hand, flanks shaded to indicate resignation.
“The Gaoian representative speaks the truth, the Confederacy is thus obligated to compensate them.” He agreed, having spent several boring days reviewing the law and precedents that applied in this scenario, none of which had contained any help for the Confederacy. “What are the terms requested by the Clans of Gao?” he asked.
“Food supplies, nutritional supplements and medical supplies necessary to support all humans who choose to accept sanctuary on our homeworld, plus appropriate military hardware and assistance to defend our planet from Hunter retaliation.” the councillor replied, having clearly memorised the terms in advance. “An immediate cessation of the information blackout surrounding Earth and the establishment of diplomatic channels so that all stranded humans may directly contact their loved ones. Remunerative compensation to our people equivalent to ten thousand Dominion development credits per human refugee who settles on Gao for longer than two cycles, and a five-cycle waiver on our obligation to commit units to the Celzi conflict.”
“Those last two terms are unacceptable.” the Rauwryhr delegate objected, siding with the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun.
“Excessive, certainly.” Vedreg agreed. “While the Guvnurag have no grounds to appeal the first, second and third terms, my people have the right to negotiate over the penultimate term, and that last one is a matter for the security council.”
The chairman spoke. “then it is the ruling of this council that the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy is to pay to the Clans of Gao and to any other people or organisation who harbour human refugees the following: food, nutritional supplements and medical supplies to provide for that human’s needs, military assistance and/or hardware sufficient to realistically defend them from Hunter attacks. Furthermore, the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy is required to permit ships to approach the Sol blockade and communicate with Earth.” It said.
“The motions have also been tabled first that the Confederacy is to pay ten thousand Dominion development credits per human refugee to any species or organisation which protects them, with the motion’s opposition requesting negotiation of that amount. As many of each opinion vote now.”
There were a few busy moments while each representative made their decision.
“The second motion is that the Gaioan Clans should be granted a five-cycle waiver on military involvement in the Celzi conflict, with the opposition denying that motion outright. As many of each opinion vote now.
Again, they voted.
“As to the first motion, being the four thousand three hundred and third vote of this council, There were two votes in favour, eight votes against, and three abstentions. The opposition has it, and the requested sum of credits will be renegotiated.” the chairman sounded the little chime that ceremonially marked that a decision was complete. “As to the second motion, being the four thousand three hundred and fourth vote of this council, there was one vote in favour, twelve votes against, no abstentions. The opposition have it and the motion is defeated.”
The second chime was the signal for council scribes, aides and messenger drones to zip about the place in a frenzy of activity. The chairman raised its ceremonial rod and spoke slightly louder about the noise. “this council session will now recess until the next standard diurnal period.”
Two years and seven months after the Vancouver attack
“Civilian vessel, this is Confederacy destroyer Vugarunguvrunek. Identify yourself and state your intentions."
"Vugarunguvrunek, this is yacht Sanctuary requesting permission to approach the broadcast point."
“Permission granted, Sanctuary. You are cleared for one burst transmission of no larger than three terabytes.”
“Acknowledged, Vugarunguvrunek."
Thanks to the convenient relay offered by a Corti communications monitoring station that had been installed twenty years previously, it was a trivial matter for the Sanctuary to squirt a total of twenty-five videos towards Earth. Twenty-four of them were from the human refugees, many of them tearful as they finally took the chance to relieve their loved ones’ fears.
The twenty-fifth was from Kirk.
"Kevin. I hope this finds you still alive and complaining: I know for a fact that you’re well wrapped-up in whatever’s going on down there. You see, I knew about the jump beacon.
The one you stole was trash, by the way: so I snuck a working replacement into your bag. Glad to see it worked as planned. Tell whoever you gave it to that if they tune it with the algorithm that’s on screen right now, we can start sending some of these people home.
Now, on to the really important stuff. If I know humans, you’re probably already well on your way to dropping this barrier somehow, but take it from your old friend: for the time being, that would be a very, very bad idea.
You see, a lot has happened up here since Vancouver…"
Chapter 9
6.5: “Jargon” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Two years and nine months after the Vancouver Attack
“A screensaver? Not seen one of those in years, Ted…”
“Uh, that’s… actually a simulation…”
The office shared by Major Ted Bartlett and Captain Claude Nadeau was best described as an ‘organized mess.’ Although both men had been drilled into the habit of neatness throughout their careers, the demands of their jobs meant that every spare surface and shelf in the room was laden with books, papers and tablets. It looked like the statelier kind of second-hand book shop: Densely crowded, but still as tidy and organized as it could possibly be.
The fields of study that had seen them through University were becoming hazy and uncertain now. The last two years had forced them both to branch out from their respective disciplines of Cosmology and Electrostatics, and become multidisciplinarians. It was no good focusing on one small aspect when the results came from a more holistic approach.
“What of?”
“It’s a folded-space topological problem.”
“We already cracked Super-L, Ted.”
“One type, sure. That little book detailed three kinds, eh?”
“I thought the general’s planning to recommend that we’re not interested in type 2 ERBs?”
“And for good reason, sure. But…”
“What?”
“I sent the tuning algorithm to a friend of mine, she lectures in mathematics over in Nottingham, England. Purely as an abstract puzzle in search of a solution, eh?”
“We already know the solution, though.”
“She found two, Claude.”
“No shit?”
“Nope. She gave me an alternative solution which is pseudo-stable for R T less than one if delta-E set one to set two is greater than the exponent of the tensor of set three p-one to p-two.”
Nadeau grabbed a paper and ball-point pen - there was yet to be a better substitute for the brainstorming physicist - and scribbled out a handful of equations. “…Right.” He considered it, then moved a few terms around, playing with the algebra. “I see it, but… What’s the Lebesgue?”
“Three.”
“That’s helpful. You’re sure, now?”
Bartlett sketched out a proof, to his colleague’s satisfaction.
“The only awkward bit is that exponent.” he said. “I worked on it some more and got this graph.”
it was mostly red, though running diagonally up and right was a curved funnel of slowly-widening blue. He tapped a point towards its flared end. “Fifty grams.” he said.
“Yeah, at seventy KC.” Nadeau said.
“Possible.”
“Hence the screensaver?”
“Hence the simulation, yes. All we need is an intersection of two ISD fields of those magnitudes which remains within acceptable bounds for, uh… six to the minus ten S."
“Think there is one?”
“Not enough to bet time on the IBM on it. It’s busy enough with the ESF equations for your “put the energy companies out of business” idea.”
“Which is why you’re running a fancy new screensaver-”
“-simulation-"
“-on your personal laptop rather than wasting base resources. Right.”
Bartlett sighed, and with a push of his legs, boosted his chair over to the office’s perpetual coffee source. “I tell you Claude, I’m jealous of your field sometimes. ESFs are going to change the world more than ISD is.
“You might be wrong there, Major.”
“Oh come on. You’ve already given us the tech for cheap spaceflight, viable asteroid mining, trivially easy near-Earth object tracking and deflection and buildings ten times as tall as we could already build. What have I got, besides one experimental spaceship that got named by our bartender?"
“Well,” Claude Nadeau said, slowly and with care “Your screensaver just turned green…”
Bartlett sighed. “For the last time, it’s a simula- wait, what?"
Chapter 10
Chapter 07: “Tensions” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
By Hambone 20 / Jun / 2015

Three years after the Vancouver Attack
I-5, Northbound. Everett, Washington
thup,thup… thup, thup… thup, thup…
“Urgh…”
click
"♪might as well face it… might as well face it you’re addicted to lo-ove… might as well face it… might as well face it… might as well face it…♫"
"The five o’ clock freeride, classic rock, 92.9… KISM“”
"♫See me ride out of the sunset, on your color TV screen. Out for all that I can get, If you know what I mean…♪♫"
click
100% chance of rain, but we got a great match-up tonight, Washington taking on the Dallas Cowboys…"
click
"…results are in from across the globe as China announced their representative for the first meeting of the Global Representative Assembly, and not a moment too soon with the Assembly’s first meeting taking place next week in Cape Town, South Africa to appoint the world’s ambassador in space. CRAZY, right? And just think, this time three years ago we thought the alien abduction people were all wack-jobs…."
“Most were.”
"…and then good old NASA, and - forgive me folks, but I still think of it as the AMERICAN National Aeronoautics and Space Administration. They may have kept the acronym, but don’t try and sell me this bull about how it’s the NATO Aeronautics and Space Agency nowadays, NASA landed men on the moon back in ’69 and I don’t care if it was a Canadian scientists who invented the warp drive or whatever they’re calling it, but it was an AMERICAN who flew Pandora, am I right?"
“Asshole.”
"So Pandora flies to, I dunno, Mercury and back…"
“Jupiter, dickwad.”
"…nd all of a sudden it’s like “hello humanity, welcome to the stars, join us all in sunshine and hugs and yeah we’re really sorry about LOCKING YOU UP, please do us the honor of sending forth what you hoo-mens call an “am bass a door” that we might blah blah.” Why are we even bothering? you know what those alien douchenozzles deserve? Two fingers, one on each hand! Tell ’em to come back once they’ve found Jesus!"
“Oh for-” click “-fuck’s sake”
thup,thup… thup, thup… thup, thup…
“…fuck it.”
click
"…And we put a DEMOCRAT in our seat on this Assembly? I thought we were supposed to be appointing somebody to represent AMERICA’s interests, am I right?"
“Ugh.”
click
"♫♪…in New England town, feel the heat comin’ down. I’ve got to keep on keepin’ on, you know the big wheel keeps on spinnin’ around and I’m goin’ with some hesitation. You know that I can surely see, that I don’t want to get caught up in any of that…♪♫"
"sigh"
thup,thup… thup, thup… thup, thup…
1,500 Km above the Arabian Peninsula
"Ping NEO-tracking." “…Green.”
"Test EACS."
“Check.”
"SUBLIME power to idle."
“…Check.”
"Power to ISDE."
“Check.”
"Test ERB-2."
“…Check.”
"Test ESFALS."
“…Check.”
"Test ESHOD."
“Check.”
“Pandora, Mission Control. Checklist complete."
“Mission Control, Pandora. Checklist complete."
"Copy that, Rylee. Scotch Creek reports the package is ready. In your own time."
“Hey, what is this, Houston? My fifth?”
"Fifth, yes."
She laughed. “And nobody else has even done this once, yet.”
"Elitist. Just try not to slam into the moon at seven kilolights, we’ve only got one."
She decided that she liked her new controller. He wasn’t afraid to drop the professional bullshit and send a joke up the line to comfort her nerves.
“I’ll try, Mission Control. Pandora, going FTL."
On her own insistence, the silly big red button had been replaced with a thrust lever. It just felt more right, more Star Wars. Granted it only output a binary “go” command to the navigation computer rather than providing analogue control over the engine power, but it still just felt right to reach forward, grip a solid chunk of plastic and metal, and push it firmly forward as far as it would go.
She patted an exposed patch of Pandora’s hull fondly. “Let’s ride, baby.”
This was by far the shortest hop they had yet done, she didn’t even have time to see anything happen: the moon just became bigger. In less time than an eyeblink, it ceased to be a distinct object in the sky, assessable in its entirety with the naked eye. Now it was an expansive feature. She realised she was now the closest person to Luna since 1972, although still deceptively far away at some sixty-four thousand kilometers, close to but not directly on top of the earth-moon L1 point.
“Mission Control, Pandora, checkpoint reached."
“Nicely done. ESDAR has you on target to a… 0.3% deviation.”
“My compliments to navigation!” She could already hear the applause in the background.
"Yeah, they’re pretty happy. ERB-2 is still reading green, I have go code from the package."
“Copy, Control. Opening the door.”
This piece of equipment was mission-specific, and although Pandora had been designed with future-proofing in mind, she hadn’t been designed to interface with alien technology, which was why the mission package was activated via a smartphone that had been duct-taped to the flight console.
She reached out and tapped the app icon with the stylus that had been secured to the back of her flight glove with the most useful substance in space, some more duct tape.
A space station blinked into existence three kilometers in front of her. All things considered, its arrival was depressingly anticlimactic. She’d been hoping for special effects, maybe some kind of wibbly-wobbly space fireworks. At most she detected a faint shimmering of the stars around it, as if space had bulged gently.
The station itself, however, was impressive. Pandora was by no means a small vehicle, but the station was orders of magnitude larger, reminding her of the time she had gone surfing in California only for a Right Whale to breach the surface just ten feet to her right, but scaled up to eleven. It was like being ambushed by an airport terminal.
Fortunately, they had thought to compare notes as to communication protocols, wavelengths and codecs before the mission, so the transmission from it was clear and bright.
The voice that spoke did so in curiously accentless English. “Embassy Station 172, jump complete. Our thanks.”
“Welcome to Sol, 172.”
“It is a pleasure to be here, Pandora. Will you be docking?"
“Not in my mission profile, 172, I’m sorry. I’d love to come aboard.”
“We understand, Pandora. Launching shuttles, they will follow you on autopilot to a safe landing facility."
“I look forward to coming back.”
“We look forward to it too. In fact, we request that you be the pilot who escorts your world’s selected Ambassador on board. It seems only fair.”
Rylee grinned inside her helmet. “Wild horses couldn’t hold me back.” she promised.
“Hey, Kevin.”
Jenkins turned at a familiar voice speaking his name, and laughed aloud when he saw who it was.
“Jesus shit. Terri Boone? When the hell was the last time I saw you?"
She’d lost weight and muscle tone, her hair had gone from a shoulder-length bob to halfway down her back, and she looked like death warmed up, but she still treated him to a smile.
“About two and a half years ago.” She sat down. “Nice bar you’ve got here. You can sell booze on a military base?”
“Why not? They aren’t on duty all the time, and they’ve got families. Good coffee, too, and you look like you need some.”
“Oh, hell yes. You do lattes?”
He busied himself with the espresso machine. “The best lattes in Scotch Creek, I promise.” He said, tamping down the coffee grounds and locking the portafilter into the group.
“I’ve seen Scotch Creek, that’s not much of a boast.” she said, watching as he selected a panini and slid it into the grill for good measure.
“You should have seen it when the convoy first got here. It’s five times the size it was then.”
“And eighty percent of that’s the base?”
“Yep.”
He finished the drink with a flourish of steamed milk, and slid it in front of her. “On me.” he said. She picked it up like it was made with water from the Fountain of Youth and sipped it. “Okay, that’s damn good coffee.” she allowed, sagging as it chased the tension of a long journey out of her.
“Told you.” he said, pressing down on the panini grill. “Now, not that I’m not glad to see you again, but this ain’t a social call, am I right?”
“It’s business.” she acknowledged. “I’m… kind of betraying my employer’s trust.”
“Your mysterious employer?” Jenkins asked. he plated the panini and set it down, doing that too-handsome guy smile up one side of his face as she grabbed it and took a huge bite. “Finally exceeded your professional ethic, huh?”
“Mmf… o’m’g’d what’ff in thifth?”
“Bacon, brie and cranberry.” Jenkins told her.
“Mm… I’ll never say a bad word about the French ever again.” Terri promised.
“So, what’re you breaking trust over?”
“Well, he’s going to be getting this information too, but I just figured that you might find a use for a list of every abductee who’s currently outside the bubble.”
“You’re shitting me!”
She pulled a USB stick from her bag. “Nope. It’s just a best guess, the end result of thirty months of globetrotting, research and questioning people who most of the time didn’t even speak English, but I’m pretty sure it’s mostly right.”
Jenkins picked up the device and pocket it. “I’ll… make sure the ambassador finds out about this.”
“You’ve got a line to him?”
“No, but I play poker with somebody who does.”
She inhaled the rest of her panini. "God, I needed that."
“Where the fuck did you drive from, Mexico?”
“Pretty much.”
“Got a place to stay?”
“If you know any comfortable couches that are going spare…?”
“How about a futon?”
She sighed happily. “Oh yeah. You know what a weary traveller needs.”
Ten days later
Cape Canaveral
“Captain Jackson?”
She scooted out from under Pandora’s port wing where she and a flight technician had been fine-tuning the ESFALS array.
“Doctor Anees Hussein, I presume.” she said, rising from her trolley to extend a hand to Earth’s selected ambassador. He cut a strange figure, a small, bald, bearded Iraqi man in a nice suit, leaning slightly on a beautiful polished wooden walking stick while around him men and women in jumpsuits bustled back and forth, prepping Pandora and the three alien shuttlecraft for flight, though the latter apparently required practically no maintenance. The fourth had been shipped north to Scotch Creek, to be enthusiastically devoured by the reverse-engineering teams.
“For my sins.” he agreed, shaking her hand and smiling warmly. Rylee returned the smile genuinely - she had always had a soft spot for charming old men with a twinkle in their eye, and for all that he was twice her age, Doctor Hussein had that kind of charisma by the tonne. “She’s beautiful.” he added, looking towards Pandora and instantly winning Rylee’s good graces.
“She is.” she sighed, looking fondly at her sled. “Less so when she’s grounded though. She’s born to fly.” “I look forward to seeing that. I understand you’ll be flying her up alongside our shuttle.”
Her esteem for him grew even further. He wasn’t complaining, or even questioning, that she should be flying Pandora rather than the shuttle. The Ambassador was clearly an expert at first impressions.
“The embassy did say they hoped I’d be the one to escort you and, frankly sir, flying anything else would feel like cheating on her." She said.
“I guessed as much.” Hussein replied amicably, folding his hands gently on his cane. “I wish there was a second seat, actually. Something tells me nobody will ever pilot her but you.”
“They’d have to shoot me before I let somebody else fly my girl.” Rylee agreed, matter-of-factly.
“I had best leave you to keeping her in perfect order then.”
“Please. It’s a long checklist.”
“Leaving so soon?”
Terri sighed. “you woke up.” she accused.
“Hey, you’re the one sneaking away without saying goodbye. It’s not even light out yet.”
“I’ve been here ten days, Kevin.” she said. She stooped and collected a discarded bra, and shrugged into it, trying not to let the way his dark eyes roamed all over her, getting a good last look, effect her. Those ten days had been… enthusiastic. Both of them had made up for a couple of long, dry years. “I need to get back.”
“I know.” He said, and stood up. She took her own opportunity to get a good look at him as he yawn-stretched and then put on some pants. “I’m not dumb enough to do something soppy like try and stop you, neither. I just figured you may as well start the trip with a full stomach and a proper farewell.”
“I guess…”
“Come on. Best pancakes in Scotch Creek, I promise.”
“I’ve seen Scotch Creek, that’s not much of a boast…”
“…Test ESFALS." “…Check…”
"Test ESHOD."
“Aaand… Check!”
“Pandora, mission control. Checklist complete."
"Mission Control, *Pandora. Checklist complete."
Every time, Pandora performed just a little better. Or maybe it was just that Rylee herself was becoming more in tune with her sled’s foibles, but she could swear that the disconcerting wobble that had defined their previous ESFALS vertical take-offs was gone now.
“You alright over there, Limo?" she asked of the pilot of the diplomatic shuttle, on her wing, as both craft extended their flight surface fields and coasted higher and higher on only a gentle thrust.
"Jealous of you. This thing handles like my sister’s car."
“That bad?”
"The controls are idiot-proof."
Rylee made an “aaaah” noise of understanding. “Idiot-proof” meant one thing to an experienced pilot: that you couldn’t do half of the things you would like to have available as options.
“Hey, at least you can scratch your nose.” She said, leaning forward to brush that offending organ against the patch of velcro that had been glued to the inside of her helmet.
The helmet was full of little customisations like that, from the velcro pad, to a suction nozzle in case of a repeat of Luca Parmitano’s experience with water flowing freely inside the helmet or - God forbid - Rylee vomiting. The whole suit was a testament to the power of cobbled-together solutions to minor irritations, and was designed for long-term habitation, right down to some rather cunning plumbing around the pelvis. She could have worn it for a week and experienced nothing worse than the desperate need for a bath.
She noticed with amusement that she had forgotten to remove the smartphone stylus from her glove. Oh well, it would probably prove useful anyway.
"And you can thumb yours at us. This things gets three kilos, tops."
“You’re kidding?”
"Nope. I’m flying the next best thing to a moped… comfy in here though. No expense spared in upholstering the ambassadorial transport."
She chuckled. Next to Pandora’s sleek-yet-functional lines that showed off her Lockheed heritage, the shuttle was an uninspiring box that relied entirely on its fields for aerodynamic profile. A team of designers had done their best, stripping off the original beige paint and polishing the metal to a mirror shine, and reportedly filling the interior with tasteful wood and woven fabrics. The original leather upholstery idea had been swiftly abandoned on the advice that the aliens were almost universally herbivores and would be thoroughly disgusted by the idea of sitting on a once-living thing’s skin, or even a facsimile of it.
Pandora alerted her to something with a pleasant beep. “Coming up on Delta- point 1.” she said. It was deceptive how quickly space could sneak up on them when the ride was so gentle.
"I see it. Slaving FTL to you…. *Mission Control, Limo. Escort has the button."
“I have it. Mission Control, Pandora. Escort has the button."
“Pandora, Mission Control. You are clear for FTL."
She didn’t bother making any comment this time, just rubbed the exposed bit of Pandora’s chassis for luck, and pushed the thrust lever forward.
Again, the moon just blinked larger in the sky, and there was Embassy-172, an impressive tower of white, almost blinding in the sunlight even through her dark glasses and Pandora’s own reactive window tint.
“172, Pandora. Ambassadorial transport on final approach."
"Copy, Pandora, the Ambassador is cleared for bay one. Will you be coming aboard?"
“I will, 172. Pandora requesting permission to land."
"Permission granted, you are cleared for bay three…. ah. Pandora, we can’t handshake with your landing system, it’s giving an incompatible protocol error."
“Dammit.” Rylee scrabbled to troubleshoot the problem, then decided it wasn’t worth her time. “Copy that, 172. Request permission for a manual landing.”
There was a pause filled with the hiss of solar radiation and nothing more.
"… Pandora did you just say MANUAL landing?"
“Affirmative 172, manual landing.”
"That’s… oh? Right. Yes, sir. Pandora you are clear for manual landing, bay three."
“Copy 172, bay three.”
Rylee shook her head in bemusement as she rounded the station’s bulk and lined up on her assigned bay. In fact, of all the manoeuvres she had rehearsed in the simulator before Pandora was even built, manually landing on an enclosed flight deck aboard a steadily-rotating space station had been one of the first and easiest, and that had been when they still thought she’d have thrusters that required fuel. Nowadays, with an unlimited thrust budget, it was even simpler. Match rotation, nose forward, probe forward with ESFALS and haul herself forward and gently on to the deck. Frankly, she doubted that the computer could have done it any smoother.
Compared to landing on an aircraft carrier in the Persian Gulf, landing on Embassy-172 was trivial.
By the time post-flight checks, power-down and securing her ship had finished, the bay had become host to a welcoming party of weirdness. She tried not to stare at them as she swung her boots over and dropped down to the deck, easily and buoyant in the light gravity.
<+Oh my God that one looks just like Rocket Raccoon, don’t stare, don’t stare…+>
A short creature with the uncomfortably familiar face beloved by the UFO community the world over approached, trailed by an archway of some kind that moved on a hovering pad, which settled in front of Rylee.
She tried not to let the fact that half the assembled beings apparently had no issue with nudity bother her. Strangely, the one wearing the most clothing of all of them was the furry little raccoon-alien, who was wearing a garment that seemed to resemble a cross between her own flight suit and a pair of dungarees.
“Captain, if you would be so kind as to step through this decontamination archway before removing your flight suit, you would save us all a great deal of trouble and potential agonizing death.” Requested the Grey. Up close, she could see that the movements of its mouth bore no relation at all to what she actually heard, which was a pleasant male tenor with a faint hint of… condescension? Intellectual superiority? The effect was convincing and humanizing at least.
“Sure!” she said happily, and stepped through it, followed by “Wow! Oh my God that feels weird!"
The little grey alien stepped forward sharply. “Are you in pain?” he asked, tone tinged with concern.
“No, no, just… wow, my teeth have never felt so clean!”
“Ah, yes. Streptococcus Salivarius in particular proved to be exceptionally resilient, as did Staphylococcus Aureus, but we beat them in the end. You may remove your helmet now, Captain, we are for the time being quite safe from you."
Rylee did so, pleased to be out of it, and took the opportunity to scratch an itch above her ear.
<+I knew that stylus would be useful…+>
“Excellent. If you intend on staying longer than eight hours, we will need to give you a longer-lasting injection or even, if you are willing, a permanent implant. Until then, I shall leave you in the capable hands of the rest of the crew.”
Rylee watched him go. “Wow. I’ve had some terse doctors in my time…” she said. There was a chittering noise from the space raccoon. Something in… his? …body language suggested amusement, so she decided that the chittering had probably been the equivalent of laughter.
Her suspicions were confirmed when the translator gave him a wry baritone “By his species’ standards, that was a warm welcome.”
Rylee smiled. “I guess I got so caught up in flying Pandora there that I forgot to read the cliff notes on… everyone."
She looked around, taking in the blue and white giraffe-people, the bat- person, an enormous pile of fur in the back that seemed to be content to observe from a distance for the time being, and more. Most of the rest of her welcome party sketched respectful gestures of welcome and left her to converse with the raccoon.
“I can’t blame you, it’s beautiful.”
"She is, isn’t she?"
“She? As you wish. And I’ve got to say that was some beautiful flying. I know Traffic Routing get fidgety over manual landings in their bays, but I’ve never seen a landing that smooth from anything, muscle or machine.”
“You’re a pilot yourself?”
“I am! Officer Goruu, of Clan Firefang, My species are called Gaioans.”
“Captain Rylee Jackson, NASA. Human, obviously.”
“A pleasure. Be gentle, right? You could probably crush my hand if you squeeze too hard.” he extended a hand - and it was, to her relief, definitely a hand, an honest tool-user’s fingers, rather than an animal’s paw - so she disengaged the pressure seal on her gauntlets, removed them and shook the offered extremity as delicately as she could, intrigued at how warm and silky the short fur of his hands was.
<+I’m shaking hands with an intelligent alien raccoon. Holy. Shit.+>
“Want to see Pandora up close?" She offered. “I still have a few post-flight checks to run through.”
“It’d be my pleasure.” Goruu said. He started to enthuse more and more as they got closer to the sled’s hull. “She’s so aerodynamic! By the time my kind developed warp technology, we’d long since abandoned these kinds of curves in favour of shaped fields.”
“She was mostly made by a company called Lockheed.” Rylee said. “She’s got those shaped fields too, but they stuck to a policy of “if it’s not broken, don’t fix it.” After all, if the fields fail I’d rather not be flying something with the aerodynamic profile of a boot."
“That… makes a lot of sense actually. I might have to take that saying home.” Goruu said. He stooped to look under Pandora’s belly. “Huh. Your kind go in for redundancy in a big way, don’t you? Pressurised cabin and pressurised flight suit, the whole hull and field thing, two forcefield landing systems…"
“She could limp home on just one engine, too.” Rylee said. “It’s called Murphy’s Law.”
“Your legislation mandates redundant systems?”
Rylee laughed. “No, no. Murphy’s Law isn’t legislation. It’s an… observation. Like a law of physics. ’Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, eventually’."
“I’m taking that one home, too.” Goruu said. “Oh! A field-assisted scramjet?”
“Yep! She’s the fastest thing we ever built by a long, LONG way, both in space and in atmo. Mach 20 across the ground, easy.”
“What’s her maximum?”
“We don’t actually know.” Rylee beamed, correctly interpreting the Gaoian’s open-muzzled expression for the dazed awe that it was. She opened a hatch, checked something inside, closed and sealed it, checked the seal, and then ticked something off on the little booklet attached to her wrist. “Theoretically, with the fields doing the heavy lifting and taking mechanical stresses out of the equation, we think she could hit somewhere upwards of Mach 30. Of course, that’s small fry next to the FTL."
“Well, obviously.” Goruu agreed. “What’s she do?”
“That depends how much I give her.” Rylee told him. “I guess if I really pushed her… Seventy kilolights for six hours? Of course, right now that’d be a one way trip, they’ve not finished the WITCHES yet.”
“Seventy… how? She’s not big enough for a power plant that size. Especially given that - no offense - I doubt your first ever FTL engine is very efficient. And what’s WITCHES?”
“None taken, she’ll get faster as we swap out the FTL core. She was built to be future-proof. Anyway, the power plant’s for running the on-board electronics and life-support. Power to the FTL comes from a supercapacitor bank. At the moment that’s charged on the ground, but WITCHES - that’s WIde aTtainment CHarging Energy System - can take photons from any local stars or whatever and convert them into stored energy. The bigger the field, the faster we charge. Once that’s finished and installed, in theory, Pandora could go from dry to fully charged in less than a minute just by sunbathing."
She grinned. “And of course, crazy-prepared beauty that she is, if I did get stranded, the ship power plant is good for fifty lights. Not fast, but better than dying alone in deep space.”
Goruu stood back and used his claws to comb some stray fur back behind one ear. “I take it back, she’s not merely beautiful, she’s the most gorgeous thing I ever laid eyes on.”
“Aww, the ladies must be all over a charmer like you.”
“I’ve sired my fair share of cubs.” the Gaoian agreed, sounding pleased with himself, so Rylee assumed that her compliment had been a success.
He pulled a device that looked much like a smartphone from the pocket of his own flight suit and glanced at it, then said something which the station didn’t translate. “I should go, my Clan-Father wants to have a word with me.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Goruu.” Rylee said, still scarcely believing that she was already considering an alien raccoon to be a likeable acquaintance and potential friend. She paid close attention to the markings of his fur around the eyes and muzzle and memorized them - It would be very embarrassing to have got on so well with him only to confuse him for some other Gaoian.
They shook hands again, and Goruu ducked his head in what she took for a respectful gesture before jogging away.
As Rylee watched him go, she carefully tucked away the scrap of paper he had palmed her when they shook hands, and busied herself with completing her post- flight checks.
“Did you succeed?”
“Yes, Father.” In Goruu’s case, the title of respect bore a slightly more intimate meaning: the face looking back at him from the screen of his communicator bore markings and coloration that were almost a mirror of his own, and there could be little doubt that Clan-Father Amren was his Sire, but that relationship was a distant second place to the bond of Clan. Being the Clan-Father’s cub brought no special privileges, nor should it: the entire clan structure existed specifically to avoid that kind of nepotism. But they had a good relationship nonetheless.
“Excellent. The ambassador will be arriving shortly. We’ll let this… mockery of diplomacy play out: the important part has been accomplished. You’ve done well. Did you find it hard to get into the pilot’s good graces?”
“I didn’t even have to act. Some of the innovations and philosophy that went into that little ship truly are stunning, and she’s hopelessly in love with it. I confess, so am I. If we adopted some of the ideas she told me about into our own craft…”
“Now is neither the time nor the place, Brother.” the Clan-Father reminded him.
Goruu ducked his head and flattened his ears, chagrined. “Yes, Father.”
“Good lad. Take the First Frost back to Gao: I’ve convinced a Mother to join us."
“A Mother?”
“Yimyi. And yes,” he said, holding up a paw and displaying tolerant good humour as Goruu’s expression lit up “she will have Sister Niral with her, Brother. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to make a good impression before they head back.”
This was by way of being a reward for special success, and Goruu could barely contain his gratitude, but the Firefangs prized emotional control and maturity, so he settled for a compsed “Thank you, Father. Good luck with the ambassadors.”
“More fool the others for making us need luck." Father Amren practically spat the word.
“They can’t possibly believe that concealing the existence of the Great Hunt and the jettison order will do anything but harm in the long run, can they?” Goruu asked.
“I truly have no idea. Gao voted in favour of full disclosure, we were overruled, and will face sanctions if I break that ruling during this session.” Amren ruffled the fur at his shoulders, irritably. “Idiots.”
He recovered himself, giving his jaw a determined set. “Goruu, making a good impression with the humans is vital. It’s only a matter of time before they discover how poorly their people have been treated by the Dominion, especially in response to the Great hunt, and Gao must get on their good side: Your rapport with their pilot and the influence of the Clan of Females might well tip the balance. I suppose we’re just fortunate that we have the time to move behind the scenes before your note can be raised at the next meeting."
“Okay.” she said. “Those were some DAMN good pancakes.” “Told you.” “I should… go.” “Yeah. You should.”
“Yeah…”
She stood up and looked around the room. “Um, d’you know where my panties wound up?”
“Somehow, I had expected somebody rather different. A warrior, like his escort, not… well.” the Vzk’tk ambassador signalled the image of Doctor Hussein limping along the corridor, leaning heavily on his stick even while engaging his aides and staff with avuncular small-talk.
“Not a frail elder?” asked the Rauwrhyr ambassador.
“You have it exactly. A reminder of their physical abilities would make sense, and instead they’re sending us this specimen?"
Clan-Father Amren chimed in at that point, and a few of the ambassadors flinched. The Gaoian had been inside a privacy field for several minutes: they had all but forgotten he existed. “In which case they have shrewdly out-played you.” he commented. “A fair reminder to respect their intelligence as well as their muscles, not so?"
The ambassador for the Corti Directorate signalled agreement. “Humans are not a savage species, gentlebeings. They are from a savage world. There is a critical difference, and failing to remember it can only be dangerous."
“Forgive me, Ambassador” commented the ambassador for the Kwmbwrw “but they eat flesh. That in itself is a mark of savagery.”
The diplomats shot glances at one another. The Kwmbwrw had suffered terribly from their close proximity to Hunter space, and had suffered raids by those enigmatic, evil things since before they had invented movable type. It had badly, but understandably, prejudiced them.
“So do my own species, ambassador.” Amren reminded him, voice calm and affable. “Are we savages to you?”
The Kwmbwrw wisely chose to maintain a diplomatic silence, but fidgeted sulkily in his seat, and the gathered dignitaries refrained from further conversation until the door opened and the station’s security director introduced the human.
“Doctor Anees Hussein, ambassadors.”
The ambassadors rose from their seats in a mark of respect as the human limped in and looked around with a faint smile, hands trembling slightly as he rested them on his cane. “Well. Thank you for the warm reception.” he said.
“We have much to discuss.” the Corti ambassador said. As founding members of, and indisputably the most influential members of, the Dominion, it was a tradition for the Directorate’s ambassador to speak first on such occasions. “But welcome, Doctor. This day has been sooner in coming than in the history of any other species yet known to us, and is all the more wonderful for it. Earth has already made big waves among the interstellar community, and we are keen to see what more your people are capable of.”
There was a general murmuring of agreement, and the security director respectfully escorted the human to his own desk, diplomatically arranged as part of the circle, rather than in the interrogative middle of the room.
“To business, then.” the doctor said. “If I may say a few words?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent.”
He stood up again, resting himself gently against the table and selecting one of his notes with that same trembling hand. He fastidiously opened a pair of reading glasses, set them on his nose, lifted the note up to peer at it, and then nodded, satisfied.
"ahem"
"Ultimatum from hunters: demand all humans be turned over else quote Swarm of Swarms endquote will raid known human locations. All ships, stations carrying human passengers advised: jettison immediately."
In the ringing silence, he set the paper down and gently tweaked it until its edges and corners were flush with its fellows. He took off his reading glasses, meticulously folded them, and set them carefully on top of his notes, before looking up and skewering them all with a hard glare that bore no relationship whatsoever to the kindly sparkle his eyes had held only moments before.
“I think, ambassadors…” he said “…that we are owed an explanation.”
Chapter 11
Chapter 08: “Alternatives” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Three years and ten days after the Vancouver Attack
Portland, Oregon
click
Once the lights were on, it wasn’t hard to find the TV remote: it was placed carefully on the bed, exactly where a traveller checking in for the night would see it. Terri dropped her bags, picked it up and channel surfed, pausing when she recognised a famous mustached physicist.
"…thing I don’t get is that this… shield, barrier, whatever, is supposed to stop things from moving through it, right?"
"That’s right, yes."
"It’s like a solid wall in space."
"Exactly! In fact it effectively IS a solid wall in space, just made out of nothing but the same electrostatic repulsion that makes… this table solid, or my hand solid."
Satisfied, she checked that the door was shut and the curtains closed, before she shrugged her jacket off, and hung it on the hooks by the door.
"…station get here then? Did it just warp through the wall? That’s not much of a wall."
"So there are… it looks like there are two ways to get from A to B faster than light. The first one’s the warp drive mounted on Pandora, right? But the SECOND one was actually theorized by Albert Einstein and Nathan Rosen in 1935…"
Satisfaction shifted to interest and she turned the volume up as she took advantage of the hotel’s expense by starting to fill the huge bathtub with the hottest water the faucet could provide.
"Wormholes, right? I think that was on Star Trek."
She retrieved a few cosmetic essentials from her travelling case and soon a bath bomb was crackling and hissing in the water, and filling her nostrils with the scents of grapefruit and bergamot.
"…upshot is that when you travel through one of these things, the intervening space doesn’t matter. you just go from A to Z without passing through B, C, D and so on along the way!"
"So the barrier doesn’t matter to this thing."
"Exactly. Now, the reason we can’t use it to get out is because these bridges collapse pretty much instantly unless they’ve got a field generator at both ends."
The bath could be left to its own devices for the time being. Terri stood and stripped off her shirt. The garment had been sweaty and uncomfortable for the last couple of hours, and she sighed in honest relief as she was able to throw it into an undignified heap at the foot of the bed.
"…without somebody on the outside helping us get out."
"Okay, now… there’s been a lot of talk about how our gravity is supposedly much higher than the norm out there…"
"Yes."
"So are we likely to be that much stronger than everything out there?"
"Okay, so, from what we’ve been told, Earth is both larger and denser than the average “temperate” world. Now, if you’re both larger AND denser, then that means you have more gravity, and in our case it’s about thirty percent higher than what we’re told is the average."
Terri struggled out of her jeans as Bill Maher angled his head and made a skeptical tooth-sucking sound.
"Thirty percent doesn’t sound like that much to me."
"Small changes can make a huge difference. If the Earth was just half as big again as it actually is, we would never have been able to launch rockets at all, let alone ones strong enough to carry space stations and people into orbit. Earth is probably pretty close to being about as big as you can get and still send crews of people into space."
"What does that have to do with muscles?"
"Well, it might have tipped us over the point where evolution would select for one specific KIND of muscle, or something like that. That’s not really… you know, I’m interested in it all, but the stuff I’m most interested in is astrophysics, and what these new technologies can teach us about things like dark energy."
As the Real Time panel fell to discussing the politics of the situation, egged on occasionally by their host’s snide observations, Terri discarded her underwear and stepped into the bath, hissing and gritting her teeth as she gingerly lowered herself into the slightly-too-hot water.
She largely ignored the rest of the debate and the panel’s observations as she luxuriated in the feeling of too many hours of freeway travel being cooked away, emerging only once she was thoroughly soaked and relaxed.
"…finally New Rule, Rylee Jackson is not a sex symbol."
She arched her eyebrow as an assortment of dismayed noises emerged from the crowd. Maher basked in the controversy for a second, before launching into the meat of his closing statement. She sat on her towel on the end of the bed drying her hair, and listened.
“Business as usual on Earth…” she muttered.
Cimbrean
"Unidentified vessel, you are entering private space. Halt immediately and identify yourself or you will be destroyed."
Kirk halted immediately. The threat was, unbeknownst to the being that had made it, a hollow one: he had come in on a vector which provided him the option of boosting to FTL straight away in the event of aggression, and there wasn’t a weapon in the galaxy that could have caught them had he done so.
Still, it didn’t pay to antagonize the people you were there to see. Especially not when the people in question were a privateer band led by the self-styled “Space Babe Pirate Queen” of the Far Reaches.
Kirk had been aware of Jennifer Delaney for months. In fact, he knew quite a lot about her. The dead-end IT job in Belfast, the unfortunate fate of the crew of the starship Blue Encounter, and her…unique…deal with the Dominion who were turning a blind eye to space piracy in her particular case so long as she directed her attacks exclusively at the Celzi Alliance.
Privateering, it was called. A human concept, which was rapidly turning Delaney into a major player. More major than she herself suspected, probably.
It had certainly net her a private planet, in the form of Cimbrean. A total backwater in the heart of the Far Reaches, Cimbrean’s only valuable trait was its isolation. Even for the incredibly fast Sanctuary the nearest civilization was Gaoian territory, five days away. And the Gaoians were themselves still a peripheral civilization.
Given that isolation meant being vulnerable to pirate attacks or Hunter raids, Cimbrean’s remoteness should not have been a selling point at all. Still, it had somehow apparently attracted an enterprising corporate director with more money than sense who had decided that the place would make for an appropriately opulent private retreat.
Now, that private palace out in the middle of nowhere was the base of operations for the most successful pirate band in known galactic history. Kirk didn’t know the details of that story, and didn’t want to. Ideally, he would have preferred to leave Delaney alone--There was no damsel in distress here, the woman was clearly dangerous and if she wanted to return to Earth then she had the resources to do so herself.
But successfully returning twenty-one refugee abductees to Earth had come with a mission. Allied Extrasolar Command and the Global Representative Assembly had both identified a possible opportunity in Delaney, and it fell to Kirk as humankind’s only active agent outside the quarantine field to deliver the message.
They wanted to turn Cimbrean into the human race’s first colony.
The twenty-second refugee and the only one still aboard was Darragh Houston, a fellow Belfast lad who’d obviously been quite taken with the idea of the redheaded space pirate queen and had volunteered to stay on Sanctuary so that he could join Delaney. Apparently just seeing Earth again, from orbit, was good enough for him. Even Allison had gone back to catch up with some old friends and take a vacation. The ship felt badly empty without them.
More so, in light of that approach challenge. It was just as belligerent as he’d feared, and the presence of one skinny naive young man wasn’t really helping Kirk feel reassured.
Hopefully Darragh’s plan was more solid than his motives. “Complying, Cimbrean colony, Yacht Sanctuary, coming to full stop."
“Sanctuary, state your business.”
“I have a message for Jennifer Delaney,” Kirk told them.
“There is nobody here by that name, Sanctuary,” the Cimbrean operator lied.
“Understood, Cimbrean. My mistake. But just on the off-chance that somebody of that name should show up in the near future, would you please tell her that Captain Kirk is asking: “What’s the craic?”
There was a long pause.
“…Sanctuary, you will hold position.”
“Complying, Cimbrean.”
There was a much, much longer pauser.
“…Sanctuary, you are cleared to land. Do not deviate from your assigned landing trajectory.”
“Thank you, Cimbrean. Proceeding to land.”
Beside him, Darragh laughed. “Told you our space pirate lass couldn’t resist that one!” he gloated.
Kirk chirruped a half-hearted, nervous laugh with him. “Just… be sure that she gets that letter.” he said. “A lot is depending on you, Darragh.”
“Aye, I will… hey, I’ll miss you, Kirk. You’ve been good to us.”
“You will be okay?” A couple of interceptors had come up to guide them in, and by their lines they were cut-down, repurposed Hunter vessels. They looked decidedly menacing.
“I think we all will, so long as this place stays below the Great Hunt’s radar.”
“Well, my next mission is to try and pull some strings in that regard.” Kirk said, as the Sanctuary nosed up and deployed its landing gear.
“Beats the feck out of me why you’re going against your own Dominion like this, man.”
The landing finished with a gentle bump.
“… because the Dominion only mattered to me when I didn’t understand it.” Kirk told him. “Good luck, Darragh. I will miss you too.”
“You too, mate. Be safe.”
He left, and Kirk was left to reflect on just how empty the Sanctuary would feel without any human occupants.
Hopefully, that would soon change.
Cape Town
Doctor Hussein could imagine the thousands of cellphones turned upwards to catch a glimpse of the ambassadorial shuttle coming in to land. The Provincial Capital had sold a prime plot of land on the mountainside to the Global Representative and had thereby become Africa’s answer to the UN in New York.
While an architect’s design had been selected and the groundwork for the Assembly building had already been laid, it would probably be nearly a year before it was finished, so for now the Global Ambassador’s office was rented in the Portside Tower. The building sadly was not equipped to handle the needs of an intrasystem shuttle, necessitating a hangar at the airport and a limousine commute under escort, flanked by burly black SUVs.
Fortunately, the limousine had been outfitted to handle a conference call with the ten highest-ranking Assembly members, so there was no interruption to business.
“The Gaoians are a definite ally.” he said. “They tried to approach me unofficially via Captain Jackson. As for the rest, while I think we have most of them sufficiently impressed and intimidated for the time being, the Corti ambassador has a very cool head. He will be the most difficult target for our aggressive approach, and his Directorate is easily the most politically powerful. He will probably be able to temper the reactions of the others.”
The British member was a floppy-haired man who had earned his position by cultivating a popular image as something of a buffoon, an approach which had declawed his aristocratic accent into a harmless eccentricity. In private sessions and meetings, however, he allowed his whip-smart side to come through, and right now was nodding thoughtfully.
“We still have a few tricks up our sleeves.” he commented. “It’d be a shame to use one of them so early, but if we need to…”
The Chinese member - once General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China - indicated his agreement. “These privateers have given us a wonderful bargaining chip, if we care to use it.”
The former US Secretary of State frowned, skeptically. “It’s early days yet, shouldn’t we hold on to that one for later?”
“That particular chip may be time-limited.” Hussein mused. “And if we are being aggressive, then we need to keep up the pressure.”
“It’s potentially dangerous to our agent…” objected the British member.
“We shall just have to trust him.” Hussein asserted. “In any case, no great gains are made without risk.”
“And if he succeeds, it will be the move most likely to disrupt the Corti ambassador’s cool….”
“…Or else render his cool irrelevant. As you say, Madame Chancellor. Shall we vote?”
There was a general show of hands.
“Then it’s settled. The next time our agent gets in contact, we’ll have him make the approach.”
Three years and twelve days after the Vancouver Attack
San Diego, California
Terri’s phone played the sound of a door opening just as she took the off-ramp down onto 17th Street, which was not encouraging. The noise came from a home security app she had purchased which told her if her apartment door was opened when her phone wasn’t at home.
She stopped on Logan Avenue long enough to grab the well-maintained Colt 1911 and her concealed-carry license from the lockbox in the trunk where she had hidden them under the spare wheel for the drive through Canada, then, heart pounding, finished the short drive into Grant Hill.
Rather than take the front door, she parked a little way from apartment and, with care, ghosted up the fire escape as quietly as she could. A quick glance through the bedroom window showed no sign of an intruder, so - praying that after a few weeks of her absence it would still slide up quietly - she opened the window. To her relief, it whispered open and she was able to step silently through onto her memory-foam mattress and from there fold her feet down onto the floor without making any noise.
The rest of the apartment was open-plan. She hesitated for a moment thinking about whether to enter slowly and quietly, or burst in and strike the fear of a loaded gun into any trespassers. The thought belatedly occurred to her that a camera and an app to watch it from her phone would have really helped right now.
"Fuck it" she whispered to herself, and went with the “burst in” approach.
She shouldered the door, crashed into the room, and, sensing his presence out of the corner of her eye, pointed her gun directly at “Mr. Johnson”, who was sitting on her couch, a gun of his own aimed at the front door. He had his right foot crossed onto his leg and his spare arm across the back of the couch, looking relaxed and arrogant.
That changed instantly when he looked up at her and his eyes dropped to her handgun.
“Ah. Well. This is awkward.” he said.
Suicidally, stupidly, he tried to shoot her anyway.
They were his last words.
Three years and two months after the Vancouver Attack
Earth-Luna L3 Point
“Mission Control, Pandora, checkpoint reached, over."
"Five by five, Pandora. ESDAR says… 0.2% deviation, over."
“Roger, Control. PARANAV agrees zero point two, over.”
"ERB-2 is green, I have go code from the package: open the door, over."
“Wilco.”
For the second time, Rylee reflected that jump drives really should look a little more impressive. She watched closely this time and saw a faint shimmer as the leading edge of the spatial distortion wavered the great dust fields of the Milky Way like heat haze, but that was about it. Otherwise, a space station materialized in front of her. This one wasn’t the elegant white needle of Embassy-172, but was instead a little more ornate and decorative. Less Minimalism, more Art Deco.
Communications were established as soon as they had injected correctly into the L2 point. "Jump complete. Our thanks, Pandora." they sent.
“You’re welcome, Embassy. On behalf of the nations of Earth, welcome to Sol.”
"Thank you. The Celzi Alliance is honoured to be here."
Chapter 12
Chapter 09: “Gains and Losses” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Three years and one month AV
500 West Hotel, San Diego, California, United States of America
"…in a prepared statement, the President of the Russian Federation declared that his country would have no part in what he called “the Western monopoly” on space travel, A sentiment echoed by the People’s Republic of China in their own statement just three hours later."
"Meanwhile the Japanese Aerospace Exploration Agency, JAXA, announced today that the first atmospheric test-flight of their own space plane, codenamed “Inazuma” has been a success, and that the new craft will be attempting to make orbit in a flight scheduled for next week."
"With rumours abounding that several South American nations are in talks to form their own unified space agency, not to mention the fledgling private endeavours of Virgin, Red Bull, Mitsubishi, Google and BAE Systems, It seems that the second Space Race has begun in earnest."
"Joining me on the show tonight is British science fiction author…
♪♫WOOOP WOOOP that’s the sound of tha police! WOOOP WOOOP that’s the sound of tha beast! WOOOP WO-♫♪
+click+
“Terri Boone. Good afternoon, detective.”
She’d taken an immediate liking to the homicide detective who’d attended the scene. Gabriel Ares, a by-the-book type who was packing quite a lot of wiry strength into his short frame. The man was shorter than Terri, and Terri was only average height at best. but he’d ran a practiced eye over Terri’s apartment and immediately declined to arrest her so long as she kept the SDPD informed as to her whereabouts.
“Good afternoon, Miss Boone. I thought you’d want to know that the department is satisfied you acted in self-defense and seeing as you’ve obeyed the terms we set, we won’t be prosecuting.”
“Good, because I was getting antsy sitting around in a hotel when an organisation I’ve worked for is trying to kill me.” Terri pulled the towel off her hair and started to shrug into her jacket one-handed. She had no intention of staying in the hotel a moment longer than necessary.
“Yeah… look, Miss Boone, we simply have no evidence that this guy ever worked for anybody other than himself.”
“You checked his office?”
“The landlord of the address you gave swears that the guy who attacked you was the sole user of that office except for business guests. No other registered employees, and we can find no evidence of any business associates. If he’s a member of some conspiracy or organisation, then there’s just no evidence pointing to it. I’m sorry, but without any evidence I can’t turn department resources to investigating your claims. We’ve done everything we reasonably can.”
“That doesn’t strike you as odd that a guy who describes himself as a “business network consultant” didn’t have any easy-to-follow business associates?”
“It strikes me as a lot odd, yeah. But it’s not enough to launch an investigation over. Lo siento.”
“…Fine. You’ve got enough to worry about.” Terri knew that the way she phrased that could be construed as bitter, but she honestly wasn’t. Fortunately, Detective Ares seemed to either be good enough at judging tone of voice via phone call to get that, or jaded enough not to care.
“You’re a P. I., right?” he asked.
“Right…”
“Go ahead and investigate this on your own terms. If you turn up anything solid, you’ve got my number, and… Well. Stay safe and let me know how you get on.”
"Gracias, detective."
“De nada. Stay safe, Miss Boone. Hasta luego”
Terri grabbed her bags and took the stairs down to the reception desk. The outcome had been pretty much exactly what she expected, so all she was left with now was the question she had been mulling over for five days.
<+Why on Earth would a list of alien abductees be worth killing over?+>
Three years and three months AV
Bulford ECTC, Salisbury Plain, England.
“Fall in!”
They did so, instantly. Every man in the unit was a volunteer, taken from all around the English-speaking world without regard for their previous unit. Every single one was special forces.
“Today marks your first session training for combat in prevalent extraterrestrial conditions. We’re going to start slow with an obstacle course, and work our way up to live-fire over the next week. By the end of this training program, you will have gained the skills and knowledge useful in moving effectively in low-gravity environments, and will have learned to identify and react appropriately to the catalogue of known potential nonhuman contacts. Completing this training will certify you for off-world missions, some of which will be of indefinite duration. If anybody wishes to back out, say so now and it will not be held against you.”
None did. They had all already gone through far worse just to get where they were, and taken far more dangerous assignments during their careers. Their instructor waited a moment or two before nodding his approval, and then gave a thumbs-up to the control room mounted high along one of the tall inside walls of the ECTC hangar.
He flexed his knees and absorbed the sudden change in gravity with practiced familiarity, resisting a smirk as the spec-ops veterans all staggered, swayed or exclaimed aloud at the difference.
“Line up! When I blow my whistle you will run that obstacle course, best time!”
Several minutes, bumped heads, scraped elbows and bruised egos later, the last of the veterans flew off the end of the last rope and trotted to a halt awkwardly, instincts undone by the lower gravity. While all had, to their credit, managed exceptional times, not a single one had completed the course with their dignity completely intact.
That was okay.
“This first run was planned to destroy any illusions you may have had about knowing what you’re doing.” the instructor said. “You have spent your life training for Earth’s gravity, which is thirty percent higher than the off- world norm. That thirty percent makes a surprising difference, as you have just learned. Every instinct you have about how to move, how long you have to react and what you can achieve is wrong. Forget them and start over. Any questions?”
There were some, which were promptly answered to everyone’s satisfaction.
“Right! Back to the start: we’re going again and if any man here fails to beat the time he just set, the whole unit is doing a hundred pushups in double gravity! Move!”
To his grudging satisfaction, no pushups were necessary. But they still had a long way to go.
Planet Nightmare
Summer was coming. Over the years, Julian Etsicitty had learned to view summer on this hellscape the same way winter might be viewed back home - the good times were over for another year. Soon - too soon - he’d be out of the season of plenty, where hardy nuts and roots and hibernating animals were easily dug out from beneath the snow and frozen ground, and into the season of explosive growth.
Back to mornings and dusks spent lurking under two layers of mosquito netting. Back to checking his boots for venomous biting things that had found a nice dark place to make their nest and spawn a new generation of tiny monsters. Back to spending his days desperately slashing back at the encroaching greenery around his camp, doing nothing but keeping back a wall of vegetation that grew so quickly you could see it.
Hopefully, at long last, there would be no bombfruit bushes this time around. He thought he had killed them all: It was hard to tell, when the fruit literally exploded and sent its seeds flying everywhere. He had been very lucky indeed to survive the woody shrapnel of his first encounter with bombfruit, and the scar down his right forearm was a constant reminder not to take anything on Nightmare for granted.
Sure, calories and vitamins weren’t hard to come by in the summer months, so there was that saving grace. It was a wonderful time to prepare jerky by the fire for the rest of the year, to dry fruits to ward off scurvy until the next growing season. There was a lot of work to do in the summer, all of it physically demanding, and all of it in sweltering heat.
He was determined to enjoy the last few quiet weeks of snow and silence while he could, so had made himself a warm fruit juice when the sound rolled over the forest and hills: the unmistakable noise of a sonic boom.
he paused, tense, and then rushed to his hut and grabbed, from its special stash above the bed, the “rescue potential” kit. A flare gun, a shaving mirror, the solar-charged two-way radio.
He emerged into the clear ground around his camp not a moment too soon. A teardrop of steel and matte black was just emerging from behind the peak he’d named “Mount Fuck You” for the way it stood much taller than the three mountains that flanked it.
He raised the gun, and shot the flare high into the sky over the forests.
He almost collapsed with relief when the ship immediately changed course toward him.
++
"Hello, Julian. Welcome aboard."
“Uh… hello.” He replied, nonplussed at the absence of a welcoming party on the door.
"I’m sorry for not greeting you in person, but I suspect that standing in your presence right now would prove fatal for me. You’re setting off a lot of biohazard alarms up here…"
“I am?”
“I’m afraid so. Decontamination won’t take long, fortunately, and the good news is you’ll feel thoroughly clean once we’re done. Would you be so good as to dispose of your clothes in the incinerator to your left?*”
Julian practically rushed to comply. The thought of feeling clean for the first time in who-knew how long was incentive enough.
He paused at the idea of throwing away the predator-tooth necklace he’d made, though. or the carved wooden beads that were on it. He had worked long and hard on those, they were unique.
"If there are any items you wish to keep, there is an autoclave on the front wall." the voice said.
Having heard that, Julian needed nothing more, and was soon standing naked in the middle of the chamber, a little surprised at how unselfconscious he was about it. “What now?”
A device - little more than a black dome mounted in some kind of white frame on the wall - glowed blue at him for a second.
"Checking… okay, you’re good to proceed into the next room." The door slid into the floor, revealing a slightly less sterile-seeming room on the far side. The threshold had a strange golden haze to it, but Julian didn’t let that bother him.
“Wow!” he exclaimed, coming to a halt as soon as he’d passed it.
"Feel strange?"
“It did.” His teeth were abnormally clean, the crawling, itching sensation in his hair and beard to which he had acclimatized was gone, the hair and beard themselves were clean and soft and his skin felt scrubbed. His body odour suddenly became conspicuous in its absence.
"You had rather a lot of parasites. They’re gone now including, you’ll be happy to know, the ones that were threatening your liver function. There are clean clothes in the nanofactory’s dispensary hopper to your right."
Clean clothes!
They were a strange, neutral kind of cut - little more than a T-shirt, tracksuit pants and a pair of remarkably generic-looking boots - but they fit him perfectly, and they felt so very, VERY good.
“So… who are you?” He asked to the walls as he put them on.
“Most humans call me Kirk.” the voice said. “And yes, I’ve watched Star Trek, so I understand the joke.”
“I never did.” Julian confessed, noting the most humans bit. “We didn’t have a TV.”
"Yes, I’ve read your file. The Directorate wanted a wilderness survival expert who was low-profile enough to be missed: a remarkably rare thing to find in any civilization."
“Lucky me.”
"You should be proud. You’ve set a record for surviving on Nightmare that nobody else could have."
“Can I go home now?”
"…I wish I could. I truly to. But there have been… complications."
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
"I knew you wouldn’t. Nobody ever does. Why don’t you come up to the common room, and I’ll brief you?"
“And after that?”
"After that, I’ll be asking for your help."
Three years and four months AV
Cape Canaveral, Florida
“Here she comes…”
Pandora’s engines were a low rushing sound like waves breaking against distant cliffs as she passed low over the facility. They went completely silent as she circled briefly and then set down on the concrete, lifting herself only on the shaped fields of her ESFALS module until her wheels kissed the hardtop. She was promptly surrounded by technicians who began the laborious checklist to ensure that she would be worthy to fly again.
Rylee Jackson took the ladder and patted the aircraft fondly before she strolled over towards the waiting entourage, stripping off her gauntlets.
“So you’re the new… oh, Danny! You made it!”
Danny Cho smiled at Rylee. The pair of them had served in the same wing over the middle east, and firm though sporadic friends, both married more to their jobs than to actual people.
“sure did.” he said. “I’ll be flying Ariadne."
Rylee shook hands with him then shared introductions with the other four pilots: Carys Davies, formerly of the RAF, flying Niobe, Steve Hogan formerly of the Royal Australian Air Force, flying Medea, and James Carter and Adam Kosinski, both ex-USAF, flying Electra and Danae respectively. Collectively, Odyssey WIng. Another wing of five Lockheed TS-101s - the vehicle for which Pandora herself had been the prototype - was being delivered to Europe to form the foundation of Edda Wing - Baldur, Dagur, Freyja, Magni and Skadi, but they wouldn’t be ready for another few weeks yet, and there was talk of establishing a wing in the southern hemisphere called Tāwhaki Wing.
Between them, the Russian, Chinese and Japanese efforts, plus private campaigns, Rylee suspected that her sky was going to start filling up before long. It was a bittersweet thought.
“Did you hear Red Bull got their prototype up?” Danny asked, as they walked in a loose group to the hangar.
“I didn’t!”
“Too busy swapping notes with an alien raccoon?” He teased.
“Hey, he’s a friend, lay off. But Red Bull? Seriously? I would have thought Virgin Galactic or SpaceX…”
“Red Bull had their eye on space ever since they sponsored Felix Baumgartner.” Davies said. Rylee decided that she liked her accent, which was soft and melodic, but still had a bit of workmanlike grit. “And things have got cheaper since then thanks to ESAFS. I think after that crash Virgin had a few years ago they’ve been playing things very carefully.”
They stepped through the slightly ajar hangar door and Rylee couldn’t suppress her smile at seeing five more _Pandora_s waiting inside.
Except not quite. On closer inspection, they were just a little more polished: Less prototype, more production model. Her girl was still unique.
“Did they go FTL?” She asked.
“Yep! just a little jaunt out to Ceres and back.” Danny told her.
“Think they’ll set anything up out there?” asked Kosinski.
Davies scoffed. “Somebody needs to, or we’re never going to get the property laws sorted out."
“I guess we should just be glad that the whole “no weapons in space” thing was repealed,” Rylee mused.
The thus-far silent Carter raised an eyebrow “How d’you figure?”
“Well, you realise that the barrier’s a casus belli, right? The GRA’s been pretty clear that they consider the demilitarization of space to be short- sighted in view of some of the threats that are out there."
“Makes sense, I guess…” Carter conceded. “Not sure I like it.”
“Get used to it, wagon.” she teased. “Because getting some weapons in place up there is going to be Odyssey Wing’s first mission.”
Three years and six months AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility.
“And the jammer is… live.”
Nobody in the room needed to be told that. Every single one felt, rather than heard, a highly pitched keening that seemed to bypass actual sound and become an immediate feature of their audible world.
“That… puts my teeth on edge.” Martin Tremblay declared.
“Sorry, General.”
“It’s fine, Major, just get this demonstration underway.” Tremblay ordered. Bartlett nodded and swiftly complied.
“Simple enough, we open a wormhole and….” he looked across to his colleague on the other side of the laboratory as the vacuum chamber in front of him became a visibly distorted knot of isolated spacetime distortions, bending the light that passed through it in disconcerting ways. “Anything?”
“Not a whisper.” the scientist reported.
Bartlett shut the jammer off and everybody in the room untensed just a little.
“At less than ten meters, and that was a stable connection without any harmonic damping.” He announced. “We’ve cracked it: deploy one of these on any ship with a jump drive, and it’ll be able to use that drive immune to detection by out-of-system scanners. If we stick it on a warp-capable minisat, we’ll be able to completely block the detection of any FTL or wormhole activity inside the volume of effect, while the field itself will notify us of any that happens inside its ambit.”
He shut down the wormhole generator and the abused spacetime inside the test chamber sprang back into shape.
“Good, because without that, WERBS would have been a one-shot advantage.”
That comment came from Major-General Gregory Pierce, Tremblay’s superior and the man most directly responsible for deciding which of the Scotch Creek facility’s incredible discoveries were Canadian national secrets, which were shared among NATO members, and which went global.
“As you say, sir. But now that we’ve got this, a test run shouldn’t be difficult.” Bartlett agreed.
“Not in Sol.” Tremblay said. “Jammer or not, we should be careful.”
Pierce considered this. “Cimbrean?”
“We don’t even know if that colony is still alive, and even if it is we really don’t want WERBS linked to a human organization, especially not one that officially doesn’t exist, sir.” Bartlett said. “There are plenty of uninhabited systems out there, we just need a beacon to get to one of them.”
“This isn’t one I feel comfortable sharing outside of the Treaty nations, gentlemen, and the Agent works for the GRA.”
“Well, it’s either that or WERBS goes untested.” Bartlett said. “Heaven help us if we have to rely on an untested weapon for real, eh?”
“…I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you’ll be pleased to know that the dragon’s teeth microsats have been successfully deployed. Edda Wing got the last canister up this morning.”
“That’s step one, then.” Tremblay said. “How did the Asians take it?”
“Russia condemned the move, obviously.” Pierce told them. “In private, though: Thankfully they weren’t stupid enough to publicly condemn us and leak what Dragon’s Teeth actually does. The Chinese are yet to officially comment, but the scuttlebutt there is that they understand the practicality of the Dragon’s Teeth system but would have preferred to play a more active role in its deployment.”
“Gracious of them.”
“Eh, leave the politics to the politicians.” Pierce said, dismissing the sarcasm. “You’re doing good work round he- damn.”
He paused as the office phone rang. Tremblay answered it, listened for a second, and then wordlessly handed it to his superior.
“Pierce.” This was followed shortly by “…what.”
Those two words set the general tone of a three minute conversation that ended with the general hanging up and looking thoroughly angry.
“The Russian Federation just declared for the Celzi Alliance.” he said.
Tremblay frowned “They can do that?”
“Apparently they’ve not only done that, but they’ve been giving practical support to the Alliance in the form of a Spetsnaz team.” PIerce said. “I should get back. We need to move fast and sound out the PRC before they make their own declaration.” he shook his head. “If I were the Ambassador, I’d be livid.”
Embassy-172
Doctor Anees Hussein was, in fact, actually quite pleased about the situation, though he affected an air of disappointment as he stepped into the ambassadorial debate chamber aboard E-172.
The usual formalities were completed soon. The aliens were as keen to get started as he was.
It was the Kwmbwrw ambassador who spoke first: “Ammbassador Hussein, This is grave news indeed for us. It would seem that your political blocs are not behaving obediently.”
“I did warn you." Hussein replied, calmly unfolding his reading glasses to examine a sheet of paper. “Let’s see… yes, my exact words were that “the GRA acts only as nominal representation of the nations of Earth who will undoubtedly plot their own courses by their own values if they do not see what benefit the GRA brings them”
He set the paper down. “By which, gentlebeings, and in case I was not adequately clear when I said that, I meant that ANY nation, treaty, alliance or other one of our political entities might decide the same. The GRA does not rule, it represents by consent, and could be dissolved overnight if the nations so chose.”
What he left unsaid, but knew would be snaking treacherously through the gathered Ambassadorial minds, was the implication: If Russia might do that, what’s stopping the rest of us?
That implication alone was enough for most of the Ambassadors, and he settled back to steer the slow collapse of their resolve. As ever, they assured and reassured him of just how much of the Dominion’s vast resources might be owed to Earth.
Much of which, in fairness, had already started to arrive. Solar collection forcefield technology was on the cusp of revolutionizing Earth’s energy industry in ways that all other solar power tech had only hinted at. The last piece of the quantum-computing puzzle had been a collective headslap for the experts in that field. The Corti Directorate had - reluctantly and with bad grace - been strong-armed into revealing the secret by which the human immune system could be tricked into tolerating the presence of foreign cybernetic implants without weakening.
This last concession had particularly irked the Directorate’s ambassador. He in particular was a nut had persisted in being more difficult to crack than the others, and became more so with every meeting.
Doctor Hussein was beginning to suspect that the Corti wasn’t even bothering to remain unemotional any more. In fact, he suspected, the Corti was gladly simmering in a building resentment of, and hatred for, the whole of the human race.
He watched as the little grey being examined a message that had apparently just arrived for him, and then met Hussein’s eye. Anees decided that the expression on the ambassador’s face was that of grim satisfaction, as if an obstacle or irritation had been dealt with.
They were beginning to enter some dangerous territory. It would not do to be too aggressive from here on out.
Date Point: 3 years and 6 months AV
San Diego, California, USA, Earth
brrrrrp. brrrrrp. brrr-
“-Detective Gabriel Ares.”
“Ares, it’s Terri Boone here. Remember me?”
“Sure do. Que pasa, how’s your investigation getting on?
“long and dull, I’m sure you know how they are…”
Terri shouldered the door open, wishing not for the first time that she could linger in the air-conditioned office building just a little longer. The air in the courtyard parking space out back felt hot enough to bake bread.
“…I’ve found something interesting. A law firm called Grey, Stanton and Friedman.”
“They’re not criminal or business lawyers or I’d know them.” Ares said.
“No, they’re civil rights lawyers, but their finances - don’t ask me what I had to do to track this down - are handled by the same firm that did accounting for Johnson. I just tried to look them up - and that wasn’t easy - and their address doesn’t rent to a company by that name, never has.”
“Suspicious, but…”
Terri sighed as she fumbled for her car keys in an awkward, one-handed and one-elbowed manoeuvre familiar to any woman who ever simultaneously tried to operate both her phone and her handbag.
“Detective, They tried to kill me over a list of alien abductees still extant from Earth. Stanton Friedman is a UFOlogist who was the original investigator of the Roswell incident and “Grey” is-”
Mr. Johnson stepped around the corner. It WAS him, there could be no doubt, right down to the neatly tailored suit and the suave facial hair. He was holding an assault rifle.
“Fuck!” she yelled, and dove for the cover of her car. Johnson opened fire, winging her with a round through the calf.
“Boone! Where are you!” Ares yelled, loud enough to hear despite the phone being on the ground next to her. She shouted the address at it as she dug through her handbag for her m1911, cowering against the engine block as Johnson emptied the magazine.
<+How? How the FUCK?! I KILLED him!+>
He stopped firing, and she hauled herself up and around to shoot back, only to be confronted with an awful truth.
The assault rifle had a grenade launcher on it.
This revelation arrived only a shaved instant before the grenade itself turned her car into a fireball and a blizzard of steel shards.
Terri was thrown halfway across the lot. She tried to get up, to keep fighting, amazed to be alive, and looked down for her gun.
There was so much less of her than there should be. There was so much more of her than there should be, pieces that God had never intended to see the light of day.
<+No…+>
It was a sad, desperate thought, and it was her last one. When Johnson walked up and calmly fired a round through her skull for certainty’s sake, Terri Boone’s corpse didn’t even twitch.
Chapter 13
Chapter 10: Legwork | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Three years and six months AV
San Diego, California
In his career with the San Diego PD, Gabriel Ares had seen more than his fair share of death, and the common thread with homicide was that none were dignified. It was an act of violation that still made his skin crawl, even after twenty years.
This one was particularly difficult, knowing that it could have possibly been prevented if only he hadn’t followed the rules.
But that was dangerous thinking and he knew it. Gabriel had seen enough cop movies to know that Hollywood preferred the maverick, the rule-breaker, the loose cannon. But in real police work, you worked by the book to the letter, or else guilty men went free on a technicality. There was no room for renegade action in his definition of a Good Cop, and Gabriel had grown up from a young second-generation Mexican-American surrounded to the north and south by the lure of gangs and drug warfare, and had decided very early on that he’d be a Good Cop instead.
On days like today, that was a decision he almost regretted. It meant he had to deal with shit like this.
With news helicopters circling overhead and a clamour of journalists beyond the tape and uniforms, Terri Boone’s body had been covered over out of concern for the deceased’s dignity. But there was no way to disguise the huge dark smear of sun-dried blood across the parking lot, or the fact that covering her remains had involved several pieces of cloth.
Forensics were picking over every inch of the lot, accounting for every bullet hole, every shell casing, every grenade fragment, every scrap of sundered Ford Mustang. The lot was a forest of little yellow markers, swept inch-by-bloody- inch by men and women in white disposable clothing, meticulously photographing and documenting it to a fare-thee-well.
The Forensics lead - Doctor Schieffer - approached him as he leaned against his SUV, taking it all in.
“Progress.” he reported.
“You’ve established a cause of death?” Gabriel joked, resorting to his trademark callous black humour that indicated when he was truly upset. Fortunately, Schieffer had known him for years, and let the inappropriate comment slide.
“We found the phone.” the doctor held up an evidence bag. The little warped and shattered black lump inside was barely recognisable as having once been a smartphone. “It fetched up under that Prius over there, clean on the other side of the lot. Probably why the shooter couldn’t find it.”
"Madre de Dios… Think anything survived?"
“MicroSD cards are tough.” Schieffer reassured him. “Forget the surface damage, once we crack this thing open, we should be able to get the data off it.”
“Hopefully it brings us something.” Gabriel said, then sighed. “I’ve been putting this off. Guess I’d better go watch the security camera footage.”
“Good luck, Ares.”
It was as bad as he’d feared, and he made a point of not watching the victim’s expression in her final moments. It wasn’t relevant to the investigation, and would just give him trouble sleeping. He focused on the shooter instead.
“Mr. Johnson” stepped into the camera’s field of view and he paused the playback and raised his phone to his mouth, thumbing the “record” button on the dictaphone app. “Shooter is a caucasian male, looks to be in his mid to late 40s, about… five ten, to six foot tall, brown hair and beard…” he zoomed in. “Camera doesn’t show any notable distinguishing features. Tough guy to pick out of a crowd. Armed with an M4 carbine fitted with an M203 grenade launcher and a reflex sight and… yeah, looks like a pistol in an armpit holster. Can’t tell make and model from this image though.”
He let it play some more, pausing it when Johnson drew the pistol in question to be certain of his kill. “Okay, pistol looks like a… SIG Sauer P220, or maybe 227. Hopefully ballistics will be able to work with that.”
He watched as the shooter cast around for the missing cellphone, then glanced up and stared at something out of shot - probably the arriving uniforms. Then he looked directly at the camera.
Gabriel was struck by just how… average his face was. Johnson really had nothing in the way of distinctive facial or physical traits. A shave and a change of clothes, and he would look completely different. He could be anybody, become anybody.
Then he vanished. Literally vanished, as Gabriel discovered when he rewound and played over the moment of disappearance frame by frame. The feed didn’t so much as flicker, there was no indication of anything at all affecting the camera. But in one frame, Johnson was present, and in the subsequent, he was gone.
“How the fuck…?" he asked, quietly.
“How the fuck?" Julian exclaimed. Kirk shrank back slightly at the volume. Six years of isolation had entirely robbed the human survivalist of an indoor voice.
“I’ve planned it all out.” he said. “You humans are fast, but the key to this plan is that you’re fast over long distances. I need somebody who could hike the Appalachian Trail, and you fit the bill and then some."
“I do?”
Kirk nodded his long-necked head. It was an impressive gesture. “You’ve survived for six years on the most dangerous planet in the known galaxy. Actually, scratch that: you thrived there. The biohazard screen did a full scan of you: you’re in peak physical condition. You could run that trail. That part’s critical."
“I’m approaching on foot, then.”
“You have to. Their sensors will pick up vehicles and dropships easily, and with their defensive coilguns… a vehicular assault isn’t possible. But the facility’s designers never reckoned on the idea that anybody could approach on foot. It’s a class eleven planet - a walk in the park next to Earth, but dangerous to the rest of us.”
“So I should just be able to jog up to the walls.” Julian sounded skeptical.
“Fence.” Kirk corrected him. He correctly interpreted Julian’s raised eyebrow and elaborated: “It’s an ultrasound fence, designed to drive off the local wildlife, but it’s not a physical obstacle at all.”
“And the actual security?"
“The usual. Maglocks, big steel shutters, lots of concrete, force fields, a garrison.” Kirk imitated a shrug, spreading his four arms wide. "Not loaded for human, by the way."
“I’m not the killing sort, Kirk.” Julian said.
“Good, neither am I. The point is that the garrison aren’t a threat to you. Avoiding them would be best, however.”
“And the concrete and steel?”
“Leave that to me. You’ll be carrying a device that should help me help you.”
“So… I run in, avoid the garrison, you work whatever magic you’ve got planned, and then I just… come back the way I came?”
“Yes.”
“Carrying a backpack full of stolen military hardware.”
“Yes.”
Julian blinked at him, slowly, then gave up. “Fine. What could go wrong?”
“Okay… that’s got it. Out you come.” the forensic computer technician wiggled his needle-nose pliers a bit and finally the MicroSD card slid out of the wreckage of what had once been a phone.
Everyone in the office gathered round as he clicked it into a reader and opened its contents on his laptop. “Okay, easy-access stuff first, we’ll find any passwords or whatever secon… wow. Hey detective, there’s a folder here called Scotch Creek."
“Open it.”
Inside were a handful of snapshots of beautiful Canadian rural terrain, and one of the technicians confirmed that they were of the area around Scotch Creek with a quick Google Street Maps search. Alongside them was a folder marked “Kevin”.
There was a general exclamation of surprise at that second folder’s contents. Gabriel rounded angrily on an officer who emitted a lecherous two-toned whistle. “This isn’t fucking porn! You’re going to fucking whistle at a dead woman’s selfies? ¡Joder! Mostrar respeto!"
The officer looked away, mumbling an apology.
“I don’t want to hear it. ¡Vete a la mierda! All of you who don’t need to be here, out."
The exodus was rapid, especially the shame-faced officer who had whistled.
Gabriel calmed himself and returned his attention to the Scotch Creek folder. Most of its content was of Terri herself, and a mixed-race guy about her age with a cross tattooed on his forearm. None of those images were modest ones. A memory of happier, sexier times, he guessed.
“Shouldn’t be too hard to track him down.” he said. “Is that name in her contacts?”
“Let’s see… yeah, here we go. Kevin Jenkins.”
“Well, even if he’s not a witness, he deserves to know. Keep digging, I’ll make the call.”
+How are you doing?+
the text appeared in the top-left corner of Julian’s vision, thanks to a pair of dark glasses that Kirk had assembled in the nanoforge, along with some camouflaged performance clothing of Julian’s own design. The alien material was several hundred years of materials science ahead of the best Terran sportswear, and he felt cool, dry and comfortable despite having jogged over rough terrain for several hours now.
The only real fly in the ointment was the breathing mask. The planet’s atmosphere was just a little bit poorer in oxygen than the galactic average, and exertion should have quickly left him gasping for breath, or maybe dying from an aneurysm. Instead, the device on his face acted as a ramscoop, using force fields to collect a larger volume of air and enrich each breath, bringing it up to a comfortable Earth temperature and humidity. If it had only been made of the same material as his running gear, he would have been fine. Unfortunately, it was made out of some silicon-based rubbery substance which, while light and strong, was also about as breathable as foil. The result was itchy and sweaty.
"making good time" he subvocalized. A patch stuck to his throat interpreted the muscular contractions and exhalation to decide what he had said - it was an all but perfectly silent way to communicate.
+I meant physically+
"Just fine. I could do this all day."
+No need. You’re approaching the three hundred meter mark+
"You’re joking"
+Hardly. Three…+
+…two…+
+…one…+
He brushed past a tree and there the rest of the forest wasn’t. Something had stripped out a perfect circle of foliage, surrounding a facility that was little more than a concrete bunker, a personnel building and a landing pad.
+You’re in range. Wait.+
Julian did so, breathing from the exercise but otherwise surprised at how much he still had in him. The Wall was a long way off, yet.
+The ultrasonic fence’s alarm is disabled… move now.+
Julian did so. He saw the patrol - three Guvnurug in their massive combat harnesses, shambling around away from him as they completed that arc of their patrol route. The sound of their own heavy footfalls made his own light steps inaudible as he dashed from shadow to shadow behind them.
+Twenty minutes before they return to this section of the perimeter.+
"This is their idea of a secure military facility?"
+It’s completely secure against all foreseeable threats. You however are an unforeseen factor, and as a result make this place look like a shopping mall.+
"Don’t amuse me."
A blue diamond - his waypoint - appeared on his heads-up display, and, checking around him for hazards with all the skill he had honed in half a decade on Nightmare, Julian slipped over to it. It was a small door in the side of the large concrete bunker building.
+the code is one, two… top left, the one immediately to the right of that, the one immediately down and right from there, same one. immediately down-right, immediately down-left.+
Julian punched in the numbers on the oversized, Guvnurug-scale pad, reflecting that he was lucky Kirk had remembered that he couldn’t read any alien written language. There was an uncomfortably loud beep and a mechanical clunk from the door lock, and he slipped inside, wedging the door with a stone just in case.
+The blue crates against the back wall, and two or three of the things from the white crates on that exo-lifter’s pallet.+
Having no idea what these things did, Julian just obeyed orders. It took him only a minute or two to stuff the ordered items into the bag he had carried all the way out here, stopping only when the weight promised to become more than he could comfortably handle on the way back.
He helped the door close silently, checked his surroundings, flitted down a corridor of darkness where one of the base’s floodlights cast the shadow of a tall structure of some kind, cast around for watching sentries again, saw none, and sprinted across the open ground back into the woods.
The heist had taken maybe five minutes. If Kirk was right, by the time anything was noticed missing, he would be back at the Sanctuary.
brrrrp, brrrrp, brr-click
“Jenkins’ bar.”
“Hi, am I speaking to Mr. Kevin Jenkins?”
“Uh, yeah, you are. What can I do for you?”
“Sir, my name is detective Gabriel Ares, of the San Diego PD.”
“San Diego? Did something happen to Terri?”
“I’m sorry to tell you like this sir, but Miss Boone was murdered this morning.”
This was met with silence.
“…sir?”
There was a series of heavy sounds over the phone: a door opening violently, the clatter of something brittle being dropped, and a heavy thumping sound.
“…I’m…. shit, that’s….”
“If you need a few minutes sir, I can call back…”
“No… No, I’m…” there was a heavy, wavering breath from the far side of the line. “…god, Terri.”
“Sir, if you have any information as to a possible motive or culprit, then I could really use that to bring her killer to justice. I know it’s not much consolation, but it’s something.”
“Yeah, uh… She left an envelope under my pillow the day she went home. Note on the outside said “Please don’t open this, K. It’s my Batman insurance.”
Ares’ heart leapt to his throat. He knew that Boone had been a competent woman, but this….
He tried to ignore the fact that it meant Terri knew her life would shortly be in danger. “Do you have the envelope now?”
“It’s upstairs. Let me…” there was a grunt of exertion, then the sound of a door opening again. The distant, tinny voice of a woman offered concern in the form of a “shit, boss, are you okay?”. Jenkins’ response was inaudible, but was followed shortly by another door sound, and feet on what sounded like hardwood steps, then the jingling of keys and another door sound.
“I left it… yeah, here it is.” There was the sound of ripping paper. “it’s a… an email address and a password. says “Google Drive” at the top.” Ares jotted them both down as they were read out, handing the note across to the forensic tech.
“Can you think of any reason why somebody would want Miss Boone dead?”
“Uh… Shit, you put me in an awkward situation here.”
“How so?” Ares asked him.
“Look man, I’m technically a contractor for the Canadian Armed Services, so I’m subject to the Official Secrets Act. I’d do anything to help you figure this shit out, but it’s probably best if I get some official permissions first, you know?”
“I understand. You’ve got my number?”
“Yeah, I can save it. Detective…. you’ll let me know when the funeral is, right? Terri and I were close.”
“I’ll put you in touch with her sister.” Ares promised. “You’ll get back to me once you have permission to discuss this further?”
“Sure. I… look, I’ll be honest here man, I’m not holding it together too well here, I just…”
“Take all the time that you need, my friend.”
“…Yeah…”
Jenkins hung up, and Ares breathed a sigh. It had been a fruitful call, but in some ways even harder than the in-person visit to Monica Williams, Terri’s sister. She had just cried and curled up on the sofa, inconsolable. He knew how to deal with that. Stoic guys like Jenkins tore him up even worse, part of him wanted to shake the tears out of them, shouting “it’s okay you idiot, you’re allowed to weep.”
It was advice that he would have heeded himself, if he could.
"Welcome back"
“So what did we steal?”
"I’ll let you know as soon as we’re clear…. there we go."
Jullian set the bag down on the coffee table in Sanctuary’s main lounge with a sigh of relief. Even in the lower gravity and on a cool day, running that far with a pack full of hardware had been exhausting, and he flopped down on the couch, even more grateful than before for the high-tech fibre clothing.
Kirk stepped down from the command blister as he was massaging his sore legs. “Incredible.” he said, and Julian got the impression that a human would have been shaking his head in admiring disbelief. “If I didn’t know about marathons, triathlons and other endurance sports, I’d have never suspected that anything could run so far so quickly. They’ll be scratching their heads over this heist for a long time.”
“So what exactly did I steal?” Julian asked him. Kirk opened the bag and set the stolen goods out on the table. Five were about the size and shape of a hard drive. the other two were larger, closer in size to a loaf of bread and football-shaped.
“These five.” he said, indicating with his smaller manipulator arms “are wormhole beacons. Military grade, which means that they suppress their own distortion signature and can’t be detected with long-range sensors.”
He picked up one of the larger objects. “The other two are system defense field generators, like the device that’s projecting the Sol Containment Field.”
“Pull the other one!” Julian exclaimed. “I’ve taken dumps bigger than those things!”
His tall employer with the coat of short white fur smiled enigmatically, and set the device down. “Why should they be large? It’s all about advanced field technology, and technological advancement usually goes hand-in-hand with miniaturization.”
“Something that small is imprisoning my entire species?”
“Far from it. Nowadays it’s protecting them. Once we get these beacons set up, human starships will be able to leave Sol whenever they want.”
“That’s phase two.”
“Phase three.” Kirk corrected him “Phase two is, we need to deliver one of these fields emitters to Cimbrean. We’re on our way there now.”
“Cimbrean?”
“There are humans there. Your government’s first beachhead in the larger galaxy, and hopefully, the first of your fair share of colonies.”
“And the other emitter?”
“That’s for my other project."
“I’m recording this in case things go as badly as I’m afraid they might… I guess if you’re watching it, they have."
Terri shifted. She had recorded the footage while sitting in the driver’s seat of her Mustang, the camera - presumably her phone - mounted on the dash in front of her and slightly to the right. It was night-time, and she was parked somewhere.
She ran her hands through her hair, accomplishing only further dishevelment, rather than any grooming.
"What I’m about to say sounds absolutely crazy. But, I guess if I’m crazy and wrong then this video’s never getting seen, and if it gets seen then that’s pretty good evidence that I’m onto something…" she laughed a little. "Which is small comfort."
"Um."
She stared out of the window for a bit. A passing car’s headlights cast moving shadows across her face as she paused.
"I’m pretty sure there are aliens on Earth." she said. "Like, they’ve been here since long before the embassies arrived. And I’m getting more and more convinced that they don’t have our best interests at heart. I’m an investigator, I go by the logical, the methodical and the evidence but… I don’t know call it a hunch, call it a bad feeling, but looking at what I’ve gathered so far, there’s a pattern in there, and it’s kind of a scary one."
She finger-combed her hair again as it fell across her eyes. She looked rumpled, worn and tense: Ares got the impression that a man in her condition would have had several days’ worth of stubble darkening his jaw.
"I got to thinking, what could a list of alien abductees be worth killing over? That’s all I did for them: Spend two years on their dime, flying first class, interviewing people, examining records, chasing leads. Legwork, you know? I’ve tracked down…. thousands of likely abductees. You learn to see the telltales after a while, the things that tell you “yes, this was THEM”, not just, like, an unhappy end in the river or in a shallow grave in the woods or something. that’s all in one of the documents, you can double-check my work I guess."
She looked up again as another car ghosted past, filling her own car with light and a soft whoosh of displaced air.
"Why could that be killing for? Why have a man in a suit waiting in my apartment with a gun? I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t safety-conscious, I’d have walked in there and been shot and nobody would be any the wiser. Robbery gone wrong maybe, I dunno, or maybe they… make it look like a rape or something. Something like that. Just another California evening."
"Was it because I gave a copy of the list to Kevin? But that doesn’t answer the question. A list of names isn’t worth shooting a girl dead in her own apartment over, it’s a termination of contract, you know? “Thank you for your valuable work Miss Boone but we will be commissioning the services of somebody more… trustworthy.” So that list is really, REALLY important. It must be."
For the first time, she looked directly at the camera. "So I went looking. I’ll… look, the details are all in this Google Drive, so I won’t bother repeating them for the camera. But I’m going to be back in San Diego tomorrow, and there’s a law firm: Grey, Stanton and Friedman. The name itself is a reference to Roswell, one of those stupid ballsy “I’ll never get caught” audacity things, I guess."
"Why am I looking into them? Ask Ravi Singh. He’s an abductee, He lives in Brick, New Jersey. Ravinder Kanvar Singh. For God’s sake get to him before my killer does, because if you don’t get to the bottom of this then a lot more people than me are going to die."
"When you find him, ask him about the Hierarchy."
Chapter 14
Chapter 11: “Direct Delivery” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Author’s note: This stage of the narrative is pretty heavily entangled in what was happening with Rantarian’s series, "Salvage“, and the character of Jen Delaney migrated from that series to this one and back again during the next few chapters.
If you have not already read “Salvage”, then now would be a good time to do so. The necessary chapters are part of the [essential reading order](https://w ww.reddit.com/r/HFY/wiki/ref/universes/jenkinsverse/essential_reading_order)
Three years and seven months AV
Alliance Embassy Station
Of all the warp-capable species in the known galaxy, perhaps the one that most resembled humans were the Qinis.
Not that anybody would ever confuse one for the other. Qinis were tall, taller even than Vzk’tk, and their slender bodies were an exercise in long, gently curving lines that made the human form look positively squat and gauche. They had large, expressive eyes set in their noseless faces above surprisingly feminine lips, and even though the eyes were slightly too wide-set and aimed apart to grant broad peripheral vision at the expense of binocular range- finding, the overall effect was, in an exotic way, actually rather appealing to the human sense of aesthetics.
Which was another way of saying that Rylee thought they were weirdly sexy. Especially when you threw in the large, pointed ears that swivelled this way and that seemingly with minds of their own.
Then there was their fashion sense. The Qinis bucked the interstellar trend by favouring clothing for more than simple utility. Practically every species at least wore a few pockets, packs, pouches and bags strapped onto their bodies, but by and large the interstellar community had zero nudity taboos: Clothing was an uncomfortable necessity when the wearer needed protection from some environmental or personal hazard, nothing more.
Only the Qinis and Gaoians seemed to differ from that general attitude, and even then, while the Gao had discovered long ago that clothing was practical and useful, they had largely constrained themselves to colourful overalls that left their shoulders bare.
The Qinis were different. They had fashion shows, trending designers and labels, the works. Admittedly, by human standards, Qinis clothing was far from modest - Rylee had been to a few fashion shows in her time, and the Qinis seemed to go for the kind of breast-baring, strangely cut artistic pieces that had made her internally roll her eyes while politely applauding. The objective of Qinis clothing seemed exclusively to be the artful enhancement and decoration of their physical features, rather than concealment, warmth or function.
At that objective, however, they succeeded admirably. She was finding it hard not to stare, or fantasize.
Not that anything could ever come of such speculative fantasies, of course. That gracile frame and its stately movements were the product of crystal- delicate long bones, upon which the muscles were strung more like gossamer than like the mechanical powerhouse of a moving creature. Any kind of an intimate tryst with a Qinis would have inevitably and swiftly become an agonising introduction to the joys of bone fractures, no matter how gentle the human tried to be. They were fragile even by the standards of other nonhuman species, having evolved on the lowest-gravity cradle world thus far known to the interstellar community.
It had come as a surprise to everyone that they had sided with the Celzi, in fact. Their kind simply were not warriors at all - too fragile, too slow, too gentle and esthetic. Siding with an open rebellion had seemed like a very strange move from them, but in fact they had become the industrial base of the entire Alliance, having long since mastered the engineering arts of automated assembly and resource extraction, keeping all the heavy lifting and physical exertion safely on the far side of a sturdy entourage of robots and drones. One Qinis engineer could mine asteroids with her left hand while directing the construction of a battlecruiser with her right, all while relaxing at a party wearing a stately and decorative robe of diaphanous fabrics hung with gems and loose-wound wire.
Next to which, Rylee felt downright dowdy in her USAF dress uniform, though she noticed that some of the Qinis males were eyeing the uniform’s cut speculatively. Either that or they were eyeing her - maybe humans were just as strangely beautiful to Qinis? It was hard to tell.
At least she didn’t need any such guesswork when it came to the Russian ambassador to the Alliance, who may as well have opened the conversation with “Hello Captain Jackson, would you like to have sex with my wife while I watch?” and was clearly not going to let a merely arctic reception dash his hopes. The wife in question - a bored-looking pencil sketch of a blonde supermodel - seemed to exist purely to agree with her husband and give Rylee a look that said that the sex would be a wonderfully pleasurable exercise in athletic hate-fucking, though she had relaxed the moment Rylee’s disinterest in the veiled proposition became apparent.
Snubbing the lecherous creep would have been in violation of her briefing, however. Rylee had been given explicit instructions to try and leave a positive impression on everyone there regardless of species or allegiance, so she spun a careful half-truth that left the wife satisfied that Rylee wouldn’t be in their bed tonight and the ambassador equally hopeful that she would, and excused herself in search of more tolerable company.
She found it in the form of a small knot of Gaoians. Their body language was a little hard to read, but looking at which way their feet pointed she decided that the group was having two separate conversations - one between four males with dark colouration and a tall female with much more silver and white in her fur. The other conversation was between an obviously younger female and… she peered at the markings on his face for a careful second to make sure…
“Goruu!”
The Gaoian pilot looked up and around at the happy exclamation of his name, and his ears pricked up adorably. “Rylee!” he said, and the translator filled his tone with genuine gladness to see her. “I was told you were here somewhere.”
They shook hands, gently. “Rylee, this is Sister Niral. Niral, Captain Rylee Jackson, pilot of Earth’s first superluminal vessel.”
“Ah, so this is the one you wouldn’t shut up about." Niral teased. She shook Rylee’s hand also, and both women met each others’ gazes and stifled giggles as the young male’s ears drooped a little, cementing Rylee’s conviction that she liked Gaoians.
“I guess Pandora made an impression." she commented.
“You both did.” Niral said. “Truthfully, if you were a Sister, I’d be a little bit jealous.”
“You two are together?”
“I’m… not averse to the idea.” Niral said, mischievously flattening her ears sideways. Rylee had to admire her cool and confidence, she didn’t even glance backwards to see Goruu’s expression prick up in delight that completely ignored species boundaries.
“Well, nothing to be jealous of here.” Rylee said, and winked at Goruu. “I’d break him.”
Niral chittered a nervous laugh as Goruu wilted in embarrassment, turning heads from the other Gaoian group, who dropped their conversation and joined the new one around Rylee. The tallest and probably oldest male scratched the top of Goruu’s head, further contributing to his embarrassment.
“Ah, Rylee Jackson, this is Mother Yimyi.” Niral introduced her, then indicated the older male who had scratched Goruu’s head. “Clan-Father Amren of Clan Firefang, Fathers Gu and Yemin, and Brother Roni.”
Rylee decided she was glad that Amren had been facing away from her when she first approached the group or else she might have mistaken him for Goruu. Aside from some extra grey fur, his markings were practically identical to the younger male’s. Family resemblance?
There was an exchange of polite small-talk, which Rylee had only limited reserves of patience for: she decide to make the conversation mean something.
“I’ll confess.” she said, picking her words carefully “I was a little surprised to run into a familiar face at this little soiree."
“You’re wondering what the tukki the Gaoians are doing at an Alliance party, seeing as we’re members of the Dominion councils." Mother Yimyi said, cutting straight through the delicate language, and drawing a generally amused and agreeable response from the males. Rylee decided that she really liked Gaoians, and relaxed.
“That, yes.” she agreed.
Amren scratched his ear and indicated, with a subtle tilt of his head, the whole room. The walls have ears was a subtle reminder that didn’t need translating. “As the Celzi are keen to point out, theirs is a war of secession based on the right to self-determination.” he said. “Which is a principle that we stand behind.”
“I sense a “but” coming…” Rylee said.
“But.” Yimyi said “we have reservations about the Celzi’s “you get what you grab” approach to territory. The Dominion, for all its flaws, and for all the arrogance that makes it think it can sell every planet in the galaxy and make money off the sale, at least offers a moderated and civil approach to expansion and colonisation.”
“So you’re here looking to… what, build bridges? Heal the rift?”
“It’s not a plan that all of the clans agree with. Many of our idiot gung-ho warrior clans are eager to pitch in with the war.” Yimyi said.
“The Firefangs are a warrior clan.” Amren pointed out, though his tone carried no objection.
“But not an idiot gung-ho one.” Yimyi soothed.
“What’s holding them back?” Rylee asked her.
“The Clan of Females. Our attitude is that we don’t feel all of the available diplomatic options have been exhausted yet and we are not happy to fully commit Gao to a war that was started by other species when there are still opportunities for non-violent contact.” She looked, if Rylee was any judge, smug. “And the male clans don’t do anything which the Mother-Supreme has expressed disapproval for, if they’re smart."
She tilted her head, but Rylee wasn’t sure what, if anything, the gesture meant. “In truth, your own species’ ascension has provided an excellent opportunity. Inside the Sol demilitarized zone, with these two embassy stations in place, we now have the most open and accessible point of contact between the two sides for… twenty cycles or longer.”
“Then there’s the way your own factions are seeking to play the rivalry to your advantage” Amren interjected. “Both sides know that for the human race to commit to siding with the other would be disastrous. Not least because a lot of hapless, innocent soldiers would get crushed by a force who drastically outmatch them. We’re hoping to persuade the Alliance and Dominion both that it’s in the best interests of both factions to declare a ceasefire and negotiate a permanent peace before that happens.”
“Know when to walk away with what you’ve already got while you still have it, kind of thing?”
“Exactly. An astute and sensible policy.” Yimyi said approvingly.
“I learned it from a very wise man called Kenny Rogers.”
An aide approached and murmured something quietly to Mother Yimyi, who took Father Amren’s arm. “If you’ll excuse us, it seems the Qinis ambassador wishes to speak with us.”
“Of course.” Rylee said.
The other Fathers and Brother also made their apologies and scattered to mingle with the assorted Alliance members and humans.
“Want to get out of here?” Niral asked.
“More than anything. Are we allowed to?”
“We have talamay and a game you might like in the shuttle." Goruu said.
“Lead on.”
The Gaoian diplomatic shuttle turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. The similarity in size between Gaoians and humans meant that Rylee felt nicely accomodated-for, rather than dwarfed by furniture built larger than human demands required.
Goruu handed her a glass of Talamay. “Be warned, I heard this stuff does something funny to humans.”
“Funny how?” Rylee asked, sniffing it.
“There’s a human living on our homeworld.” Niral said. “Apparently after a few glasses of talamay she giggled a lot, fell asleep and woke up feeling awful."
“I thought I smelled alcohol." Rylee said. “Screw it, I’m off duty.” she took a sip and was rewarded by something that tasted surprisingly like Fanta.
The Gaoians shared a faintly confused glance. “The alcohol? That just flavours it and kills microorganisms… doesn’t it?” Goruu asked.
“You guys don’t get drunk?”
Again there was a blank look. “The translator seems to be getting confused?” Niral said. “Of course we aren’t imbibed, we imbibe the drink."
“Nono. Intoxicated?”
“That word didn’t even translate.”
“Really? Okay, well it means, like…. altered brain chemistry leading to a changed state of mind.”
Difficult though it was to read their expressions, Niral and Goruu were clearly drawing a complete blank.
“…wow. You guys are missing out. What’s this game?”
They introduced it to her. As a veteran of countless airbase games of poker, picking up the bidding and bluffing side of the game was trivial, though the unfamiliar cards and a few different mechanics kept it interesting and cost her a couple of early hands. A couple of hours flashed by with all the speed of good fun, good company and good drink, and all three of them became quite thoroughly acquainted as they played.
Maybe it was just the alcohol giving her confidence, but she was feeling certain that she was about to lure Goruu into running a perfectly solid hand into the teeth of her own carefully-assembled counter to it when something in the Firefang’s pocket chirruped. He fished out a device that looked practically identical to a smartphone, consulted it, and growled.
“They need me back at the party.” he said. “Hopefully I won’t be long….”
“We’ll be fine.” Niral assured him, and watched him go with what Rylee took for undisguised physical attraction.
She laughed as the Sister turned back and skewed her ears, embarrassed. “Oh yeah, you two are gonna bang.” she said.
Niral gave her a curious look. “You’re very… forthright about that.”
“I’m teasing, Niral. I can’t blame you, he’s a great guy.”
This earned her an even stranger look.
“…what?” She asked.
“We only just met, Rylee… do you mind if I ask you a very personal question?”
Rylee sipped her Talamay then shrugged. “Sure.”
“That’s three times now you’ve spoken about Goruu as if you’d consider him as a potential mate.”
“I have?”
Niral ducked her head in what Rylee had learned was an emphatic Gaori nod. “You said ‘I’d break him’, you just said that he’s a ‘great guy’.”
Rylee sipped her drink, mentally noting that she’d need to stop soon: her head was starting to go genuinely fuzzy. “Does that bother you?”
“Well… maybe this is just a species thing, but that’s how a fellow Gaoian female would talk if she was also eyeing him up for a mating contract. And just before that you sounded as if you thought the idea of me and him was…”
“Hot?”
“…Appealing.”
“So what’s your question, Niral?”
“Are you?”
“Am I…. what, are you asking if I would have sex with Goruu if I could?”
“I… well, I’m not sure. That’s a very strange idea to me, Rylee. But… okay, would you?”
Rylee felt an uncharacteristic rush of heat to her ears but forced herself to be truthful. “Privately, just between us girls? …I don’t know. Part of me wants to,” she confessed.
Niral made a soft growling noise, which Rylee speculated could only mean disbelief. “But he’s not even your species!” she objected.
“So?”
“You couldn’t have cubs!”
“So… okay, is sex only about having cubs for you guys?” Rylee asked.
“That’s why we have mating contracts. Are you saying your species do it for other reasons?”
Rylee thought about that for a second, then sat up and set her drink down. “How would you react if I told you that I’ve had sex with other women?” She asked.
“…I… that’s just such an alien idea, Rylee. Why would you want to? Two females can’t have cubs together."
“Because it’s fun! Doesn’t sex feel good for Gaoians though? Physically? Does the word ‘orgasm’ translate for you guys?”
“Well… yes. To both questions.” Niral said. Her ears were pointing almost completely opposite directions to one another: had she been human, Rylee suspected that Niral would have been bright red, squirming in her seat and fidgeting with her hands. “But that’s just… nice, you know? It’s not the point of mating."
“Okay, so that’s how things are for your species. Fair enough.” Rylee said. “For mine, sex is about a whole lot more than having children. It’s… equally or even more about fun, pleasure and emotional intimacy." Rylee said. “That’s more true for some people than for others, but in my case I don’t plan on ever having cu-, uh, children.”
“…You don’t? Ever?!"
“Nope. I’m doing important work where I am. Getting pregnant and taking maternity leave would take me away from all the action, and by the time that changes, I’ll be too old. But I like getting laid, and all I’m after from sex is the fun and not the commitment.”
She poured herself another drink and rested her head back again. Niral couldn’t resist probing for more information, however. Strange though it was, she hadn’t come to Earth out of a lack of fascination for this species, and Rylee had opened up a whole world of new questions that she would prefer not to leave unanswered.
“But… mating still leads to procreation for your kind, right? Can you consciously choose not to have cubs?”
“In a way… here.” Rylee stood up and shrugged out of her jacket, tugged off her tie and pulled her shirt over her head. She sat down wearing only a dark grey undergarment that covered and restrained her breasts.
Niral’s jaw threatened to drop. The human pilot’s body was an education in alien anatomy all by itself, layered in muscle atop solid muscle, each leaving a firm impression through the skin. There were so many of them! The overall effect was alien, but not ugly: Rylee’s body hinted at the incredible strength that was stored inside it, but also at agility, poise and exceptional control.
Seeing her staring, Rylee barked one of those human laughs, looked up, grabbed a structural spar on the ceiling and, after testing its weight-bearing capacity, hauled herself up into the air, pulling her legs up until they were pointed straight out in front of her, parallel with the ground. She found her pose and became perfectly still, a study in huge forces all finely balanced against one another.
“I had two dreams when I was a little girl. I was either going to be an astronaut, or join Cirque du Soleil" she said, conversationally. In a rapid yet smooth movement she flipped around until she was gripping the bar behind her, and lowered herself back to the deck. She alighted with a thump, and wobbled a bit on her feet.
“Woo. Yeah, I’ve had enough Talamay.” she said, collapsing back onto the couch, which creaked alarmingly under the impact of a weight it hadn’t been designed to handle.
“That was incred… wait, you can do that in Earth gravity?" Niral asked.
“Sure can! I can’t hold it for as long but… yeah, I need to show you Cirque du Soleil sometime, those guys make me look clumsy.”
She finished her drink and slid the bottle away from her. “Anyway… about choosing to not get pregnant from sex: feel here.” she said, indicating a crease between two muscles in her upper arm, neither of which even existed on Gaoians. Niral did so, tentatively, and recoiled when Rylee laughed and jerked away. “Firmer! You can’t hurt me and if you don’t really go for it you’ll just tickle me.” the human demanded.
Niral ducked her head in a nod and complied, firmly trying to bury her fingers in Rylee’s arm. It was like trying to push her hand through Tarimit wood but she felt, just below the surface, a little nub of matter that was even harder than the flesh around it.
“What is that?” She asked.
“Contraceptive implant. It releases a hormone that occurs naturally in human women and stops us from ovulating when we’re pregnant. Basically, it tricks my body into thinking I’m pregnant all the time, so I never actually get pregnant. So I can have all the sex I like without risking having a cu- a child."
“But if you did have one, couldn’t your Sisters… no, wait, you don’t have a clan of females, do you?”
“Nope. If I had a kid, I’d either have to give up my career to look after them, which I’m not willing to do, or put them up for adoption or foist them on my brother or parents, which sounds immoral and irresponsible to me. And while I’m pro-choice, I’m dead-set against ever having an abortion myself, so I’m always care… what?” She paused upon seeing Niral’s expression.
“Abortion?”
“Ah… yeah. Termination of pregnancy.”
“You’d KILL an unwanted cub?” Niral looked sickened and horrified, her ears flattened themselves back along her skull and her eyes widened.
"I wouldn’t!" Rylee protested. “That’s how I see it too, I think it’s disgusting and wrong, and I take every precaution I can to make sure I never need to even consider it.”
“But you said… pro-choice? So you think other human women should be allowed to do that?”
“I think they should have the choice. When they choose to do that, well… it’s on their soul, not mine.” Rylee lamented. “Nobody wants for that to happen, nobody likes it, it’s just… you know, it’s seen as being the better alternative to giving the child a shitty life, you know? And the fact is that giving people the choice and the education to avoid having to make it works a lot better than just outright banning the practice."
Niral still looked shaken, but she collected herself and thought about it. “I… that’s incredibly sad, Rylee. And upsetting. To think that a mother could ever find herself weighing her cub’s happy future against its life and deciding the kindest thing to do would be to…" She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
The human had the decency to look troubled. “Yeah.” she agreed.
“Couldn’t you just… not have sex unless and until you were willing to have little ones?”
Rylee sighed. “Some people try. They don’t usually succeed. We’ve got this whole “abstinence-only” thing where I’m from, and the kids who try to follow it are the ones who usually wind up having babies first because they can’t stop themselves, they get horny, they get laid, they don’t take the right precautions and… boom. Unwanted teenage pregnancy, and that often leads to a lot of problems for the child down the line.”
“It’s that powerful?” Niral inquired. “Your mating drive, I mean? That you can’t stop yourselves?”
“Hell yes. We do all kinds of stupid shit when it overtakes us: completely lose our focus, act without thought for the consequences…”
Enlightenment smote Niral in the forehead. “OH! You’re like the Vgork!”
Rylee frowned. “I don’t think I’ve met a Vgork…”
“Their males have this thing where the more highly placed they are in the social order, the more often they need to mate or else they’re overcome by a berserk rage. It usually ends badly.” Niral looked alarmed “Oh stars, and you’re a lot stronger and harder to subdue than they are…"
“No! No, that sounds a lot worse than we have it.” Rylee interrupted, soothingly. “We just get irrational and careless, but we CAN restrain ourselves. It’s just uncomfortable and distressing. Physically painful, even. So yes, we could ‘just not have sex’, but at the very least it’s frustrating."
She set her head back again, staring off at nothing.
“And… you feel the mating urge towards Goruu? Despite that he’s not human?” Niral asked.
Rylee didn’t look up. “It’s…not exactly. It’s more like… I like Goruu as a person; I hope we’ll be friends, and usually I like to have sex with my friends. That’s kinda colliding with the fact that he’s not human in my head and, yeah, it’s weird for me too."
She looked up and smiled sheepishly. “And I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, Niral, but the same goes for you.”
Niral gave her a long, flat-eared stare. “It does?” she squeaked.
“Absolutely!” Rylee exclaimed. “And if you’re wondering how to take that, take it as a compliment. You’re a beautiful person. But neither of you are interested and even if you were we couldn’t possibly do it without you risking serious injury, so that’s where it ends.”
She sighed. “I know I’ve said that the, uh, ‘urge’ is a powerful thing, but emotionally well-balanced people have no problem with their interest not being reciprocated, and I wouldn’t even be up here if a lot of highly qualified people didn’t agree that I’m emotionally well-balanced. So yes, I ‘feel the urge’ towards both of you, but it’s under control and fading. But if there was no physical danger involved and if you both consented to it, I’d jump at the chance. Does that sound fair?”
“It sounds very strange and alien, but… You’re not Gaoian, I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t behave exactly like Gaoians do. So, yes, that sounds fair.”
“Friends?”
Niral looked the human in the eyes, and the vulnerability in the deathworlder’s expression took the worst off that discomfort. For all the intimidating controlled strength and thoroughly alien sexual morality, she was still talking to a fellow emotional sophont who had exposed herself to potentially serious social consequences out of trust and honesty. The human immediately became less dangerously alien in her eyes, and was again just Rylee.
“…Friends.” she agreed, and chittered happily when Rylee sagged with relief.
“Thank you, Niral.”
“I do have one more question, though.” Niral told her, as Rylee began to put her shirt back on.
“Shoot.”
“Is your attitude… typical? Of humans?”
“Oh, no! No! Far from it. I’m REALLY open-minded, and I decided a long time ago not to have any hangups about it.” Rylee said.
“Why?”
“Because the people who mind don’t matter, and the people who matter don’t mind.”
Niral thought about this. “I think that’s probably not an idea that works so well for Gaoians.” she said. “But you ARE controversial, then?”
Rylee grimaced. “Controversial, yeah. That’s putting it mildly. There are places on Earth where I’d be buried up to my neck and have rocks thrown at my head for being so sexually liberated.”
“…I’m sorry, was that an exaggeration or not? Because after the abortion thing…”
Rylee looked uncomfortable and a touch ashamed. “It wasn’t. Sadly.”
Again there was that disbelieving chirrup from Niral and an expression of mild horror.
“We can be kind of shitty to one another sometimes.” Rylee said. “I’d never do something like that and neither would anybody I care to associate with.”
“I understand.” Niral told her. “There are violent bigots in every species.”
Rylee smiled, and the last of the tension fled her entirely. “Thank you for understanding, Niral.”
“Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me these things."
“What things?” Goruu asked, stepping back into the shuttle.
“…Female! Female things.” Niral squeaked, scooping up her cards. Goruu hesitated, then quirked his head in a Gaoian shrug and sat down at the card game again.
Rylee suppressed her smile. Gaoians were so cute sometimes.
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility
Martin Tremblay’s welcome to the Operation Stolen Star briefing room was the squeal of forty chairs as forty pairs of boots propelled their wearers to attention.
“As you were.” he said, acknowledging the collective respect and approaching the lectern at the front of the room as the men sat back down.
Its current occupant, Captain Owen Powell, was the commanding officer of the Stolen Star unit, and Tremblay couldn’t have asked for a better unit lead. Powell had regained the rank of Captain after enduring the British special forces tradition of demotion back to Private when he had joined the Special Boat Service.
“General.” He said.
“Apparently I have to make a speech.” Tremblay said, to general mirth. “I promise it’ll be quick.”
Powell stepped aside. “Take it away, sir.”
Tremblay adjusted the lectern’s microphone and considered the men in front of him for a second. Canadians, British, Americans, Australians, and a smattering of others, all with long, impressive and heavily classified service records.
“The last hundred years” he began “have been full of firsts. Not all of them were illustrious ones. But they’re all worth remembering. The first world war, the first use of a nuclear weapon… but I think there have been many more positive ones than negative: The first man in space, the first man on the moon, the first woman to travel faster than light.”
“Except.” he said, adjusting the mic again “…not really. Yuri Gagarin, it turns out, was not the first person in space, nor was Rylee Jackson the first to exceed lightspeed. Those honours both, according to the information we have, belong to a Roman soldier called Lucius Bellator Maximus."
“Have we had our heroes stripped from us by alien action? No. Because that Roman didn’t go into space knowingly or willingly. Gagarin did. Jackson did. And it was human skill, science and engineering that let them do it.
“So, are you going to be the first men to set foot on an alien world? No. Are you going to be the first men we send there? Absolutely, and that’s an honour that sets you alongside the giants of history."
“Theirs, however, were missions of discovery. Their objectives were to break new boundaries for the sake of breaking them, to prove that they could be broken. You are called to something higher. Not to impugn discovery as a cause, but I personally rate freedom even more highly, and you are being called upon to travel to another world not only to prove that it can be done, but to defend that world and to turn it into the vehicle of our liberation from a prison we do not deserve."
“The future liberty of the human race may rest on your ability to get this job done. I am in absolutely no doubt that we have never been in safer hands.”
There was polite applause as he stepped back, and shared a salute with Powell. “Carry on, Captain.”
“The Ambassadorial party is staying on this station overnight.” Goruu said, after Rylee had gone. It had been surprising and both alarming and funny to see the usually graceful human pilot stumble back towards the spartan bunk she had erected for herself under one of Pandora’s wings, failing to even keep to a straight line.
“They’ve had quarters made up for them?” Niral asked him.
“Yes. There are nest-beds up there for us as well…”
“That’s a pity… and here I thought we had some privacy tonight. I had this contract all ready for you to sign…” Niral said, holding it up.
The expression of delight on Goruu’s face was priceless.
Cimbrean
Jennifer Delaney. Mid-twenties, space-babe pirate queen, colonial governor, wilderness survival expert, full of alien medicine and thus possibly immortal, and all alone.
Well, except that the last time she’d done piracy was months ago now, so that maybe didn’t count any longer, and the colony in question had been a pile of smoking rubble the last time she laid eyes on it. Being bombarded from orbit and then invaded tended to do that to a place. They’d made a good escape there, after an “out-of-the-frying-pan-into-the-fire” fashion.
The point was that the pirate queen and colonial governor bits maybe didn’t apply any longer. But she was keeping the space-babe part.
And then there had been… other stuff. Honestly, it was all kind of a blur, now. A long, confusing, relentlessly violent blur that she knew had involved nearly dying a couple of times. She’d lost track of Darragh who was maybe kind of useless but at least he’d have been something resembling company right now. And she was trying not to think about Adrian’s fate, with all that fecking fire foam that did weird things to their brains, and the ship venting atmosphere, and the way she’d left him to die because if she’d tried to save him they’d have both perished…
She was trying, she reminded herself irritably, not to think about it.
She had only ever bothered to remember one planet’s coordinates, and that fact had saved her life… but then the bastard escape pod had landed on the wrong end of the continent.
Bereft of alternatives, she’d squared her shoulders, hoisted her gear and started walking.
At least Cimbrean was a Class 4 world, which meant that survival wasn’t exactly difficult… But her four-month trek across half a hemisphere had turned up a leaf that, when boiled, produced something that tasted almost like a cup of sweet tea. Which was nice.
On reflection, Jennifer Delaney, mid-twenties, space-babe discoverer of almost tea, ex-pirate and governor of a hole in the ground just didn’t have the same ring to it.
“Shut up, Jen.” She chastised herself. That muddled second-guessing of herself was an Old Jen habit. But the old Jen would have dithered and died alongside Adrian aboard that cruiser. The old Jen wouldn’t have seen a five-thousand- whatever hike across a whole continent and just accepted it as the next in a long series of trials she would overcome. The old Jen would have broken down in tears at least twice as often during these last four months as the new Jen had.
Pirate queen and colonial governor or not, she was toughened, a survivor, somebody who knew how to keep putting one foot in front of the other no matter what a sadistic universe decided to throw at her. She had all of that that going for her.
Everything else, not so much. Her shoes had given up their ghosts inside the first week of hiking, and while the foot-wraps she had fashioned from the sleeves of her shirt had stopped her feet getting cut up and bloody, they hadn’t stopped her soles from hardening to the consistency of her nan’s patent ossified soda bread. The datapad that had been guiding her back to the only thing that even vaguely resembled civilisation on this world was a more recent casualty, lost in a cliff-based accident.
That had been four valleys ago. It was remarkable just how hard it was to find the bombed-out ruin of a mansion without a map. At least she had been all but on top of it when the little device had gone bouncing down the rocks, never to be recovered. She had only needed to explore four valleys before the fourth finally yielded her glimpse of home… at the other end of it, a good day’s trek away, and night was falling.
Oh well, it wouldn’t be the last time she made camp anyway. And at least there were lots of the sort-of-tea bush around.
She set up her camp with the practiced skill of somebody who had done it every night in a row for four months, boiled herself a cup of tea-ish and a healthy vegetable stew, and fell asleep beside the fire.
Morning brought warm sunshine and morning mist, which she set off through in the best mood she’d felt for some time, walking stick in hand. Something birdlike thrummed past her head and perched in a nearby tree, angled its multifaceted eyes at her and preened a shimmering wing, singing a warbling song that reminded her of a Nightingale. It was beautiful.
Her well-thrown rock knocked it off its perch with a squawk.
Happily singing the chorus to “Linger” - the only part of the song she could remember - she strapped the bird-ish’s broken carcass to her bag. “Meat stew tonight!” she told it.
Somewhere inside her, the old Jen, the I. T. girl who had been inconsolable for a week when her gerbil had died, whimpered. The new Jen, however, was a practical, weathered survivor and ignored the old Jen’s objections in favour of valuable protein.
That was her day, walking along the soft sort-of-grass by a burbling stream in the warm summer sunshine of an alien world, collecting alien plants, herbs and sort-of-mushrooms and telling a dead alien sort-of-bird about how she was going to cook it. It was mid-afternoon when she stepped out of the woods and found herself standing in front of the palace ruins. The front gardens, originally a gorgeous masterwork of horticulture tended by little drones and automated systems, had been bombed down to a muddy paste, and were now grown over by a thicket of small bushes and tall sort-of-grass.
“And you thought you’d never make it on your own, you eejit.” she told herself aloud, grinning at her own success.
Despite the bombardment, the landscaping was still mostly intact, as were the stone steps that curved around what had once been an ornamental pond but was now a crater, and up to the front of the building itself, which was basically an expanse of rubble interestingly punctuated by half-intact walls.
Oh well, at least there was the material here to get a roof over her head, if nothing else.
She set her bag down by what had once been the front entrance, leaned her walking stick against it, and began to explore the ruins. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, exactly: a change of clothes, maybe, or some emergency rations. What she found instead was her bath.
It was almost perfectly intact, standing proud in the middle of its tiled bathroom floor, though the rest of the bathroom was long gone. A few shrapnel scars notwithstanding, there it was: her bath.
Hardly daring to hope, she crept up to it, and turned the faucet on. There was a gurgle, and horrible brown sludge vomited out of the tap.
Oh well. You couldn’t have everything in life. She’d just have to haul and boil the water herself.
Fetching enough water to fill the bath was a job that took most of her remaining daylight hours. She made and ate her not-quite-bird stew, slept, feeling filthy and gritty, and dreamed of hot water.
It was a dream that she spent the whole of the next day’s morning and afternoon turning into a reality. From the moment she woke she set to work on it, building her campfire and setting up the small boiling tin that had been in her escape pod right next to the bath. For hours, she got into a rhythm of scooping out some water, boiling it, pouring it in, scooping some out, boiling it, foraging for firewood… The water heated so slowly, but it definitely heated, and if there was one thing that Jen had learned from her months of cross-country hiking, it was how to let her mind entertain itself while the body worked.
Finally, by the early evening, the bath was the perfect temperature: steaming, but not painful. She had no soap, no bubble-bath foam or bath bombs, but it was still a hot bath, the first she’d had in months and months.
Smiling like all was right with the world, she disrobed, stepped up onto the bath’s plinth, raised her foot and dipped it gently in. A long sigh of the deepest contentment escaped from her.
B-BOOMMmm..
She looked up. There was a speck of brightness in the sky, a spaceship that gleamed in the sunlight, casting its sonic boom ahead of it as it lost speed and turned.
Jennifer Delaney addressed the universe in general: “Fuck. You.”
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility
The middle of the chamber was a careful scaffolding, built to millimeter tolerances, all of which had been filled by vehicles. Three Navistar 7000 trucks were squeezed in, each full of crates, bags, boxes and, here and there, just enough room for the soldiers to sit, each hugging his gear. Most of the remaining space was taken up by a pair of Kawasaki Mules, and the last was occupied by an example of the very latest in human military technology.
Tremblay was considering it when the troopers arrived. They had all pitched in with parking and loading the trucks the night before, and were now shaved, rested, geared up, well fed and as ready for indefinite deployment off-world as anybody ever could be.
It wasn’t an occasion for pomp or speeches. The project was top-secret for a reason. There were no politicians present, only soldiers ready for deployment, and the gaggle of military scientists who would be sending them there.
Captain Powell joined him by the weapon system.
“I’m amazed they agreed to release one of these for the colony’s use.” Tremblay commented.
“Bit disappointing really. I was pushing for a WERBS.” Powell said, drawing a laugh from the general.
“You may as well have asked for a couple of nukes, eh?” Tremblay told him. “Besides, ET’s going to brown his pants enough when they see this thing in action.”
"If, sir." Powell said, not bothering to disguise his smug confidence. "If they see it in action."
“Fair point.” Tremblay turned to the SBS officer and extended a hand, which Powell shook. “It’s been a pleasure having you on base, Captain.”
“I bet it has.” Powell grinned.
Tremblay suppressed his smirk. “Carry on, captain.”
“Sir.”
As the captain shouted his men into place on the trucks, Tremblay stepped back across the concrete to where Ted Bartlett was tapping on a tablet computer, looking thoughtful.
“You’re certain you got that inertia problem sorted out?" Tremblay asked him, quietly so none of the soldiers could hear.
“Two months ago, general.” Bartlett reassured him.
“…Good.” Tremblay said, watching the men load up. “Good.”
Bartlett tapped out a few last things, then looked up. “All aboard? Zone clear?” He shouted. There was a general thumbs-up and nodding. “Zone clear!” He shouted, and tapped a button on the tablet.
A block of purest possible black immediately enclosed the trucks, Mules, soldiers and weapon system.
“Don’t you think a countdown might have been appropriate?” Tremblay asked as the scientists and technicians began to vacate the vacuum chamber. “Give it a sense of occasion?”
They were the last to step through the pressure door, which Bartlett closed and locked, before acknowledging the question with a shrug.
“Woops.”
“That was definitely a camp back there… look, here’s a pack and walking stick.”
Kirk looked around, holding some kind of scanning device, then pointed with one of his longer arms. “There’s a heat signature over… that way.” he said, and stepped daintily over the rubble to pursue it.
Julian followed, weaving through the bombed-out shell of what had obviously been a lavishly grand and expensive property once upon a time.
The heat signature turned out to be a huge stone bath, steaming gently. Relaxing in it was a red-haired woman, head resting on the side, eyes closed, floating gently with her arms splayed and her breasts just breaking the surface of the water.
“Woah!” Julian exclaimed and turned a one-eighty, feeling heat rush to his cheeks.
“You boys are either an hour too early, or four months too late, and I don’t know which.” said the woman. Irishness lilted off every syllable, heavy with weary resignation. “Go away, I’m having a bath.”
Kirk leaned down and whispered in Julian’s ear: “Any advice on how to deal with… this?”
Julian shook his head, eyes wide as he stared desperately off towards the distant mountains - no! Not the mountains, the hills - no! The wall, yes. The wall seemed safe. “You’re on your own.”
Kirk chuffed a loud coughing sound, which Julian had learned was the equivalent of clearing his throat. “Jennifer Delaney, I presume.” He stated, making a good shot at seeming to be completely unfazed. Julian knew there was no reason why he should be - she wasn’t his species, and aliens seemed to have no hangups about nudity, but after that reception, being fazed should have gone as read.
There was a sigh, and a sloshing of water. “I’m not going to persuade you to go away, am I? Aye, that’s me. Oh for crying out loud man, you can turn around. Am I the first woman you’ve seen in years or something?”
“Um… yes.” Julian said.
“Oh. Really? Well you can turn around anyway.”
Julian did so, carefully. She had turned and folded her arms atop the edge of the bath, and sunk down into the water a little. Technically, she was just as modest now as if she had been fully clothed, but that did little to pacify Julian’s starved libido.
“So who are you two, anyway?” she asked.
“I’m, uh. Julian.” he said. “Julian Etsicitty. This is Kirk.”
“Kirk?”
“Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk.” clarified the man himself. “…Kirk. And yes, I’ve seen Star Trek.”
“I always preferred Doctor Who.” Jen said. “Etsicitty, that’s… what, Navajo?”
“Uh… yeah. I’m impressed.”
“I used to work in I. T.” she said, plainly convinced that this was an explanation. When their blank expressions told her that it wasn’t, she sighed and clarified: “lots of boring office hours sat on a computer with nothing to do, lots of clicks on the “random” button on Wikipedia because there are only so many cat pictures a girl can look… at… look, I’m trying to take a bath here."
“Here? Now?” Julian asked.
“I hiked for four months halfway across a continent to get to this bath. I spent all day filling it myself by boiling water in a tin this big.” She spread her hands to demonstrate and Julian cursed his eyes for their traitorous flash downwards. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice. “I’m not getting out until I’m good and soaked, not even if the planet’s exploding.”
“We, ah… came here to help you get Cimbrean up and running as a colony of Earth…” Kirk said, looking around at the desolation.
“Great! Thank you! I could use the help. But right now I. Am. Taking. A. Bath." she repeated. “If you boys would be so kind as to go get started on doing whatever it is you’re going to do, I’ll join you as soon as I’m done here, how does that sound?”
It sounded absurd to Julian, but he would have sooner gone back to Nightmare armed with nothing more than a toothpick than say so to Jen’s face. Fortunately, Kirk seemed able to take almost anything in his stride, and so he simply bowed and said “As you wish, governor. I’ll oversee the deployment personally.”
“Thank you.”
“Hang on!” Julian protested. “What happened here? Kirk said this was a mansion last time he saw it."
“Taking a bath.”
“But…!”
“Bath!”
“Come on, Julian.” Kirk said, gripping him by the arm and politely pulling him away. Julian emphatically did not look back as Delaney rolled back over with a splash and a happy sigh.
“CONSIG is green!”
“On schedule, too.” Bartlett said, happily. “Pressure is at… twenty millibar. We’ve passed the line, go to send.”
“Capacitors primed, ready to release, stage one field at niner-eight per cent.”
“Right.” Bartlett acknowledged General Tremblay with a nod. “Sending in three… two… one… Send.”
Inside the Jump Array chamber, vast amounts of energy were shunted from alien- derived supercapacitors into an arch of exotic equipment that swept up and over the black cuboid of stasis-enclosed man and machine. There was a ripple, like light on the surface of a lake, and the stasis field and everything inside it vanished.
The floor shook with a solid thump, and in the total silence of near-vacuum, a centimeter-long piece of truck wing mirror fell to the concrete, neatly snipped off by the edge of the spacetime distortion field..
“Major…” Tremblay said.
Bartlett grimaced. “Woops.”
Jennifer Delaney, mid twenties, space-babe pirate queen, planetary governor, wilderness survival expert, possibly immortal, discoverer of alien space tea and feeling truly clean for the first time in much too long.
Her clothes, however, were not clean. Not even remotely. They were stained, greasy, torn, and, not unsurprisingly, had an undignified aroma to them as if they had been worn by a sweaty young woman for four whole months, along with all that entailed.
Why did she even still have them? Why didn’t she have a towel? She’d had plenty of time to look for one.
She threw the vile garments into the bath in the (probably forlorn) hope that this might result in them becoming at least clean_er_ to the point of being viable to wear until a replacement showed up, and then marched nude out of the bathroom and towards where her bedroom had once been. Hopefully something of the small wardrobe she had accumulated there might still be intact enough to salvage, or fashion some crude clothing from.
Navigating a demolished alien palace by memory turned out to be trickier than simply remembering where the walls and stuff had been, though, and pretty soon she found herself thoroughly lost. She was just debating swallowing her pride and calling for this “Kirk” fella to help her out when she rounded a corner and found herself on the back patio.
There were at least thirty men there, all unloading crates and equipment from the back of several large green military trucks that had been parked on what was once the lawn. They gave a general impression of soldier-ness, and were all staring at her.
The old Jen, who’d had nightmares about pretty much this exact scenario, surfaced long enough to mutter, under her breath, the complaint. “Oh, fuck everything“, but then the new Jen was back in control.
She planted her hands firmly on her hips, issued a death glare which caused a platoon of hardened veteran special-forces soldiers to start desperately looking at everything but her, and demanded:
“Well? Which one of you eejits wants to stop gawking first and hand me some fecking clothes?”
Chapter 15
Chapter 12: “Only Human” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Three years and seven months AV
Alliance Embassy Station, Sol
Rylee Jackson woke, and groaned. Talamay must have been stronger than it had tasted.
She groaned even louder when the previous night’s conversation came back to her, and buried her face in her pillow for a second, then rolled over and look up at Pandora’s wing, flung over her cot like a protective lover’s arm.
She spoke the word that heralded a bad start to any day: “Shit.”
Civilian Trade Station 1039: “Infinity Awaits”
Fear was a sickly sensation in Kttrvk’s long throat as he read the message again to be certain of its content.
He read it a third time, just in case.
When a fourth reading still produced no miraculous change in its content, he concluded that its content must therefore be real, and set about writing a reply.
It was a simple reply:
"Sir,
As I explained in my previous letter, the trade route you have designated for our shipment is currently the target of Hunter raids. Four more vesselss have been hit since I sent that letter, all comparatively small: A freighter the size of the Nkvcqtz will be a target they cannot resist.
Our cargo of mineral ores is non-perishable and will come to no harm should we take the slightly longer route that I suggested. I appreciate that the client expects prompt delivery, but I feel certain that they would prefer the shipment arrive slightly delayed, than never arrive at all because the freighter carrying it was raided by Hunters and the personnel and children on board, devoured.
_I object in the strongest possible terms to these orders, and request - again
- that you authorise us to take the longer route._
-Shipmaster Kttrvk.
He sent it, and the message was scooped up by a handler program, to be updated onto the galactic network in the next regular synchronization, and from there to the desk of his supervisor.
He knew in his bones, however, that the appeal was futile.
Cimbrean
Jennifer Delaney. Mid-twenties, entirely out of fucks to give about being a pirate queen, colonial governor or immortal, but not letting go of the space- babe part. Currently wearing fatigues, army boots and a thick black woollen jumper, and contemplating the bar of actual chocolate on the table in front of her, waiting for the alarm to ring or the spaceship to land or whatever else would interrupt her attempt to enjoy it.
She was also reflecting that, while showing up completely arse-naked and demanding to be clothed wouldn’t have been her first choice in ice-breakers - wouldn’t even have made the top hundred - it had undeniably worked. Apparently the soldiers respected a woman who didn’t give two shits for embarrassment and just asked for a pair of pants. She would have expected to be on the receiving end of a lot of lecherous jokes and sly side-of-the-eye stares, but in fact they were, on the whole, treating her with deference and respect.
“Tastes better if you eat it with your mouth, love.”
Somewhere deep inside her, Old Jen was impressed and a little scared by the way that she didn’t jump, just turned in her seat to quickly assess whether the voice that had snuck up on her was a threat. Captain Owen Powell gave her a winning smile full of Yorkshire arrogance, and she relaxed a bit.
“Just… enjoying the moment.” she said. “And don’t call me “love”.”
Powell nodded. “Aye, sorry. Force of habit. I’d ask if I can come in, but this is my office, so…”
He entered and sat down on the other stool, on the opposite side of the desk. “So, are you going to eat that?”
“Promise me nothing’s going to start exploding if I do?”
She wasn’t sure what she had expected Powell’s reaction to be: a laugh, maybe, or a joke. Not an understanding look in his eye. “Wish I could.” he said. “You’d best eat it fast, enjoy it while you can. In the army they trained us to brew a cup of tea every chance we get, because you never know when the next one’s going to show up.”
Jen breathed a little half-laugh. “That’s so fecking English…” she said.
Powell snorted. “Ten thousand lightyears from home and the Irish are still being fookin’ Irish.”
That got a genuine laugh. “Alright, fine. I’ll eat the fecking thing.” Jen conceded, and promptly made good on that promise.
Chocolate. Fuck yeah.
Mount Hope Cemetery, San Diego
“May her soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”
The solemn "Amen" which followed that petition was joined by all bar one of the graveside mourners. The priest closed his book, bowed solemnly, and turned away, leaving only the small knot of family and friends.
It was a good headstone, understated and handsome: just the name “Terri Boone” flanked by carved lilies, her dates of birth and death, and the quote "A loving heart is the beginning of all knowledge." on round-topped blue slate.
“You’re not a praying man, Mister Jenkins?”
“I’m not, detective. Let’s… just leave it at that.”
“Fair enough.”
Gabriel Ares shuffled his feet and exhaled, feeling in his bones that the occasion should have really warranted something other than a glorious sunny day.
“Do you come to the funerals of all your cases?” Jenkins asked him.
“Not all, no. Just the ones that really get to me. You know, the stupid kid who got caught up in gang violence, or the young mother who died of a bleed on the brain after her husband hit her for the hundredth time… The streetwise P. I. who I kind of feel like I could have helped if I’d only listened.”
“Are you listening now?”
Jenkins was a good two heads taller than the diminutive Hispanic homicide cop, who looked up at him curiously.
“Listening to… who, now?” He asked.
“Ravi Singh, for one.”
“How do you…? Right, you had the login details.”
“I do, yeah. Downloaded the lot. You HAVE read it all?”
“Three times.” Ares told him. “She makes a… compelling case. But come on, secret aliens murdering people in San Diego?”
“What, as opposed to alien monsters on TV getting the shit kicked out of them by hockey players? As opposed to alien embassies orbiting the moon?”
“I know!” Ares exclaimed. A few startled gasps and glances from the other mourners moderated his volume. “I know. I agree. You’re preaching to the choir, compañero. But I have to answer to people, and even if they were persuaded, which they’re not, there’s this little thing called ‘Jurisdiction’ biting me in the culo."
“What about the FBI?”
“The feds?” Gabriel made a scornful noise through his nose. “The pendejo I spoke to said he’d put me through to Special Agent Mulder and then hung up. They’ve got enough to worry about without alien conspiracy theories. People didn’t stop murdering each other just because there’s a couple of alien space stations up there."
“Need a hand?”
“You’d go all the way to New Jersey?”
“If it got us to the bottom of this, I’d even go back into space.” Jenkins told him, firmly. “I want these fuckers to fry, Ares.”
The detective stared at the headstone for a long while, and then shook his head. “I’m not… You realise I can’t authorise that, right?Not officially. This is a police matter, I can’t bring in civilians to interrogate a witness.”
“That wouldn’t be by-the-book, huh?”
"Lo tienes."
“Does going by the book always work?”
“No. But going against it NEVER works, Jenkins, to hell with what cop shows and movie writers think.”
“So you won’t help me.”
“Can’t.” Ares corrected.
They stood in silence for a while. Most of the mourners paid their final respects and departed.
“Of course…” Jenkins mused. “Seeing as New Jersey is outside of your jurisdiction, if I were to go talk with this guy, it’s not like you could arrest me for it anyway.”
Ares half-laughed and half-huffed. “If having a conversation with some guy in New Jersey was illegal then I could arrest you right now for planning to commit an offense.” he said. "IF," he added, turning to look Jenkins right in the eye “having a conversation with some guy in New Jersey was illegal.”
They considered each other’s expressions for a moment, and then both men stuck out their hands to be shaken at the same time.
“I’ll let you know if I think of anything that could be useful to your investigation, Detective Ares.”
“I’d appreciate that, Mr. Jenkins. Buena suerte."
Civilian Trade Station 1039: “Infinity Awaits”
"Shipmaster Kttrvk,
"You have received your orders. As per your contract with the corporation, failure to follow your assigned route is punishable by demotion, confiscation of your ship and fines up to 5% of the value of the cargo per [day] of late delivery"
"-Ikktik, Deputy Shipping Executive"
Kttrvk knew at that exact moment that nobody in the corporation even bothered to read their mail.
He weighed up the possibility of refusing and then counter-suing the corporation for reckless endangerment of his and his family’s lives when they took action against him. A fair court would surely come down on his side.
But of course, Long Stars Shipping would never see the inside of a fair court in a case like this, would they? They owned the judges, they could afford the best lawyers, they lobbied for the laws that worked in their favour.
For long minutes he sat, thinking, while his mate Ikkzziki slumbered, rotund with what would be their fourth child.
There was only one possible course of action.
Alliance Embassy Station, Sol
“Good morning, Rylee.”
Rylee flinched. She knew that the voice she heard wasn’t exactly Niral so much as a computer simulation of what Niral’s voice might sound like if she was speaking English, cunningly conveyed to her ears by harmonic trickery in a way that completely overruled the original voice, but the simulation was totally consistent in giving Niral an identifiable voice.
“…Niral! Hey. Good morning.”
“A very good morning.” Niral’s ears were flattened sideways. The effect looked either mischievous or smug to Rylee. Her tall posture, shoulders thrown back and head held high, suggested the latter.
“Oh! You guys, uh…?”
“That we most certainly did.” The Gaoian purred. “The first of many I hope, before we’re certain I’m with cub.”
“That’s umm… Great. I’m happy for you.” Rylee found she couldn’t meet the Sister’s gaze. She was surprised when Niral issued a low keening sound and took her hands.
“Rylee, are you all right?”
“I made a complete ass of myself last night, didn’t I?”
“…A backside? Oh! Um… I don’t know, did you?”
“That’s usually what we call it when somebody makes someone else feel uncomfortable by confessing to being… interested in them. And all the rest. I’m sorry Niral, I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking straight and I ran off at the mouth."
Niral keened softly again and hugged her. Presumably she was hugging quite hard by Gaoian standards, but to Rylee the effect was of being gently hugged by an anorexic teenager - under all that fur, the Gaoian’s body was small, wiry, feather-light and frail. “I don’t think I understand this ‘drunk’ thing.” Niral told her. “But I wasn’t drunk last night, and I still say you’re my friend.”
“You’re not upset?”
“If I’m going to have alien friends, I need to be okay with them behaving in alien ways.” Niral replied, stroking Rylee’s hair. “I’m not upset.”
Rylee broke the hug very gently, and wiped away a grateful tear, pulling herself together. “Oh, I needed to hear that.” she smiled, then a thought struck her. “Shit, you didn’t tell Goruu what I said, did you?”
Niral tittered a Gaoian giggle. “We were too busy.” she teased. “But… no, I wouldn’t. Not if you don’t want him to know.”
“I don’t.” Rylee said firmly.
There was a moment of comfortable silence, faintly amused on Niral’s part. Then she looked up at the space-plane wing that Rylee had been sleeping under.
“So this is Pandora?"
“This is Pandora."
“Does the name mean anything special? The first Gaoian warp craft was named Tiritya, after the first Mother-Supreme, who united the females of all clans into one clan."
Rylee smiled. “Pandora was the first woman, according to Greek mythology.”
“The… how can there be a first woman? And what’s a Greek? One of your clans?”
“Yeah, sort of. Mythology means… kind of, fanciful stories, an entertaining way of getting points across using fiction. It doesn’t always have to be scientifically accurate. Besides, they didn’t really understand evolution by natural selection back in ancient Greece. It’s a very old story.”
“Oh. So, your first warp craft is named to honour the first female and not the first male?” The idea seemed to have Niral’s approval, and not for the first time Rylee was struck by the notion that Gaoian females were maybe a bit sexist.
“Well, she was more than just the first woman.” Rylee said, beginning to pack up her cot and stow it away in the ship’s small cargo compartment. “She was a curious soul who opened a box in which Zeus, the father of the gods, had sealed away all the evils and negativity of mankind. When they all flew away to plague humanity, the only thing that was left behind was hope, which she kept.”
She glanced at Niral. “It’s all supposed to be metaphorical.” she clarified.
“I guessed as much. But what was hope doing in a box full of evil things?”
“Hope can’t exist without evil.” Rylee said. She rubbed her hand fondly along the fuselage of the modern Pandora. “Just like up can’t exist without down, or how fast only exists relative to slow.”
“And I suppose your species is in a sort of box…” Niral mused.
“Exactly. I choose to believe that Pandora here is our promise that when the box is opened, we’ll be a force for hope and positivity in the galaxy, rather than a plague of evils."
Niral allowed the human a few seconds of distant misty-eyed happiness. “I’m sure you will be.” She said.
Cimbrean
“So, how much do you know about what’s been going on back home?”
Jennifer Delaney, mid-twenties, space-babe with a mouthful of the first chocolate she’d tasted in years, regretfully swallowed it.
“Not much.” She confessed. “The alien news only covered the big things: the Hunters attacked Vancouver?” when Powell nodded, she continued. “Then there’s a fecking big force-field, we have warp travel now… That’s about it. I know that our ambassador to the Dominion is called Doctor Anees Hussein because he wrote me a letter, and he hinted that we’re maybe wanting to play both sides to our advantage, but other than that, I’m pretty well in the dark.”
“Right. Well, it’s mostly business as usual.” Powell said. “The usual political gobshites, same sports, same celebrity gossip, same bullshit in the Middle East. The Russians are still fookin’ crazy, the Chinese still have a stick up their arses, the Yanks are still fookin’ reckless and there’s still a Marvel movie three times a year like fookin’ clockwork.”
“Nothing’s changed at all?”
“I didn’t say that. NASA and the European Space Agency merged to form the North Atlantic Space Agency, the Chinese, Russians and Japanese are all stepping up their space programs, as are the South Americans and the Australians, and there’s even the Pan-Africa Space Organisation now. I think they’re mostly looking at trying to build space elevators, which is easier at the equator or something.”
He sniffed. “A whole bunch of private companies are pushing into space as fast as they can, too. BAE, Virgin, Mitsubishi, Shenyang, Red Bull…”
"Red Bull?!"
“Dont ask. And the cutting edge military technology is… fook me sideways, if you were cleared to know about half of it, you’d shit your new pants.”
“How much AM I cleared to know about?”
“Right, so we took a look at the way business is done out here and promptly said “fook that”, right? Giant fookin’ spaceships with giant fookin’ guns and even gianter fookin’ armour plates pounding the living shite out of each other at spittin’ distance. They’ve got missiles and mines nowadays - apparently they picked that trick up off one of us - but their whole approach is pretty bloody direct.”
“Oh. Really? One of, um, us?”
“Yep. Like to get my hands on that wanker, whoever he was. Give him a lesson in keeping his fookin’ mouth shut.” Powell’s tone was light, but he had a dangerous look in his eye that reminded her a bit of Adrian, though not in a happy way.
Jen suddenly became very grateful for the practice she’d had in the art of lying, and bobbled her head in a way that could mean anything but didn’t really meaning anything specific. Powell apparently took it agreeably.
“Anyway,” he continued “the ships we’re putting up - or, at least, the Lockheed ones that NATO are buying - are built around not that. Long-range weaponry, evasive maneuvers, fookloads of electronic warfare. We use capacitors full of reserve power rather than big reactors, so our ships are small and agile little buggers, built to hit and fade, rip things a new one in the opening seconds, then jump out, recharge, come back and do it again."
“Our weapons stack up to theirs?” Jen asked. That part was genuine news. She’d known for some time that most weapons that she might find pointed at her were nowhere near as deadly as their equivalent on Earth, but she had always assumed that with thousands of years of science behind them, spaceship guns would be far in advance of anything humanity had yet invented.
“In theory.” Powell said, clearly unhappy about not being able to give a more emphatically positive answer. “Because all their stuff’s based around railguns and plasma cannons, our own weapons, which are neither of those things, should be something they don’t know how to handle. Their shields are tuned to stop slow-firing high-energy projectiles traveling at like, one percent of lightspeed, and the armour’s designed for heat dissipation: it’s all ceramic tiles, fragile as balls.”
“So, if we fire a howitzer at them or something?” Jen asked him, latching on to the first “big gun” word she could think of.
“I see what you’re thinking, but nah. It’d just explode against the shields: too slow-firing. But in theory, if we just chuck a load of lower-energy projectiles at them it’ll overwhelm the shields and smash the armour. See?”
“I’ll… have to take your word on all of that.”
Powell smiled. “I take it you’re not a military hardware geek?
“Not really.”
“Well, I am, and the Lockheed TS-101 gives me a hell of a chubby.”
“Charming.” she deadpanned, trying to give the impression that there were more important matters on her mind than the state of his junk. It seemed to work, because Powell cleared his throat and his smile faded.
“Right. Sorry.” He scratched his upper lip with his thumb, lips pursed in thought. “Anyway, back on topic. There’s… a lot of legal questions about Cimbrean here.”
“Like what?” Jen asked, surprised. She had assumed that all of those questions would have been sorted out long before the soldiers came here.
Powell ticked each question off on his fingers as he asked them. “Is this a colony of any one nation? And if so, which one? Or is it its own nation? in which case are you going to have a constitution, are you going to be a democracy? What’s your immigration policy? What are you going to export and import? What’s the customs policy on things like, say, seeds and foodstuffs, because from what I’m told our native Terran species would go through this lot -” he waved an arm, expansively indicating the ecosystem of an entire planet “-like vindaloo through a short grandma.”
“There are questions about you, too.” he added, looking her in the eye. “You were given the job because you were here and because we heard you’d built something, but seeing as what you apparently built is a battlefield, do you even want it any more? Do you want to go home to Earth? Because the next time Kirk swings by here he’ll be able to send you back, no problem. Do you want to stay on as governor, or hand the job off to somebody else?”
Jen’s brow creased as she considered this. “I hadn’t even thought of any of those questions." she confessed. “How much of being a colonial governor would be like that? Desk work, lawmaking, thinking about all the fiddly little details and all that?” She asked.
“Fookin’ near all of it, I’d imagine.” Powell said.
“Then I want to be replaced as soon as possible.” Jen said, firmly. There was no way she could go back to a job that even looked and smelled faintly like I. T., not after her experiences out here.
“You sure? Could be a nice desk. Big salary. Power, fame and influence?”
For once, Old Jen and New Jen were in total agreement. “I’d rather just be a space-babe.” She demurred, her voice completely full of resolve.
Powell nodded approvingly. “Good for you.”
Brick, New Jersey.
Ravi Singh’s apartment wasn’t hard to find. In a building of cheap wooden doors, his was the solid, expensive one with three locks and a camera above it.
The response to Kevin’s knock wasn’t a querying “who’s there?” or a friendly “Hello?”, but a moment of wary silence, and then:
“Who are you?”
Kevin held his tattoo up towards the camera. “Not one of them." he asserted.
He waited patiently throughout the long consideration that followed, and then the undoing of three locks.
After a few more thumps, there was a buzz, and the door opened… revealing another door.
“Uhmmm…”
“Step inside.” Singh instructed, his voice muffled through the door.
Kevin paused, shrugged, then complied. The space between the two doors contained nothing except an almost absonant magnetic lock with a keypad, and a shelf on which a metal detector wand was charging.
“Run the wand over your scalp.” Singh insisted.
Kevin Jenkins found that the limits of his patience were being approached, but he sighed and did so, completely bemused as to what he could be looking for.
Singh wasn’t satisfied until the wand had gone over his whole cranium twice, and over the bald patch where his translation implant had once been a good three times, before finally there was a beep from the magnetic lock and the inner door swung open.
Kevin wasn’t sure what he expected from the interior of the apartment. After the extravagant security and clear paranoia, he had expected a gust of stench and a study in dingy squalor inhabited by an emaciated neurotic disaster of a man. In fact, the apartment was clean and tidy, decorated in light and airy cream and a warm maroon.
Ravi Singh himself was similarly clean, dressed in jeans and a white shirt, but the bags under his eyes were exactly in keeping with the suspicious reception: he had the face and body language of a man for whom sleep had long since ceased to be anything other than sporadic, shallow and brief.
He welcomed Kevin into his apartment with a surprisingly warm handshake given his apparent exhaustion and the paranoia of the previous few minutes, then glanced out of the front door, and shut and locked both.
“So. What’s your name, mister not-one-of-them?” he asked. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
“I’m more of a coffee man, myself…” Kevin said.
“Of course. How do you take it?”
“Uh, black, strong and sweet, please. And my name’s Kevin, Kevin Jenkins.”
“Oh?” Singh arched an eyebrow as he busied himself with a steel and glass cafetiere. “Well, this is an honour. The Butterfly himself. Please, sit down."
Kevin did so, conscious that his street clothes were a good deal shabbier than the apparent recluse’s black leather couch. “Butterfly?”
“You’ve surely heard the term ‘Butterfly effect’? From chaos theory. The notion of a little insect in a field in France flapping his wings and several months later that little eddy has grown into quite the mighty storm and poof! There goes half of Bangladesh." Singh smiled grimly, a distinctive closed-lipped smile that Kevin recognised immediately as that of a fellow abductee. You learned to keep your teeth hidden out there.
“I never bought that story.” he retorted. “Sounds too much like the fantasy of a little man wanting to believe he’s important.”
“Does it? But you’re a living example of the principle in action.” Singh said, pouring hot water into the cafetiere. “I truly believe that had you not been aboard the Outlook on Forever that day, we would still be here. The sky would still be open, but we would still be generations away from exploring it."
“How d’you figure?”
“Without Kevin Jenkins, that would have just been another successful Hunter raid. Without Kevin Jenkins, the galaxy’s media would not have taken an interest in our species. Without that, there would have been no uptick in abductions. No uptick in abductions would mean no warp trail to lead a stray Hunter vessel to Vancouver in search of prey. It’s all quite narrative, really.”
He depressed the cafetiere’s filter and poured a cup of steaming black Blue Mountain.
“If that’s how it works, then what about the patrol officer who kicked me off the Churthuarg station for vagrancy?" Jenkins asked. “Or the Corti who abducted me, or my ex-wife or my lawyer or… you know what, I didn’t come here for this conversation.”
“No, you came here about the Hierarchy.” Singh handed over the coffee in an elegant glass cup. The aroma was perfection itself. “I told the last person who came knocking in no uncertain terms that her death was really only a matter of time once she started probing into this, but she said she accepted that.” He sipped the coffee. “I hope she was truthful.”
“She was prepared for it. Terri left her notes for us to find.”
“You knew her?” Singh asked.
“She and I were… we fucked.”
“Ah!” Singh looked sympathetic. “It must have been a complicated relationship, if all you’ll reveal is what you did, rather than how you felt. And so blunt, too. You must be in a lot of pain.”
“Dude!” Kevin threw his head back in frustration, then leaned forward. “I don’t want psychoanalyzing. I came here for information.”
“That information will kill you.”
“If they’re what I suspect they are, then knocking on your door probably killed me.” Kevin said. “So how about you drop the guru half-speak and get on with the movie.”
Singh smiled again, this time allowing his teeth to show - a genuine, human expression of delight. “Certainly.” he said.
Civilian Trade Station 1039: “Infinity Awaits”
“That’s a dangerous itinerary your ship has logged, cousin.”
Shipmaster Kttrvk spun at being addressed so familiarly by a stranger.
The stranger was a Rrrrtktktkp’ch, standing nonchalantly next to an advertising hoarding on the station’s docking ring, which was helpfully mocking the shipmaster by advertising life insurance. There was something slightly familiar about the Cousin’s facial structure, but the markings were totally unknown to him.
“My itinerary? I don’t have an itinerary. Excuse me.” He turned to leave
“1047-6533-26 972.” the Cousin said, reeling off Kttrvk’s assigned route and stopping the Shipmaster in his tracks. He looked faintly smug when Kttrvk turned to give him a disbelieving stare.
“How did you…?”
“I have my ways.” the stranger said, making it clear that those ways were not for Kttrvk to know. “That’s a dangerous route right now. A lot of Hunter strikes.”
“Well, your information is obsolete.” Kttrvk said, firmly. “I’m not doing that run.”
“Long Stars Shipping seem to think you are.”
“Long Stars Shipping can choke on their feed!” Kttrvk exclaimed, then moderated his tone when a few nearby beings glanced at him. “I will NOT orphan my children nor put them in harm’s way just because the corporation is too greedy to listen to my pleas.”
“You’ll go to debtor’s prison…”
“An acceptable price for the lives of my offspring, my mate and our unborn.” Kttrvk snapped.
He was not expecting the expression of admiration and approval that spread across the Cousin’s face. “Good for you!” he exclaimed. “But I am here to offer you a third way.”
“And what way would that be?" Kttrvk challenged him.
The stranger looked around and stepped in a little closer. “I represent an organisation that wants to trial some new military hardware.” he said. “Simulations and training runs are all well and good, but there is no substitute for the real thing, and the Hunter problem in this area will only claim more lives unless something is done… but they’re too canny to come out and fight just anything. We need… well, we need to entice them into attacking something."
“That something being my freighter.”
“You’re quick.” the Cousin said. From a Rrrrrtktktkp’ch to a Vzk’tk like himself, that was a serious compliment.
“My freighter with my family on board.” Kttrvk pointed out.
“My organisation would not offer to use you this way unless we were completely certain of your safety under our care, I promise you that.”
“And your organisation is…?” Kttrvk pressed.
The Cousin paused. “Let’s just say that this technology would impress and awe even the humans." he said, and made a small conspiratorial gesture that only Kttrvk could see.
Enlightenment dawned. Of COURSE! Everybody knew that it was only a matter of time before the humans got loose from their prison, it only made sense that there would be… organisations… looking to prepare to meet the deathworlders in battle and win.
And anything which could give the humans a pause would surely go through Hunters effortlessly.
Still, Kttrvk would not have become a merchant shipmaster without some guile and caution.
“All of your assurances aside, I would still be risking everything dear to me.” he said.
“If you are pressing for payment, then to assuage your fears and buy your lifelong silence about this experiment, I am authorised to release fifty Dominion Development Credits."
Fifty DDCs.
It was a vast sum. Enough to upgrade the Nkvcqtz with Corti engines that would hopefully give her the speed to not only slip past Hunter ambushes, but also to trade in high-value perishables. Sensibly invested on the other hand, it would provide a very healthy retirement plan for Kttrvk and Ikkzziki, as well as upmarket gene-resequencing for their children to enhance their intellect and buy them prospects that Kttrvk had never had.
But a career merchant’s instincts swung into place. Never accept the first offer.
“A hundred.” He counter-proposed. “We are risking a horrible death here.”
“Seventy. I understand your concerns, but you are in the safest possible hands. And yours is not the only ship that Long Stars is ordering on this suicidal run. You will merely be the first to leave.”
“…Done.”
Cimbrean
“Well, even if you pass the baton first chance you get, you’re still technically in charge of every civilian aspect of this colony for the time being.” Powell said. He snatched a clipboard from where it was hanging on a tent post and consulted it.
“Let’s see… There’s a list of stuff they’d like you to do. Nothing major: name the colonial capitol, identify any existing human citizens, living or dead… we’ve got real-time two-way communications with Earth but a pretty small data budget of what we can send and receive: more like telegraph than anything. To be honest, there’s not much for you to do. Anything on this list you DO do will be taken under advisement by the civilian experts and contractors we bring in once this place is secure and the camp’s up and running smoothly.”
“That doesn’t sound like it’ll take a whole month.” Jen said.
“We’ve got a lot of tech to deploy, a perimeter to establish, scouting to do, maybe an FOB or two to set up..”
“FOB?”
“Forward Operating Base. Somewhere small and camouflaged where if this place is bombed off the map… again… there’ll be a couple of guys left behind to report mission failure.”
“Sounds boring.” Jen complained.
“We’ll find stuff for you to do.” Powell promised. “And I mean USEFUL stuff, now.”
“Thanks.”
“So? Any ideas as to the colonial capitol’s name?”
“A… few. I’ll sleep on that one.”
“Fair enough. Okay… have you met any other humans out here? Besides Darragh Houston, that is. Actually, where IS he?” Powell grabbed a different clipboard and leafed through it.
“Feck knows. The last I saw of him he was on his way back here, but I did some looking around while I was filling up my bath, and didn’t find any sign of him.”
“Okay, he’s an unknown then…” Powell stopped looking at the page he’d turned to. “Any others?”
“Is that a list of abductees?”
“Every unaccounted-for human outside of Sol, in theory. Don’t ask me how they got it, I don’t know.”
“Okay, uh… a few. Adr… um, actually let’s start with, uh, Margarita. I can’t remember her surname, she was a dwarf, Spanish.”
“Was?”
“Yeah. She um… well, the honest truth is that an invisible death robot cut her open.”
“Invis…? O…kay. I think you’re going to need to brief us on those things.”
“I will.” Jen promised.
“Right.” Powell ticked something on his list. “Here she is. Deceased. At least we’ll be able to let her family know. Any others?”
“Cameron White. Very deceased and good fucking riddance.”
Powell blinked, then flicked through his list. “Oh. Shit. Fookin’ hell, what were they thinking stealing a crazy wanker like that?” he ticked. “Good fookin’ riddance, aye.”
“And uh… Adrian Saunders. Australian Defence Force….” she forced herself not to give in to the temptation to look down, whisper and cry. “…Deceased.”
“Wow. You’ve had a bad time of it…” Powell sighed, flipping through,his document, then ticked off against, presumably, Adrian’s name. “Deceased. Guess his wife and kid will have closure at least…”
Planet 16 Cyg B b, 16 Cygni trinary system.
Hunter supply station
+<contempt; disgust; snap> Report!+
The Omega did so, cowering appropriately as the Beta of the Brood-that-Flays swaggered into the information node chamber.
+<Statement> There have been no transports of the specified size along the prey-route within the last Diurnal, Beta.+
+<Disdain; command> Continue to monitor the traffic. The prey are stupid and stubborn, there will be a few more before their patrols arrive. And they are yet to send our tribute.+
+<Statement> I comply, Beta.+
Any brood above a certain size soon developed a small population of Omegas: They were an unfortunate necessity, as some tasks were too menial to insult the Deltas with, but too important to be entrusted to a meat-slave. This one, however, was especially vile in the eyes of its Brood.
It would have been a source of immense surprise to every other species in the galaxy that the concept of “creepy” was one that Hunters understood. But in fact, it was a central one to their mindset: the Hunters were the Predators, and everything else was the Prey. Predators behaved a certain way, and Prey behaved a certain way. Any deviation from this natural order was creepy.
Hence the Great Hunt. The worm programs that the Hunters had long ago infiltrated into the Prey’s data networks, that lurked invisible and silent, watching, collating and reconnoitering everything that the Prey chattered about, had gathered a great wealth of their speculations on the motive behind the Great Hunt: Opinion was mostly split into two camps, the first being that the Hunters were afraid of the human race, and the other being that the Hunters were jealous.
Both theories were equally amusing, by the peculiar standards of Hunter humour. The humans were a non-Hunter species that were Predators, and which was inspiring the Prey to behave in unPreylike ways. This was disruption of the natural order, a creepy intrusion into the Way Things Were Meant To Be. Their eradication was as obviously necessary as, for example, the correction of a fatal structural flaw that would cause a building to collapse under its own weight.
This particular Omega was only one wrong step away from demanding such action, itself. Its existence was barely tolerated, barely tolerable; it lived forever on a delicate knife-edge where its meat might be harvested and fed to the breeding pools should it deviate further from acceptable Hunter normalcy.
This was not because it behaved in an unHunterlike way. Quite the contrary, it did so very carefully, unfailingly and meticulously. What made it creepy was that it did not appear to do so naturally. Its thought-broadcasts were simple statements, queries, respectful requests. There was never any emotional content. When it joined the hunt-cry, it did so almost dutifully and by rote, rather than with real enthusiasm.
Thus, even the other Omegas, which usually banded together out of bottom-of- the-heap solidarity, tended to view this particular one as an opportunity to claw back an anemic parody of the authority that other Hunters held over them. The fact that it didn’t seem to mind - displayed no discernible emotions at all, whether resentment, resignation, complacency or contentment with its lot
- only added to the bottom-feeder’s abnormality. It simply followed instructions, diligently, swiftly, competently, and to the full extent of their spirit and intent, often even going above and beyond.
This hinted at the other aberration: The Strange One clearly had a sharp and calculating mind. It saw patterns with ease that other Hunters would overlook. On the few occasions where it had dared to venture an opinion, none of those opinions had yet been wrong. It grasped new tasks within moments, and performed them as well as an experienced expert after only a few days. For a creature so clearly talented to be apparently disinterested in its own stature or reputation was therefore wrong, strange, creepy.
The Beta bared its fangs at the Strange One and then threw itself into the throne traditionally occupied by the ranking Brood member present in the information chamber, pointedly ignoring the inferior specimen and instead stared out of the large gallery windows around the ceiling of the chamber, enjoying the view.
The fact that Hunters had any notion of beauty or aesthetics at all would have been similarly shocking to most of the prey-species. But in fact, the Hunters were in their twisted way highly spiritual and artistic beings. Most of their understanding of beauty was, perhaps predictably, a sanguine and violent one, revolving around the flavour of well-stressed meat, the patterns made by blood and organs and violent dismemberment, and the panic, fear and horror of the Prey.
Lurking underneath that, however, was an innate appreciation for the universe as a hierarchy of interconnecting parts, all in their place and tied by common threads. To the Hunters, the sense of How Things Should Be was a profound one. Predators fed on Prey, bound together by Nature. Alphas commanded and Omegas obeyed, bound by the common thread of the Brood. Moons orbited planets orbited stars, all subordinate to Gravity.
The planet known to humans as 16 Cyg B b was a particularly spectacular example of this last concept: a gas giant, two thirds again as massive as Jupiter, towing with it a coterie of moons, a vast garland ring and a shotgun blast of stray asteroids, captured comets and rocky dust, and it was into one of these asteroids that the Hunters had carved out their forward base, close enough to the spacelanes to easily intercept any choice prey that might use them, but far enough away to be a practical escape and hidden refuge. Bathed in the light of three suns, the view was stunning.
The Beta became aware that the Strange One was inspecting something on its screen with greater than usual scrutiny.
+<*impatience; tolerance; command> Report, Omega+
+<Statement> Beta, a Prey-ship has passed through our sensor cordon at abnormally high speed. <Observation> A ship that fast can only be powered by the grey-skinned Prey’s secret engines and a very large power source.+
+<Interest; Query> Can it be intercepted?+
+<Statement> It cannot, Beta. It simply attracted my attention: I apologise for intruding upon your time.+
The Beta grudgingly accepted the benighted creature’s apology. The day was just beginning to seem as if it would be a slow one without quarry, when the Strange One expressed the one emotion it had ever been known to show.
+<Satisfaction; statement> Beta, a message from the Prey. The Herd of the Long Stars have honoured their arrangement and are sacrificing a vessel as we stipulated. A bulk freighter, High One. Of a configuration likely to contain many long-necks and their young.+
The Beta allowed itself the luxury of a wide-mawed smile. While actually deigning to communicate with the prey was a task so wretched that even the Omegas were only required to stoop to it it because the meat-slaves could not be entrusted with the task, little “arrangements” with the so-called “corporations” that made the greatest use of the shipping lanes was a mutually beneficial arrangement: The Brood had neglected a rich hunting ground over the arrangement with the Long Stars herd, allowing the Prey to grow rich and fat off the easy pickings there.
The growth and prosperity of the Herd only served to fatten the meal and make the hunting that much better in the long-run. Proper cultivation of the meat was important, hence the willingness of the Broods to accept what might be alternatively interpreted as demeaning bribery, as if the Predators should be bought by the prey. Naturally, a high price was only appropriate. The meat itself was an excellent start, of course, but a bulk freighter was a large vessel that could be recycled into many Swarm-ships, and would hold younglings, ripe to become meat-slave breeding stock. The tribute was entirely acceptable.
+<Jubilation; Command> A fine quarry! Alert the Alpha: we hunt. Meat to the Maw!+
+<Statement> I comply, Beta. Meat to the Maw.+
The Beta snarled as it departed for its ship, mood somewhat spoiled by the Omega’s muted, unenthusiastic echo of a response. The Omega would receive only scraps from this prize for its lack of vigor.
Behind it, the Strange One ran an algorithm of its own programming and loaded it into the sensor console. The appearance of that abnormally fast ship was an anomaly, and in its experience, anomalies usually led to interesting data. Data that its true masters would undoubtedly appreciate.
Cimbrean
“Wife and kid?” Jen kept the question light, while in her head there were explosions and lightning bolts and screaming.
“Yep. Sandra Saunders nee Perry. Lives in Brisbane with her daughter Jessica."
“He never mentioned having a wife and kid.”
“Well, the sprog’s birthday is about seven months after his estimated date of abduction, so he probably didn’t know. As for the wife, well, wow. That might have something to do with these arrest warrants…” Powell said, looking at something that was clearly impressing him.
“Warrants?”
“Yyyep. Wanted for counts of Grievous Bodily Harm, Assault with Intent, theft of a motor vehicle, driving while intoxicated, dangerous driving, reckless endangerment of the public, arson, vandalism…” Powell turned a page. “…and littering.”
His attempt to maintain a deadpan expression at that last one failed, leaving the smile straining at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
“He…” Jen paused mid outraged defense, and ran through her immediate reactions. “He didn’t. I knew Adrian, he wouldn’t… not to his wife!"
“Doesn’t say she was the victim." Powell pointed out.
“Well it must have been somebody who hurt her or, or… He definitely wouldn’t do something like that to somebody he loved." She protested aloud, mouth rushing off ahead of her thoughts.
Except to protect her. Old Jen reminded herself internally, flashing up the memory of Adrian’s inexorably strong arm clamped tight around her throat.
Her objections faltered. “…yeah. I guess that sounds like Adrian.” she admitted.
“Sounds like my kind of crazy bastard.” Powell said, admiringly. “You sure he’s dead?”
“He was unconscious, and they were venting the atmosphere, trying to kill us. If I’d tried to drag him to the escape pod, we’d have both died.” Jen asserted, though her old self hated to sound so… coldly practical. Again,though, there was that understanding, nonjudgmental look in Powell’s eye, and it occurred to her that maybe she had some things in common with the special forces captain that neither of them really wanted to have in common with anybody.
Powell looked up as somebody knocked on crate next to his office tent and stuck his head through the flap. “What’s up, Brewer?”
The man who had knocked jerked his head towards something. “Solar array’s about ready, captain.”
“Nice. Come on, Miss Delaney, you might like this.”
Jen followed him out of the tent. “You can call me Jen.” she said.
“I’ll do that, then.”
In the middle of the lawn, one of the trucks was parked next to an object about the size and shape of an oil drum. Jump leads trailed from the device and into the truck’s engine, and a couple of men were gathered round hooking up some extra equipment to it.
“So what’s this solar array?” she asked.
“You know solar panels?”
“Yeah.”
“Turns out force fields can do the same job. All you need is a little jump to get them started, and then they power themselves and give you a bit of surplus to spend on things like water heaters, computers and that.”
“Water heaters?”
“Aye. Should make your baths a bit easier in future.” Powell gave her a winning smile, apparently immune to the scowl that answered him. Jen wasn’t quite so confident as to be perfectly happy about her inadvertent exhibitionism, but the SBS Captain seemed to cheerfully give no fucks at all about trivial things like accidental public nudity.
They watched as the array was powered up, with a snap as something sparked inside the truck’s engine. A ghostly orange dome of energy sprawled overhead, then faded to almost invisibility as the system figured out how much power it needed to draw and settled itself into equilibrium.
“Right. Look, I’m sending a patrol out in a few minutes, why not go with? It’ll take your mind off things and besides: we could use somebody who knows the land, and you know it better than we do.”
“I’m not exactly a soldier…” Jen hesitated.
“Trust me, you won’t hold them back. Besides, I’m not too worried that there’s anything on this world that’d make you tagging along a bad idea. They’ll only be gone a few hours, just long enough to scout the area.”
“That sounds… good, actually.” Jen allowed. She had become so used to walking that it almost felt uncomfortable just sitting around. Her body practically ached to be moving.
“Thought it might.” Powell shouted at one of the nearby soldiers. “Oi! Legsy! Get Jen here a rifle and a sidearm and teach her how to use them, she’s on your patrol!”
He turned back to her. “You wait and see, by the time you’re back, you won’t recognise this place, and I’ll have your message from home ready for you to watch in private.”
Freighter Nkvcqtz
For all the Cousin’s reassurances, Shipmaster Kttrvk had not been so encouraged as to take the step of leaving station with his mate and children aboard. They had been left behind, staying at a hotel paid for several (months) in advance through the expenditure of just one of the twenty DDCs that the Cousin had agreed to pay in advance, with the other fifty to be delivered upon completion of the mission.
The ship felt empty without them, and he had never felt more alone and jittery. Neither had his crew, all of whom knew that staying on was an enormous risk, but the company’s hazard bonuses - and threats - were sufficient to have persuaded most to remain, though all showed serious signs of stress and fear.
It was almost a perverse release therefore to hear the warning chime from the navigation system before they hit the edge of the gravity spike and the ALV drive’s field collapsed, dumping them back to the world of the sub-luminal.
The sensors immediately identified four Swarm Craft, and large ones, each capable of holding upwards of twenty Hunters. Every crewman onboard, Kttrvk included, promptly grabbed and armed their pulse pistols.
This was not for the purposes of fighting off the Hunters, though it was to be hoped that they could take a few down before being overrun. The pistols were for themselves: if you could help it, you didn’t let the Hunters take you alive. Better to die instantly than to be slaughtered while still conscious.
They waited as the Swarm-ships closed around them and the largest of them settled in to its approach vector, lining up the fusion-ended boarding tube that would violate their hull and inject terrible death onto their decks.
He was beginning to fear just how terrible his mistake had been when the local space sensors alerted him to the arrival - via jump drive somehow, despite the apparent absence of any jump beacons in the area - of five ships of unknown type, configuration and origin.
"Edda Wing: Edda Actual - Weapons free. Til Valhall!!"
"OORAH!!"
+<Alarm; Alert> Beta! Unknown warships have appeared via displacement!+
The alert came at the worst possible time. The Alpha’s ship had just lined up and was extending its boarding proboscis to pierce the Prey’s hull. It was at its most vulnerable, its slowest, its shields lowered to get close to the prey.
Already it was moving, abandoning the force-dock maneuver and trying to gain distance enough to raise its shields and accelerate, but it was too late. Exactly what kind of weapon it was that tore the Alpha’s vessel apart was unclear, but the side evaporated in a cloud of pulverised armour and metal scraps, and air pressure did the rest, bursting the ship and practically ripping it in half. Thirty-four Hunters, including the Alpha itself, briefly broadcast their dismay and fear across the brood network before fading.
The Beta - now the new Alpha - hooked its neural implants directly into its ship’s controls and analysed the situation. There were five of them. The craft were of a strange size, somewhat larger than a fighter or shuttle, but smaller than the next largest conventional class of military vessel. And they were fast, apparently blessed with a generous ratio of thrust to mass.
They were also alarmingly difficult to get a target lock on. Active sensors seemed to slide off their hulls like water off a greasy metal plate, and the ships themselves were small and agile, a combination which made securing a solid fix on their exact location at any given time as much a matter of luck and guesswork as of letting the sensors work. All were clearly being flown by experienced and exceptional pilots - their transversal velocity was high and their movements were coordinated so that if one of the remaining Hunter ships maneuvered to minimise its vulnerability to one attacker, another would be perfectly placed to rake it as it turned.
+<Statement; concern> These are not the tactics of Prey…+
As if to confirm that sentiment, three of the craft converged on another of the remaining swarm-ships as it executed an ill-advised turn in response to a feint. The new Alpha paid close attention to the weaponry they used, probing the space around the attacking craft for signs of what manner of violence was being unleashed. It detected only the burnt by-products of explosive compounds, and a hail of high-speed flechettes.
With its shields up, the second Swarm-ship survived the assault, but was badly mauled, losing a thruster and the coilguns along its larboard flank before the aggressors had swept past, banking and accelerating, keeping their transversal high. The sustained G-forces involved in that maneuver must have been ferocious, and yet the ships showed no sign that their pilots were in distress. A dreadful suspicion started to settle in the Alpha’s mind.
+<Command; urgency> Meet aggression with aggression! We are not Prey! Form up and fight as Predators!+
The Swarm-craft fell in around their wounded comrade, and as one the pack turned, seeking a target. One of the attackers was isolated from its wing, its evasive options whittled down by shepherding volleys of coilgun fire, and there was a stab of triumph from the Alpha’s gunner as it fired a perfect solution that would surely obliterate the offending vessel, turning the tide.
The Alpha had to replay the sensor logs to determine what happened next. In the tiny fraction of an instant it took for the coilgun rounds to cross the intervening distance between muzzle and mark, their target displaced, blinking two hundred kilometers across the sphere of engagement and re-entering the fight unscathed.
Then the entire hostile wing imitated the move. Suddenly, all of the Swarm- ships were flying in the worst possible direction, and their guns were pointed completely the wrong way.
A storm of accurate firepower ablated the shielding around their sterns in seconds.
+<Panic; Command> Disengage! Flee! Fl-+
A 30mm depleted Uranium armor-piercing incendiary round penetrated through all of the ship’s comparatively flimsy internal bulkheads, disintegrating as it went. It arrived in the command deck as a dense knot of incandescent heavy metal that reduced the Alpha to a smear of liquified matter when it passed directly through the command chair before embedding itself in the forward wall. The explosive force of its arrival crushed the other five Hunters on the deck almost simultaneously.
Perforated by hundreds of similar rounds, the rear third of the ship decompressed spectacularly, evaporating into an intricate dancing halo of flashing metallic and ceramic shards, mixed here and there with the odd disembodied piece of Hunter. The handful that were unfortunate enough to survive in the forward compartments did not do so for long - power failed instantly, and with it went the emergency air-retaining forcefields.
From the moment Edda wing arrived on the field to the second the final Hunter ship lost power and fell apart, less than three minutes had elapsed. Not one of the TS-101s had expended even half of their capacitor reserves or ammunition.
Freighter Nkvcqtz
“What. Just. Happened?”
Kttrvk came back to reality. He had done nothing but stare dumbfounded at the swirling battle on the sensors throughout its brief but intense duration. He looked around at his crew, all of whom were wearing identical expressions of utter awe.
He gathered himself.
“We survived, that’s what. Get the FTL repaired and let’s be gone!”
Planet 16 Cyg B b, 16 Cygni trinary system
Hunter supply station
The Strange One considered the recording it had made, all of the sensor data it had intercepted from the destroyed swarm-ships.
That the aggressors were human vessels was obvious, and a fact which exonerated the Long Stars herd of treachery. Incomplete and all-but-useless as the data was, that much could be gleaned effortlessly. That it should forward the data to its true masters was equally obvious.
But what of its “fellow” Hunters? The information would be of precious little use to them. It contained no hint at all of how the ships had been able to jump across the sphere of engagement without the use of jump beacons, what kind of weaponry they used, nor how the pilots could possibly react swiftly enough to blink-jump out of harm’s way as that first one had. The Strange One knew enough about humans via its true masters to know that even their impressive reflexes were not so sharp as that.
Probably useless as the information might be, the Alpha-of-Alphas especially was dangerously intelligent. If the Hunters were somehow able to glean whatever secrets the humans had unlocked, they would become an even worse blight than they already were. The Hunters were useful, keeping the masses nervous and distracted, but should they gain too much and too quickly…
The decision was obvious. It ran another program, placing a call that it made only rarely, when certain it would not be caught. Right now, with the whole Brood in upheaval over the death of both Alpha and Beta, for the Strange One to continue calmly working at its terminal would be taken as just another symptom of its strangeness and the content of that work would be ignored.
+I have potentially valuable information on the Sol situation+
The reply was instant: +Ready to receive.+
The Strange One promptly transferred all of its files. There was a pause of some minutes, which it used to update its archived mind-state. Now was one of the few occasions it had been able to safely do so.
Eventually, the reply came:
+You have done well, Twenty. The Hierarchy can make use of this information.+
Cimbrean
“Legsy” turned out to be an enormous Welshman, who towered over Jen and seemed to take the whole world with irreverent good humour.
“Right! Ever handled a gun before?” He asked, fishing around in the back of a truck.
“Sort of.” Jen said.
“Whatcha mean?”
“We modified some of those shitty pulse guns to fire actual ammo. They were okay, but…”
“Awh, they’ll be nothing next to these bad boys!” Legsy said. “Say whatcha like about the fuckin’ Germans, those cunts know how to make a fuckin’ gun.”
“Pardon your French…” Jen muttered.
“Wha? Oh, right. Get used to it darling, I’m from Llanelli.”
He hauled something out of the truck’s bed. “Anyway, THIS” he held up a gun “is the HK G36C. Before I give it to you, d’you know the rules of firearm safety?”
Jen’s lessons with Adrian on a deathworld she had never learned the name of came back to her. “Always assume it’s loaded and ready to fire and the safety’s off.” she recalled. “Don’t point it at something unless you’re completely okay with that thing ending up dead or destroyed. Don’t have your trigger finger inside the guard unless you’re going to shoot. Be aware of what’s near and behind your target.”
Legsy handed her the gun.
“Safety, magazine eject, charging handle. Got that?“Jen repeated the identification, and he nodded, then pointed to something on the top of the gun. ” This here’s an OCOG - that’s Offworld Combat Operations Gunsight. Designed for use in different gravity, right? Aim it at that target down there…” Jen did so. “See how the chevrons tell you the range, and stay on target no matter where your head is? Okay, tuck it into your shoulder a bit more… right. You know how to hold one, anyway. Give it here.”
When Jen had done so, he demonstrated the correct way to load and charge it a few times before handing it back to her and watching as she repeated the motion. Satisfied, he handed her a magazine with a strip of coloured tape around it.
“Okay, this is a charged mag and that’s live ammunition. Fire off a few rounds at that target by there.” He said.
Jen looked at it. “How far is that?”
“Hundred meters, nice and easy.” Legsy said, happily. “That gun’s effective out to about eight hundred, but the furthest target we’ve got is six hundred meters, which would be that little one waaaay over there.” He pointed at a little speck hanging from a distant tree. “But we’re going to start nice and easy.”
Jen shrugged, turned, raised the gun, sighted, and fired. The recoil was surprisingly hefty compared to the repurposed pulse-guns she was used to and the first shot hit a bit high. She adjusted, and the rest of her shots formed a tight grouping smack in the middle of the target.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell!” Legsy said, clearly impressed. “Okay, recoil surprised you a bit there. Squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it, and try to be breathin’ out when you fire. Go for that one over there with the orange stake next to it, that’s three hundred meters.”
Jen’s shots hit low. “Sights are off.” she observed.
“Or you’re just shit.” Legsy teased, grinning. “Nah, you’re right. That sight’s not been calibrated for Cimbrean’s gravity yet, you’ll need to adjust it. See that little dial on the side?”
Jen experimented with it, twisted it a bit, and saw how the chevrons moved and widened out a bit. She fired, hit a bit high, twisted the OCOG a little less, fired, hit smack in the middle, and something went click in her brain.
She grinned, aimed, and squeezed off all the remaining rounds in the magazine before laying the gun flat in front of her, pointing downrange.
“You missed.” Legsy said, examining the three hundred meter target through binoculars and sounding puzzled.
“Look at the six hundred meter target.” Jen told him. He frowned and raised his binoculars again, and Jen folded her arms and allowed a cocky smile to form as she watched the giant Welsh soldier’s jaw drop.
Brick, New Jersey
It really was very good coffee.
“Here on Earth, The Hierarchy would be just another conspiracy theory.” Singh told him, settling down into his recliner. “But they are very real. They have acted behind the scenes of galactic politics since the days when some of the older species were still around.”
“Still around?” Kevin echoed, questioning.
“Species come, species go.” Singh said. “You must have noticed that all of the civilizations out there are much of an age with us. A few thousand years older at most.”
“So…. what, species just go extinct eventually?”
“Eventually. Usually after tens of thousands of years as warp-capable civilizations. But in time, well… it’s not quite clear why. It’s the grand unanswered question of alien sociology. But yes, in time they all enter a terminal decline. Every race up there is living on borrowed time.”
“No exceptions?”
Singh issued a slim-lipped, grim smile and set his coffee down. “Just one. The Hunters. There are references to them in archaeological archives dating back to the days when humanity was still just a balder-than-average ape with unusual posture. Nobody quite knows HOW old they are. But the rest? Eventually, they crumble, their works decay, they withdraw to their homeworld, set up shop and just… dwindle. They stop breeding and… give up.”
He leaned forward. “Except for the deathworlders.”
Kevin’s brow creased. “…But we’re the only deathworlders, though. Aren’t we?”
“We are, yes, but we shouldn’t be. Let me tell you my story….”
Chapter 16
Chapter 13: “Tall Tales” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Author’s Note: This chapter was co-written alongside Rantarian and ties in with chapters 67-69 of “Salvage”. Reading that side of the story may help you make sense of things.
Brick, New Jersey, Earth
The name I was given at birth was not in fact Ravinder Singh.
You see… It often surprises me just how few Americans know that India is a nuclear power. We have our stockpiles of weapons, our enrichment program, our power plants…
Any nation which has a nuclear arsenal and is prepared for the possibility of nuclear war, inevitably needs to employ experts in the effects - both the immediate ones, and those that linger - of nuclear weaponry. That was me. I was, once, one of my home country’s foremost experts in just what the bomb does, to people and to places.
A curious vocation for a Buddhist, maybe, but I viewed my role as being that of peacekeeper, or maybe a guardian, keeping the doors of hell locked. Maybe if I could impress seriously enough just how terrible a thing these weapons are, make my nation’s leaders see that nothing good could ever come of their deployment, that awful force might be kept in check.
No matter. The point is, I am one of only a handful of people in the world who know in full the details of the Republic of India’s nuclear program. You can see why my abduction would have caused… alarm, among the Security and Intelligence Services, the military…
The fact that my eventual return to Earth landed me in the USA could only serve to compound that sense of alarm, hence my change of name and reclusiveness. You’ll forgive me if I don’t share my original identity - I doubt that India has forgotten me.
But you of course are not here for the story of why I am living in Brick, are you Mister Jenkins?
Three years and eight months AV
Cimbrean Colony, The Far Reaches
"…oh you should see her, she’s getting so BIG, and we were all so proud of her when she played Mary for the nativity last…"
Jennifer Delaney, mid-twenties space-babe, and feeling happy for the first time that she could remember to hear her mum’s logorrhea.
Tamzin Delaney had launched into her usual update on the lives of literally every person within a ten mile radius of their house almost without preamble, as if it was just another daily message on her daughter’s answerphone, rather than a prerecorded video letter to be sent into space after years of not even knowing if she was still alive or not.
It was… comforting, in its way. Normalcy among the weirdness. She hadn’t changed a bit.
Robert Delaney, on the other hand, had lost a huge amount of weight, and lost the last colour in his hair. He looked less amply jolly nowadays, and more… scholarly. It was quite a change, but Jen had to admit that the only other time she’d seen her old man look so good was in old pictures from the 80s.
He seemed content to sit quietly, left arm around his chatterbox wife’s shoulders, and just listen with a faint smile, but just as Tamzin was launching into the chapter about non-family members, he rolled his eyes and held up a tablet computer he’d been holding out of sight behind the couch. Written on it large enough for the camera to see were the words:
"What she’s trying to say is:"
He swiped down.
"I love you
and I miss you
and I pray every day that
you’re safe out there."
He smiled, chin wobbling, and swiped down one last time.
We both do.
By the time Jen’s eyes were dry again, most of her mum’s monologue was over, and she wound down with a few anecdotes about the daughter of somebody who had babysit Jen twenty years previously and of whom she had no memory, before glancing anxiously at somebody outside of the camera’s field of view.
“…Is that okay?”
“I’m sure she’ll love it.” the operator assured her. Robert grinned at him from behind his wife’s back.
“Well… Be safe, darling. I… Come home soon.”
The video ended.
"Want to go home?" Old Jen asked.
“No.”
She had been doing that more and more, lately. Talking to herself, carrying on a conversation between “Old Jen” - the I. T. cubicle mouse whose sole experience with men had consisted of a few awkward and ill-advised office fumbles - and “New Jen”, the competent, confident, slightly cold and battle- scarred Space-Babe. It had helped her get through months of isolation during the long walk, but the habit was ingrained now.
Perhaps even more alarmingly, Old Jen seemed to have a voice of her own now: a shy, querulous voice that longed for safety, for warmth and comfort, to go back to her own bed and maybe a cat and a goldfish and shove her head under her pillow and FORGET.
If she hadn’t been a genuinely nice person, Jen suspected she would have hated herself. As it was, she accepted the voice of her own timidity for what it really was - Her past. And her past was a story of fear, weakness, lethargy… Everything that kept a person back, kept them in a cubicle, kept them too afraid to talk to boys. Everybody had that voice: at least she knew when hers was talking.
Still… sometimes it was alright to let Old Jen cry, so long as she wiped away the tears and kept putting one foot in front of another.
There was some shouting outside, which meant that Kirk had probably arrived. It was only his imminent arrival - along with the influx of colonists from Earth, including Jen’s replacement - that had persuaded her to finally watch the video from her parents and read the messages from her friends and more distant relatives. After today, there would be no further opportunities.
She just wasn’t sure what she was going to do. She wasn’t going back to Earth, that much was certain. And she couldn’t stay here, even if her bath was here. And there was the awful question of keeping her head down and avoiding being noticed by the Great Hunt. But…
…She’d figure it out.
Starship ‘Sanctuary’, Cimbrean Local Space, the Far Reaches**
“I swear I don’t know why you upgraded this thing to be so comfortable when we spend hardly any time inside it.”
“It wasn’t originally supposed to be just two of us, Julian.”
“Right… still can’t believe the other twenty-three went back to Earth.”
“Oh, they’ll be back. I was wrong about something, way back when.”
“You’ll have to tell me later Kirk. Hurry up and get us landed: Long-range sensors are picking up an ALV drive signature, looks big enough to be a… frigate, or maybe even a cruiser. We want to be inside the colony’s camouflage field before they get close enough to spot us.”
“Just the one? A ship that big shouldn’t be out this far…”
“Shouldn’t? Maybe. Is? Yes. Get us down there.”
“Aye aye.”
Cimbrean Colony, The Far Reaches
“Fookin’ ’ell, they’re coming in pretty hard…”
The Sanctuary was hammering down at the core of a trail of plasma. Powell and all the rest ducked down against a sudden blast of air, and the whole colony shook as the ship extended its fields, pancaking the air below it into a hundred-meter tall cushion that shoved the fireball sideways, scything the top off some nearby trees.
"Jesus H. Tittyfuckin’ Christ!!" Legsy yelled, a sentiment echoed in assorted vulgarities from all across the camp.
Thrumming smugly, Sanctuary settled gently onto the landing field.
“The fook was that all about?” Powell demanded, as the ramp dropped and Kirk’s partner-in-crime, Julian, staggered out and sat down heavily.
“The camouflage field working?” he asked.
“Franklin! Camo the field!” Powell yelled at the SEAL whose job was to handle the colony’s forcefield.
“On it!”
The field shimmered, moving from optimal collection mode to a wide-effect digital camo that would, in theory, make the colony very difficult to see from orbit.
Julian stood up. “There’s a ship incoming.” he explained.
The trooper responsible for the colony’s sensor array - really just the feed from a number of stealthy micro-satellites in geosynchronous orbit - had already grabbed his gear before Powell could turn to shout him into action, and was busy checking it.
“Confirmed.” he called. “One warp signature, incoming at superluminal from outsystem… looks like they’re coming from Celzi space.”
Powell released a frustrated grunt. “Intel said the Alliance was stepping up anti-piracy ops in this sector. If it’s the fucking Russians…” he trailed off, not finishing the thought. If it was the Russians, then the whole Cimbrean operation might well be fucked. Moscow’s aligning itself with the Celzi had caused quite the political row back at home where most everybody favoured neutrality in the interstellar conflict. While the Alliance hadn’t been responsible for the Sol quarantine, their condemnation of the enclosure had smacked more of expedient propaganda than actual moral outrage.
“They’re slowing… sublight.” Baker added. “Active ping! We just got scanned.”
“Think they saw anything?”
“Field’s up, camo’s running… At that range, if our gear’s working as advertised, no they didn’t.”
“Good. If this is just a patrol, hopefully they’ll have a look and move on…”
Baker watched his screen for a good minute.
“They’re not.” He decided. “Looks like they’re pulling into low orbit, set to sweep directly over us in… ten mikes.”
“…shit. Okay, get the Skymaster ready.”
Jen glanced at the imposing device in the heart of the camp. The “Skymaster” was a repurposed M242 Bushmaster mounted on a complicated gyroscopic base and field emitter array that transformed it into an effective ground-to-orbit weapon. It had been one of the first things the platoon had set up after the forcefield had come online.
As she watched, it pivoted and swung skywards, aiming into the western sky.
“Nine mikes.” Baker warned. Powell nodded grimly. His face had that same cold, calculating look that Adrian had used to wear in moments of real danger.
“Prepare to active ping.” He ordered. “If we see any sign that they’re hostile, we shoot first and the questions can go fook themselves.”
Baker confirmed the order, then counted down: “Eight thirty.”
Jen cleared her throat. “You sure about this?” She asked.
“Sure as I’ll ever be. Baker? Active ping.”
The sensors specialist nodded, and tapped something on his equipment. He gritted his teeth at what he saw.
“Ah, shit, their grav-spike’s up." he reported
Powell spun and addressed the two men manning the Skymaster. “Gun team! Five rounds, ASX!”
“Five ASX, ready… lock!”
“Fire!”
The Skymaster thumped. Jen felt it in her chest as the weapon opened a force- field walled tube of vacuum in front of it, into which it fired a round which accelerated away on a warp pulse in a line of exotic blue radiation. The warp field would collapse scant millimeters from the target’s hull, delivering the round long before the Celzi cruiser could even register that it was under attack. In theory, if the cruiser’s shields were still down while its warp field dissipated, the rounds would strike its hull unimpeded, smashing through the fragile ceramic armour tiles and delivering shaped explosive charges directly to the superstructure.
If its shields were up… in theory the gun could overwhelm them with sustained fire, but during that time the cruiser might lower its spike and flee, blowing Cimbrean’s cover.
Baker’s report soothed that particular worry. “Target well hit and de- orbiting, but they’re still intact. Communications could still be up.”
Powell set his jaw. “Five more, fire for effect.”
“Five more… Fire!”
The gun slammed into life again, and Jen felt her heart jump in her chest as five more rounds in as many seconds vanished skywards, pulsing upwards in a streak of blue light.
Powell keyed his radio. “Kirk, get ready to hit orbit an’ fook off, if this all goes to shit we need it reported back to Earth. Jen, you’d best go with him.”
“…Right. Take care of this place, Powell.” Jen said, while Old Jen whimpered objections at her about not abandoning everyone.
“You didn’t even name this place!" Powell objected.
“Folctha.” Jen called as she ran. “It’s called Folctha!”
She jogged behind the slender alien as he cantered across the lawn and scrambled up the Sanctuary’s ramp. Julian had sprinted ahead and was already powering up the ship’s kinetics as the door closed.
“We good to go?” He asked.
Kirk shook his head, a slow gesture on his long-necked kind. “Not yet. That ship will see us if we take off right now, and its gravity spike is still up, they’ll get a good look at us if we run now. We need to wait until it’s below the horizon.”
“And then?”
“And then we go with plan B I suppose.”
“I hope that’s not the plan B I’m used to…” Old Jen muttered, sotto voce. Louder, she asked “What’s plan B?”
“We deploy the system defence field we stole from the Confederacy.” Julian told her.
“An expedient solution, but also a politically awkward one.” Kirk expanded. “It would damage Earth’s reputation and bargaining position. I was instructed that the survival of the colony is more valuable, but…”
“But the fewer pawns we sacrifice the better.” Julian finished.
Jen blinked “Somebody stole one of those things for us?”
“Julian did.” Kirk said, a revelation which caused her to re-examine Julian. After his stammering embarrassment at finding her in the bath, she’d pegged him as another Darragh and largely ignored him.
Stupid of me she realised, examining him with New Jen’s eye for danger. That earnest, cautious expression had done a good job of hiding the fact that he was fit, strong, and scarred, and clearly a survivor. It was only the slightly pathetic reaction he had to being in the presence of her - of a woman, she realised - that had made her dismiss him. Had he been standing with more confidence, she would have had no trouble imagining him stealing hardware like that.
At least it was a lesson learned harmlessly.
“What’s going on out there, anyway?” She asked, changing the subject.
Brick, New Jersey, Earth
Did you know, the Corti never dabbled in nuclear fission on anything more than an experimental basis? Three deaths and an event that came alarmingly close to being their own version of Pripyat later, and they abandoned the program and never spoke of it again. I found that interesting. Of course, that was before their eugenics program, and after their intellect had expanded and their compassion had shrivelled, they were well past the point of need to meddle with such comparatively crude science.
The Corti who abducted me - do you meditate? You should. I was taken while meditating and did not even notice until I opened my eyes again.
Their names were Hvek and Twanri. A mated couple, and as close as the Corti ever come to being head-over-heels in love. Nice enough people, if one overlooked their condescending habit of constantly attempting to impress upon the “lesser species” just how intellectually superior they were. I was not impressed - they had deliberately stolen me to tap me for expertise that they themselves lacked, after all.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. Corti schoolchildren would regard the class on radioisotope decay as mundane and boring. But there’s a gulf of difference between academic understanding of what causes nuclear fission to happen, and direct experience and knowledge of what the effects are when it happens uncontrolled. For that, they turned to the human race.
We aren’t the only known species to have detonated these weapons, nor to have dabbled in nuclear fission with the safeties off. But we are by far the most intelligent of those races which did so. That’s probably why they spent so much time repeating their obvious mental advantages - insecurity.
They chose two of us - myself, and Mikhael, a Ukrainian gentleman who offered guided tours of the Chernobyl exclusion zone. And chose, it must be said, perfectly. You could not have asked for a better pair to give you a complete analysis on both the academic and practical consequences of the aftermath of a nuclear event. Which of course gave us something of a hint as to what we were there to do…
Adams had a secondary role besides manning the forcefield, namely communications, and he called out as something on his own gear beeped.
“They’re hailing.” he reported.
Powell frowned. “Can they escape now?”
Baker shook his head. “No way, that ship’s coming down hard.”
“Fook it. May as well hear the bastards’ last will and fookin’ testaments. Open the line.”
The voice that came through was clearly Australian and desperate.
"Attention arseholes! Please stop fucking shooting at us, we are NOT Alliance. I repeat, we are just a pack of poor fucking bastards in honest need of some god damned help."
There was a long, embarrassed pause among the soldiers. Then, Powell leaned forward, took hold of the microphone, and replied:
“Attention ship - Ceasing fire. You are to proceed as follows: Crouch down, tuck your head between your legs, and kiss your arses goodbye. Sorry.”
There was no response from the radio. The silence on the ground was, eventually, broken by Legsy. “Fucking helpful advice that, sir.” he commented. Several of the men released the laughs they’d been holding back.
“Shut the fook up and get the lads ready to abandon base if we have to.” Powell ordered. “Actually, fook that. Where’s it coming down?”
Baker scratched his head “She’s aiming for… that big lake to the east.”
The captain glanced at the sensors screen, then grabbed his field binoculars and turned to face westwards, raising them to his face.
Other heads turned to follow his aim. Some few seconds later, a cloud formation withered and died in the face of incredible heat as the Alliance cruiser wallowed through it.
The ship was coming in at a shallow angle from low in the western sky, wreathed in smoke and fire as its shields struggled to stay up and ward off the hammering force of atmosphere. As they watched, a flicker and failure robbed the ship of what might have been an engine or something, which peeled off and corkscrewed away toward the south.
“No way is that thing surviving the hit.” somebody opined.
“We’ll check it out anyway, there’s at least one human on board, so we need to ID the body if nowt else.” Powell replied. “Legsy, get the mules and one of the trucks started up, send half the lads out there.”
“Which truck, sir?”
“I don’t fookin’ care! The one with the broken mirror!”
He keyed his radio. “Oi, Kirk. Hold off on escaping for now. Looks like we’ve got a couple of hours to check and see if owt survived the crash, you may as well unload the colonists.”
There was a pause, and then the alien’s simulated voice replied with a single professional word: "Understood."
Seconds later, the Sanctuary emitted a dull thud that must have been its end of the Jump Array accepting an arrival. It was only the first of the ten that would deliver the first colonists and their equipment and effects to Cimbrean.
Ten minutes later, Powell was riding shotgun in one of the Mules as it bounced and skidded across fertile flood plains. The stream that ran through the palace grounds at Folctha met up with a larger river, which in turn flowed out to the inland sea, from which a column of white smoke provided a clear marker as to the final resting place of the downed cruiser.
The mules were half pickup truck, half quad bike, and quite capable of getting themselves out of damn near anything the terrain might snare them with or, in the worst case, being physically hauled out by some strong men. Their supply of the diesel the little vehicles ran on was limited, but the development plan included finding a local plant species to refine into a biofuel. Besides, if anybody had survived the splashdown, the platoon needed to have men on the shore waiting to collect sooner rather than later, and the only way to get down there fast enough was by vehicle.
They pulled themselves to a loam-spraying halt as the sky flashed brilliantly from the direction of the sea. Every man in the mules and the truck flung themselves overboard and hit the dirt, half expecting a lethal shockwave to rampage up the valley and toss the vehicles flying, the product of some kind of nuclear meltdown or similar cataclysm. What instead arrived, after too many tense heartbeats, was a great echoing thunder of detonation that went on too long and was too gentle at that range to have been anything so apocalyptic.
“The fuck just happened?” One of the SEALs asked, being the first to break the silence.
“Maybe it blew up?” Opined a Canadian SOR trooper.
“That’d put paid to any survivors then.” Powell said. “Better hope not, we’ve still got a human to bag and tag. Mount up, let’s get down there.”
Waves were still lapping the sands and pebbles when they halted on the beach, and not a moment too soon: a trio of what looked like cargo transports of some kind were hovering across the water, propelled by rowing of all things.
A dishevelled hulk of a man, all muscles, wild hair, wilder eyes and unkempt beard splashed into the surf and waded ashore. He raised his hands in response to the guns that immediately aimed at him, but smiled.
“G’day”. he said.
Folctha colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Powell’s decision to order Kirk to remain had paid off, allowing the first civilian contractors and colonists to traverse the jump array from Earth, Already a team of determined-looking men were setting off into the forest with electric chainsaws, bent on constructing a log cabin to serve as a bunkhouse, as a rather more solid and permanent alternative to the tents of the military camp.
Somehow, they had even managed to squeeze a tiny backhoe into the miniscule space available inside Sanctuary’s end of the array, which was busily going to work laying the foundations for the bunkhouse and projects that would follow.
Jen wondered where whichever government or governments were responsible for this whole plan had found civilians with the right skills who could be trusted with the secret and were willing to take the risk. There must have been months of planning behind this venture, at a bare minimum.
“Miss Jennifer Delaney, I presume?” the voice had an accent that was pure southern England, reminding her vaguely of red tunics, flags and old stone buildings. It belonged to a slim, earnest-looking man in his late middle age who extended a hand as they met.
“Just Jen.” she asserted herself. Formality could go wrestle a Vulza. She shook his hand though, prompted by Old Jen into remembering that preferring to be informal didn’t mean needing to be rude.
“Jen it is.” the newcomer agreed, amicably. “I’m Sir Jeremy Sandy CH, your replacement as governor here.”
“Oh thank goodness… That’s a weight off my shoulders.” Jen admitted. “I’ve not done much governoring, I’m afraid I’m not cut out for desk work.”
“No indeed, you look like you’d find it bloody stifling.” Sir Jeremy readily agreed. Jen found that she liked the man, despite the pomp and poshness in his accent. Even if he was just very good indeed at reading people and saying what they wanted to hear, it was still nice to be charmed after months or, hell, years with no company but Adrian, herself, aliens, and a platoon of terrifyingly intense special forces.
“I can’t help but notice you’re about as English as the Queen.” she said. “Is Cimbrean a British colony now, or…?”
“The King, nowadays.” Sir Jeremy revealed. “But yes, it is. There was a lot of legal wrangling and courtroom drama involved, but ultimately Britain successfully argued that because the colony’s founder and first governor is a British national, as is its first military commander…” he waved a hand, dismissively indicating what had surely been an extended and heated debate within the halls of power. “Of course, that argument was much easier to make considering the confidential nature of the project. The absolute requirement of secrecy around Cimbrean’s development stopped it from ballooning into the political row of the century.”
“That makes sense.” Jen considered.
“Well, it probably won’t remain British for so very long. The Chinese, Argentinians and Russians are all making uncomfortable noises about expansion and Imperialism. Who knows? It could become the fifth member of the Union, or an overseas territory, but I think it more likely that Cimbrean will - quietly, respectfully and by common consent - go independent once on her feet, and become a Commonwealth member."
“Assuming she survives.” Jen pointed out. “If the Great Hunt finds this place…”
“We have a contingency prepared.” Sir Jeremy assured her. “In fact, you’ll be pausing during your departure to deploy it.”
“Oh?”
“Kirk will explain. Let’s just say that the need for absolute secrecy is going to be resolved soon. Among other things, a leak is inevitable, so we need to go public with the project sooner rather than later.”
“So it can have a positive spin put on it?”
“As you say.” Sir Jeremy smiled. He looked around drawing a deep and contented breath. “Gosh… clean air.”
“Clean, yes, but it’s also a bit thin next to what you’re used to. Don’t exert yourself too hard at first or you’ll feel sick and shaky.”
“Yes, I remember the briefing. Still… It’s refreshing. I’ve spent months in offices in London and Toronto ahead of this assignment, finally being here is wonderful."
You’ll enjoy the night sky." Jen told him. “There’s no light pollution here, so you can see EVERYTHING.”
“I bought a telescope among my personal effects.” Sir Jeremy admitted. “I’ve always been something of an amateur astronomer. The chance to survey new stars and constellations was part of what convinced me to take this commission.”
“Well, we’ve got a couple of hours yet before the expedition gets back from investigating that crashed cruiser, so welcome to Folctha. I’ll give you the guided tour before we go.”
“Delighted!” Sir Jeremy exclaimed, and took her arm. It was an avuncular, unconsciously friendly gesture and Jen quite forgot to stiffen at the unexpected contact. “Folctha?” he asked.
Jen smiled. “There’s a story behind that….” she began.
The enormous human wasn’t quite aiming his weapon at Saunders, but then again Gyotin doubted that he needed to. The squad of humans on the beach were quite plainly the most dangerous thing he had ever laid eyes on, each one of them comfortably wearing a harness of thick armour plating covered in an drab blend of greens and soil tones that his eyes almost wanted to skip off and treat as part of the background, and a gun that the Gaoian doubted he would even be able to lift. All bar the big one with the biggest gun were intimidatingly anonymous, their faces covered in black masks, and with lenses of a brilliant orange over their eyes.
He flopped onto the beach, growling at the pain in what was almost certainly a fractured bone high in his chest, and was surprised when one of the humans lowered his weapon and dashed over to him, unslinging from his back a bag of what were clearly medical supplies.
It immediately became apparent that the human had no translator implant or technology on his person, but even in the curious cadences of an alien language, his tone of voice was reassuring and cheerfully optimistic as he drew a slim white cylinder from his pocket.
Gyotin was in too much pain to really be too worried about a language barrier anyway, and just gratefully rested his head on the sand, awaiting his treatment
It came as a large disappointment when, muttering quietly to himself, he human scribbled a rune or letter of some kind on a piece of paper with the marker, and pinned it to Gyotin’s overalls before leaving and checking on a .Kwmbwrw crewman same ways down the beach.
Gyotin was about to raise his voice in protest and demand to know whether the human felt that some curious ritual involving paper was going to mend a broken bone, when the man simply touched the Kwmbwrw on one shivering flank reassuringly, before checking on the next crewman without leaving a note or rune. This one received more attention, and an injection from a small, presumably disposable, needle of some substance or another. It seemed to work, as the fallen crew member’s pained noises rapidly subsided , to be replaced by an apparently gentle slumber.
Triage, Gyotin realised, as the medic dashed from crewman to crewman, assessing the injuries. Mostly he just repeated the action of labelling his patients, but here and there he administered an injection of some drug or another.
The unconscious human - Markovitz - was loaded onto a small ground vehicle which roared away in a spray of kicked-up sand. The mostly-sane one - Kaminski? - was likewise loaded onto a vehicle, but this one was also occupied by a human who had the body language of the one in charge. They were just close enough for Gyotin’s translator to decide it could hear the “Rush-in”’s half of the conversation: the other didn’t appear to have a translator of his own.
“Kaminski, Roman. Captain, Spetsnaz.”
The other human spoke. The language was a staccato one, short clipped consonants separated by long, broad vowel sounds, punctuated halfway through by what was unmistakably a “fucking”. Gyotin still hadn’t quite figured why humans referred to the act of copulation completely out of context so frequently, but he had come to recognise the word by sound.
“I understand. Our missions are at cross purposes: I had no idea the West had forces offworld.”
“<Gibberish?>" There was a questioning note at the end of that sentence.
“Of course. I surrender, captain.”
The two deathworlders gripped each other’s hands firmly, and the captain nodded, looking relieved. “<Babble. Nonsense?>"
“Thank you.” Kaminski glanced around, and then leaned closer to the other human and spoke confidentially, too quietly for Gyotin to overhear.
The captain frowned, then turned to the enormous human with the giant gun. “Leg-zee! <Jabber! Gobbledygook.>
The big one nodded sharply, and then marched forward, stuck the vast weapon into the small of Adrian’s back, and ordered something. “<Yammer> fucking <prattle>."
“Sure, mate. Whatever.” Saunders agreed, and started walking, placing his hands gently atop his head. Gyotin wasn’t sure if the easy relaxed swagger in his movements was a symptom of bravado or honest insanity.
He stopped paying attention when the human medic returned and extended a hand. Gyotin took it with his good hand and was hauled - gently and respectfully but with the inexorable force of a human’s incredible strength - to his feet, offering words which, while Gyotin couldn’t understand them, promised medical attention and a future which didn’t include imminent death.
<+maybe they AREN’T all completely crazy…+>
Brick, New Jersey, Earth.
Our first destination - after we had finally calmed Mikhael down and he had agreed not to reduce our abductors to a fine paste - was a class eleven world.
I wish I knew its location, or anything more about it than its classification, but it was a pleasant place. Clement warm weather, stunning scenery, gravity just a little lighter than Earth’s, atmospheric pressure just a little higher. I felt quite buoyant - Mikhael complained of the heat. Supposedly, the world was home to a host of terrifying plagues, but neither of us ever got so much as a sniffle. Incompatible with human biology, I suppose. Or maybe Earth’s plagues are just nastier still. Who knows?
Have you ever heard a Geiger counter in action? Many people are alarmed by how rapidly and often they click just in response to background radiation. That in itself really ought to be a clue as to how cruel a mother the Earth is, when you think about it. That the basic background level of radiation to which we are entirely accustomed seems excessive even to us when we first learn of it…?
…Well, this planet - I suspected that it would only be the first of many we visited, and so I named it "Prathama" - had a background radiation much lower than that of Earth. It was so low, in fact, that Mikhael and I both fretted that the counter was broken, and requested replacements. The replacements corroborated the original, and in hindsight, why WOULD an alien world have the same background radioactivity as Earth? It would hardly be an alien world if it was identical, would it?
We had been dropped on this world, and told to search the area. Given who we were and the equipment our “employer” had granted us, it wasn’t hard to put together that we were searching for fallout zones, but what wasn’t clear was why. Deathworlds, after all, are supposed to be uninhabited. Humanity, we are told, is a lone statistical anomaly, the one race to defy the odds.
If that were true, and if spacefaring sophonts avoid deathworlds out of sensible caution, then why would there be any kind of evidence of nuclear catarstrophe on the surface of such a world?
Folctha, Cimbrean
A cry of “They’re coming back!” echoed across the camp.
Sir Jeremy turned to his predecessor as Cimbrean’s colonial governor and extended a hand. “Best of luck, Jen.” he said.
“And you, Sir Jeremy.” she replied, shaking it. “Enjoy the paperwork.”
“You can call me Jeremy.” He allowed. “I’ll make sure to have the bath enclosed and hooked up to the hot water. You’ll always be welcome here.”
She smiled. “Thanks…” a quick check showed that the truck was picking its way down the hillside. They had only a few minutes until the survivors from the ship reached the camp, and neither Jen nor Kirk had any intention of being identified as having been present. “I’d better run.”
“Before you go…” Sir Jeremy rummaged in his pocket and produced a folded envelope. “This is from the Prime Minister. He would like you to do something more for Earth. I suspect you’ll find it more to your liking than 'governoring’."
“Oh?”
“You’ll have your own spaceship for a start. Read it as you go.”
“I’ll do that. See you when I see you, Jeremy.” They shook hands, and she ran, sure-footed across the palace rubble and across the open field up the Sanctuary’s ramp, which closed behind her.
"Just in time." Kirk said. "I was about to leave you."
Sanctuary’s engines heaved, and she popped up and was gone in a startlingly short space of time, inertial compensation making the whole exercise feel eerily detached from the way the ground retreated and curled at the edges in short order. Jen’s last glimpse of Folctha was when the camo field snapped on below them, obscuring the vehicles just before they entered the camp.
They paused when Cimbrean itself was nothing more than a distant crescent sliver of blue-white, so small that she could have covered it with a pinhead at arm’s length, and Sanctuary pulsed once as Kirk fired something into orbit around the star.
“What was that?” She asked.
"System defence field." Kirk said. "A little modified. The colonists brought it back from Scotch Creek with them."
“Oh… a whole system? Like the one round Earth?”
“Very similar.” Kirk agreed. “Except that we can turn this one off when we want to.”
Jen said nothing, and pulled the letter from her pocket.
She was halfway through re-reading it when Kirk interrupted her thoughts. “_Ready to go FTL.” he informed her. “_Where would you like to go?*”
“Irbzrk.”
“How’re they doing?”
The colony’s newly-arrived doctor was an American, Dr. Martin Adams, and had undergone intensive training in nonhuman anatomy and medicine as a precaution. He had, to put it mildly, been surprised as all hell to have to practice his skills the instant he arrived. He and Powell had met briefly during the preliminary phases of the colony operation, and he had the intense, competent air of somebody who threw themselves completely into their work.
“One of the vizkittiks died.” he reported. “Not much we could do for her. The rest, well… I’ve set their bones, cleaned and dressed their wounds and made them comfortable, but they just don’t heal as fast as we do. Some of them are going to be in here for a long while. Frankly it’s a good thing we all have those disease-suppression implants or they’d be in serious trouble already.”
“And the Spetsnaz?” Powell asked him.
“Kaminsky’s basically fine. I’ve got his arm plastered, and a big glass of water sorted out the last of that “pixie dust” stuff. There’s nothing I can do for the other guy though. I got an IV in him, but if or when he pulls through is out of my hands, captain. Frankly, he needs to go back to Earth.”
“His only ride just left, too… Alright. Keep me posted. For now I want a word with our POW.”
“He’s over there.” Dr. Adams jerked a thumb to a bed with the curtains drawn. “Knock yourself out.”
Kaminsky was sitting up in his cot, looking bored. The man standing guard over the prisoner was a valuable resource kept from doing something more constructive, Powell knew. Hopefully, Kaminsky would turn out to be cooperative and his warder could be returned to a useful assignment.
Russian was a language that still formed an important part of the modern British special-forces soldier’s curriculum, but he knew only a few key phrases. Still, it seemed only polite to use them. "Kак дела, captain?" he asked.
Kaminsky’s English wasn’t perfect and was heavily accented, but was a damn- sight better than Powell’s Russian. The translator implants he had received from the alliance were useless: Powell didn’t have a matching set for them to talk with. Still, he might come in handy as an interpreter for the alien prisoners.
“Better.” The Spetsnaz captain replied. “I could do with vodka though. Several vodkas.”
“You lost men on that ship?” Powell asked him,
"Da. Sorry: yes I did. To traps, ambushes, maybe to that fucking foam." Kaminsky indicated the dormant form of Markovitz, then to an empty cot opposite his own. “Sit down.” he invited.
Powell did so. “So, I want to strike a deal, mate.” he said.
Kaminsky looked interested. “What deal?”
“If I HAVE to, I’ll need to assign a guard to you at all times, and I’ve got fookin’ precious few men to waste on that duty. You can see how a Russian special forces trooper smack in the middle of my mission is a bit of a sticky wicket.”
“I see that.”
“So… do I have to?"
“What is your offer?” Kaminsky asked, carefully.
“Quid pro quo, mate. A little information, and I might be persuaded you’re going to behave yourself and I can put private Hodder there back to work.”
“Where I’m from, my interrogation would not be so pleasant.” Kaminsky joked.
“Been there, fookin’ done that.” Powell told him. “But I don’t see the need to start wi’ threats and pain when you and I can just come to an officer’s agreement, like.”
“I agree. It is better this way.” Kaminsky said. “But are you asking about the spaceship and how I came to be on it? Or about my Australian friend with the alien mutant juice?”
“Alien mutant juice.” Powell’s tone of voice was a flat repetition, but also a question.
“Just something he said, and my suspicions. I’ll tell first one story, then the other, yes?”
Powell acquiesced with a bobble of his head and a shrug. “Sounds fair.”
He listened. Kaminsky’s life had rapidly swung for the strange the second he had encountered the now-crashed cruiser, moving from a relative cakewalk to a desperate fight to survive. All things considered, that the man had escaped only with some mild poisoning and a broken ulna to show for it was impressive.
Whether out of soldierly efficiency, Russian brevity or simple terseness from being a slightly hesitant Anglophone, Roman’s account didn’t take long. They sat considering the implications for a while.
Finally, Powell stood up and shook the Spetsnaz officer’s hand. “I have your word you’ll behave?” he said.
“I would like to go home as soon as possible.” Kaminsky confessed. “I think betraying your trust would only delay that.”
“Good enough for me.” Powell said, then deployed some of his own meager Russian again. "Спасибо за информацию."
Kaminsky smiled. "Пожалуйста." he said. “Good luck with this Australian, he’s crazy.”
Brick, New Jersey, Earth.*
We had grown so accustomed to the sporadic background noise of our counter that when it ticked up to what was, by any human standard, merely a healthy background, we both became quite fretful and uncertain.
Our trepidation was not without good reason, it must be said - the difference between a perfectly safe exposure and rapid but unpleasant death could just be whatever it is that you’re standing behind at the moment. From that moment on, we moved carefully. We tested the water, kept some clean in a bottle to wash any fallout from our persons if we should be contaminated, paused every few hundred meters to probe the air, the soil and the plants for contaminants.
And we found them, oh yes. isotope concentrations in the soil, all from Uranium’s decay chain. Signs of heavy metal poisoning in the local wildlife, including one unfortunate predator that must have had a vast concentration in its equivalent to a liver, concentrated into it by its food chain.
It was lying, dying, by the side of the first sign of civilisation we had seen - a road.
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Adrian Saunders turned out to be huge. It HAD to be Saunders, even though Jen had been perfectly convinced he was dead. Even without knowing the first name, there were no other Australians with engineering experience and military training on the abductee list. The guy wasn’t tall - in fact, Powell had a good couple of inches on him - but he made up for it by plainly having the kind of physique that strongman competitors and bodybuilders beat themselves up in pursuing. It looked like working muscle, too, rather than pure steroidal bulk.
He let the man stew for a few minutes as he sorted out some paperwork, including a quick re-read of Saunders’ file. When he judged that his prisoner was about on the verge of starting to fidget, he looked up and gave him his well-practiced “I really don’t have time to deal with this shit so you’d damn well better impress me” look.
Contrary to the usual response, Saunders instead smirked and laughed slightly.
“I’m not findin’ this fookin’ funny!” Powell snapped, shutting the man up even if the response was more arrogantly sullen than alarmed. “Do you have any idea what kind of problems you’ve caused just by being here? If you are who I think you are, you’re doin’ a shite job being dead!"
“And if I am who you think I am, you should have a long fucking think before making it known." Saunders retorted, though why he felt that should be the case was a mystery from Powell’s perspective. “Where’s Jennifer Delaney?”
“You don’t ask questions,” Powell told him. “You answer them.”
This earned another insubordinate frown. Frankly, it was amazing the man had made any kind of a career in the military at all. His body language and defiant expression was more rebellious teenager than professional soldier. “You bastards just shot down my ship-” He began to protest.
Powell interrupted him, not in the mood to let the prisoner claim the initiative. “Captain Kaminski tells me it was a pirate vessel, and that you only boarded it once he’d taken control of it,” He said. “In fact, he’s told me a lot of interesting things about you.”
Saunders gave a dismissive shrug. “So I’m the one who stole it most recently. I’m still the guy who crash landed a starship on a planet and walked away, and that’s not even close to the most fucking terrifying thing I’ve done this week.”
Powell had once led a team which infiltrated a Jihadist compound specifically to stab one man and steal his notebook, then exfiltrated with the entire camp hunting for them. That had taken skill, courage and no small amount of daring. Surviving a water landing in a starship, especially a badly damaged one, smacked more of luck, and luck in his experience was not to be relied upon, nor boasted about. “Not fookin’ impressed, mate.” he said.
This dismissal seemed to score a hit because Saunders shifted forward angrily and raised his voice, apparently oblivious to the five guns that all snapped to aim directly at him, and the way Powell’s hand dropped his holstered sidearm. “I’ve just been on a merry jaunt through fucking hell" he snarled “and all I want is the answer to One. Goddamned. Question!"
Powell let the moment of tension play out, until Saunders calmed down a bit and sat back. The angry shouting approach hadn’t worked, forcing him into a more reciprocal, reasonable approach. “Please?” he asked eventually, settling down.
Powell kept his satisfaction from showing, and instead made a show of standing down in turn, as did his men. “Quid pro quo, then.” he said. “You answer my questions and I’ll answer what I can of yours. Something tells me neither of us is going to like the answers.”
“No fucking kidding?” Adrian asked. “Well, I haven’t liked much for as long as I can remember, so why the fuck should I start now? Where’s Jennifer Delaney?”
"First" Powell persisted, “Your name.” He gave it a moment, then when no answer seemed forthcoming, he decided to say it outright. “You are Adrian-”
The captive interrupted, jerking a thumb towards the soldiers. “You better trust these fuckers here implicitly if you’re going to finish that sentence. Or maybe we can just assume that whatever you were going to say is right?”
Powell gave him a cool stare. Of course he trusted them implicitly. This was a top secret mission, and the men under his command were the best of the best. Not a single one of them was a security liability.
Besides, whatever reasons the man felt he had for needing to keep his secret superhero identity - and Powell wasn’t about to rule out some kind of paranoid delusion - he hadn’t yet revealed what they might be. Powell wasn’t interested in playing “Interstellar Man of Mystery.”
“….Saunders." he finished. “As for Miss Delaney, you just missed her. She shipped out when we detected your mob comin’ in. ”
There was a long, bewildered pause, and then the Australian broke down and started laughing. It wasn’t a happy laugh - it was a black cynical one, the laugh of a man who’d just figured out that he was the butt of a sadistic sense of humour. “Of course… of course she did!” He exclaimed, somewhere between the laughing and the sobs. “Gone home I bet? No reason to wait for a dead man!”
"Jesus fookin’ Christ…"
Powell decided, as the Australian slowly pulled himself together, not to correct him on that point. Jen had clearly been holding a torch for this guy, but mental cases like this tended to be a danger to themselves and anybody nearby. Jen was too competent, capable and useful a resource to endanger like that.
“Kaminski wasn’t bloody kidding,” he declared. “Is the rest true? The infrared? The… muscles?”
Adrian nodded as he ran a rough hand through his beard and across his head. “Yep,” he said, voice still trembling, “but I wouldn’t fucking recommend it. How are the Russians doing? Quid pro quo, remember?”
True enough. “Kaminski’s recovered. We have no idea what’s wrong with Markovic outside of ‘Pixie Dust’. Something to do with the alien fire suppressant?”
“Apparently it sends you totally fucking mental before you go catatonic. At least that’s what I’ve gathered from it.” Saunders revealed. “I’d stay away from that shit if I were you.”
<+No shit.+> Powell thought, feeling that his intelligence was being insulted. Who did this idiot think he was dealing with? There wasn’t a soldier on Cimbrean who wasn’t veteran special forces, they didn’t need advice from a crazed resurrectee, they needed the facts, unbiased and plain. Shit like “Don’t breath in the toxic foam” went without saying.
He kept his cool by changing the subject. “You’re a wanted man on Earth, you know,” He told him, keeping his tone light and companionable. “By rights, we’re supposed to imprison you and keep you until we can send you back… but.”
He looked the Australian up and down. “I can smell the kind of shit you’re in, and I’m not going to put this colony and my mission at risk over a dropout who’s legally fookin’ dead." He said. “D’you know how long that paperwork takes? I don’t have the fookin’ time nor the inclination, so long as you promise to get the fook out of my hair and never come back. Spread the word there’s nowt but ruins on Cimbrean and I might even be persuaded to see if there’s owt useful you can be doin’ instead of stealin’ pirate ships and chasing after a girl who’s got her shit together way better than you do."
They stared at each other for a few moments, then Adrian unclenched his fists, sighed and nodded. “Looks like you’ve still got some broken down old ships. I can probably put a working one together given a bit of time, a week… two at most, and then I’ll be out of your hair.” he offered.
“Good,” said Powell. Anything to get the man away from the colony and back out in the wider galaxy where he could do less harm. “We’ll give you food, clothes and shelter… and a fookin’ shave if you want it, but you need to get out of here before you become a problem. And for the moment, Captain," he added, stressing Saunders’ former rank “you are going to give me a full debriefing.”
He listened as the disgrace seated opposite him relented and launched into a characteristically foul-mouthed summary of everything that had happened to him since his abduction.
What was clear was that Saunders was completely out of his gourd, and a danger both to himself and to everybody around him. He briefly entertained the thought of just shooting the dangerous prat then and there and giving him a grave somewhere in the Folctha palace grounds. It would certainly have been the most expedient solution, and when it came down to it the SBS had done a lot worse during their history for the sake of the mission than putting down a figurative rabid dog.
It wasn’t a choice between pragmatism and compassion so much as a choice between conflicting forms of pragmatism, really. In the end, letting him live won out. Getting the word spread that Cimbrean was uninhabited might just put paid to the rumours of a colonial effort that had lured Saunders here in the first place. Not to mention that having the man sighted a long way from here could only increase the colony’s security, next to the trail going cold on its way here. Besides, if he kept taking crazy risks then eventually his luck or tenacity would run out and that would be the end of it.
“The fookin’ dinosaurs built a spaceship." He said, flatly. It wasn’t a question so much as a simple statement of disbelief.
“Yep.” Saunders said it with his apparently trademark "I couldn’t give a fuck even if somebody else did all the heavy lifting" attitude, but also with the total assurance of somebody who knew what they were saying was absurd and yet sincerely believed it to be the truth.
“I asked for a fookin’ debriefing, not a flight of fancy.”
“Space dragons, fucking X-files grey aliens, blue giraffes, raccoon people, and, yep, the dinosaurs built a fucking spaceship. Not my fault the universe is totally fucking mental.” Saunders objected.
He sniffed, and added: “Fucking good spaceship, too.”
Powell sat back and considered as Saunders rambled on at length about saurian robotic terminators, stasis chambers, the trouble with blue fur, statues, collapsing buildings, missile-riding, Vulza-riding and how much he hated fire suppressant, black holes and Darragh Houston. The whole monologue was being recorded for transmission back to Earth. How much of it was true or even plausible wasn’t a matter he intended to waste much time and thought on, but he did notice that while Saunders mentioned something called the “Hierarchy” a couple of times, he didn’t elaborate on who - or what - said Hierarchy might be.
When it came up again, he finally had to interrupt. “Okay, that’s the third fookin’ time you’ve mentioned this ‘Hierarchy’. Who in the hell are they meant to be?" he demanded.
Saunders had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Long and short of it? They’re the Space Illuminati.”
“For fook’s sake!" Powell exploded to his feet, spun away from the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose as he stood facing the corner for a second, head bowed. “I have no idea why I don’t just assume you’re taking the piss.” he muttered.
“I know a few things… they’re beyond cutting-edge. They’ve got a fucking army. And they love robots. Oh, and they can copy their brains away.”
“Greeeaaat.” Powell muttered. He turned and considered things. “Bloody ’ell, Why in God’s name do I believe you, Saunders?”
“Don’t fucking ask me.” the Australian gave him a wild-eyed shrug. "I hardly believe all this shit. But you do have a crashed Hierarchy ship sitting offshore."
“Not like I can do owt with it.” Powell grumbled as he sat down again. Nobody on his team was even remotely qualified to handle, salvage or work with nonhuman technology. A critical mission oversight, in retrospect.
<+And here I thought this debriefing was going to make my job LESS fookin’ difficult.+> he mused.
Adrian shrugged. "You can’t." he said.
Powell, distracted by his own thoughts didn’t catch the inflection properly. “Can’t… what now?” he asked
"You can’t do anything with it. I probably can." Adrian repeated.
“…My lads and the SEALs could dive that wreck, no problem, but we wouldn’t know the warp engine from the shitter.” Powell said. “You sayin’ you would?”
“I rebuilt a dinosaur spaceship and killed a fleet of fucking arseholes with it.” Saunders boasted, looking as if he was regaining a degree of focus. There was a hint of the once-professional soldier in the way he spoke. “I’m not saying it’s recoverable but if it is…”
Powell considered, scratching his own facial hair. “…If it is, you might actually turn out to not be a complete fookin’ liability after all.” he acknowledged.
Saunders’ professionalism slipped again, and there was a certain manic glint in his eye that only reinforced Powell’s conviction that he belonged as far away from Cimbrean as possible if the colony was to succeed. ““I was going to take some hard fucking revenge on these fuckers anyway, so… you know, it’s no problem.” he said.
Powell weighed his options. Unstable though he was, Saunders was the only man to hand who had the knowledge and experience necessary to do anything with the crashed “Hierarchy” ship before the salt water completely ruined it. And if they were as dangerous as he suggested, then his mission demanded at least sweeping the thing for tracking devices, beacons or other potential mission- compromisers, not to mention intelligence of a long-term threat.
“…Fine.” he relented. “You get to dive that wreck. You find any intel we can use and turn it over,and I might even drop the whole “never come back” thing. Now, I’m still kickin’ you off this planet because I need trouble like you a long way from my mission, but if you can prove you’re not a complete cock- up and turn up owt that’s useful - and rip out and destroy anything that might lead this Hierarchy here… Well, there’s the deal."
“Honestly I doubt it even has what I want.” Adrian confessed. “But I’ll be sure to look. What about after I’ve left? You got a phone number?”
“Next best thing.” Powell said. “You know Star Trek?”
“Yeah. My old man had an obsession.”
“Good, then you should remember this. There’s an… agent we use. He handles courier work, messages and odd jobs for us. He’s got an interstellar datanet dropbox, if you have a message for us, send it there and he’ll pass it on. The address is November-Charlie-Charlie one-seven-zero-one. Got that?”
“Got it.” Saunders nodded, the soldier showing again for a second, in the attentive way he gave his undivided attention to the important information.
“You know how to stay secure online?”
“I have a guy who can crack cyber security like an egg.” Adrian reassured him.
“You trust him?”
“We’ve seen a lot of shit together, so you know how it is. I know he’s not Hierarchy.”
That would have been good enough for Powell had the Australian been talking about a fellow human, but only one name in the story he had just told fit the description.
“You don’t mean this “Askit” bloke, do you? I thought you said he was Corti?”
Trusting a Corti with valuable information was, as far as the analysts back on Earth had been concerned, about the same thing as trying to carry boiling oil in a colander. The only way it could end was you’d get burned. You only told them secrets if you WANTED those secrets to fall into enemy hands.
“He is,” Adrian acknowledge “And I’ve almost never wanted to kill him.”
“…Whatever.” Powell sighed. “I guess trustin’ you with this means trusting whoever you trust in turn. Just don’t send in the clear, and use a codename. “Kirk”, “Enterprise” and “Federation” are already taken. Got that?"
Adrian considered, and then an impish grin parted his beard. “Reckon I might go with Captain Scarlet. Looks like I’m breaking the theme.”
“If playing the fookin’ special snowflake is what floats your cock, sure. Whatever.” Powell told him. “Got anything more to add before I let you bugger off and start building your pet starship?”
“Just one thing.” Adrian replied, shifting forward in his seat. “I’m about to start waging my own personal fucking war on an enemy I can’t even imagine. If you’ve got a wish list for souvenirs just let me know.”
He wasn’t engaging his brain or else that list should have been obvious, but then again Powell knew the value of repeating things in case something had been overlooked. “Anything that proves they exist and aren’t just your imagination." He said, extending his fingers to list the items he could think of. “Bleeding-edge technology. Alien hard drives, journals, logbooks, computers, that kind of thing. A working cloaking device, or at least one that’s not too badly broken. Maps, encryption keys… intel, basically.”
“You need a cloaking device?” Saunders asked, sounding faintly incredulous. He waved his arm vaguely towards the tent wall, indicating the unseen crashed starships outside. “You’ve got a half dozen wrecked Hunter ships lying all over the place.”
“Bloody lovely.” Powell agreed. “Now if you can point out which bit of the fookin’ things is the cloaking device, I might consider it a tick in the “not a complete waste of space” column."
Saunders scowled “Your confidence is fucking overwhelming.” he grumbled. “I’ll put it on the list of shit I have to do.”
“Saunders:” Powell warned “As far as I’m concerned. the one thing that makes you worth the oxygen you’re breathing is that you’re the only bastard on this planet right now who knows a spaceship’s arse from its elbow."
He looked Adrian dead in the slightly crazed eye. “Remember that, aye?”
The intimidation tactics didn’t seem to work: Saunders seemed to take it more as a joke than as a reminder of just how tenuous his position was, and grinned. “I’ll remember.” he promised.
“Right.”
Powell nodded upwards towards the door, dismissing the man. “Fook off.”
Brick, New Jersey, Earth.
Not that it was easy to tell: The concrete - it was made of hexagonal slabs of poured concrete, rather than asphalt - had been breached by trees, and the forest that violated the hard-top was just as dense along the road’s length as in the good soil to either side of it. It must have been… oh, a hundred years or more since it had been last maintained. Had we not stopped to examine the dying creature, we might have just stepped over the concrete road surface, dismissing it as a rock formation.
But once you saw the hard straight lines of the carriageway’s edge, and saw the material for what it was, other details made themselves known. The way that little clump of tangled thorny vegetation over THERE had a suspicious hint of rusty metal chassis, and the way that the creepers and vines over THERE seemed to have grown down from some kind of scaffold. That sort of thing. Everything was so green and alive that it all but completely obscured those fingerprints of an industrial civilisation.
There are only so many ways to build a car, I suppose. And only so many ways to reliably make it move. Only so many ways to build an internal combustion engine. All fancy and artistry aside, engineering is the art of effecting an efficient solution to a problem, and air resistance is much the same everywhere in the galaxy, as too are the demands of being able to readily carry a reliable and efficient fuel source.
The point is… there they were. Cars. Road signs. clear and visible signs that, once upon a time, Prathama had been home to a civilisation every bit as vibrant and technologically proficient as our own was in the latter half of the 20th century.
A civilisation that was, it seemed, utterly dead.
Cimbrean Date Point: 3Y 8M 1W 3D AV
Lance Corporal Danny Michael watched the Australian shave with the kind of pleasure only possible for a man who’d gone without for a good long while, and the transition between wild-haired spaceman and barely-tanned skinhead was a quick once he got to it. The man, Captain Adrian Saunders of the ADF, was judged by Captain Powell to be of a particularly unstable variety, and so Michael and Marine Paul Richard - his good mate and current off-sider - had been assigned to watch over him in case he tried anything too manic.
Such as fuckin’ well killing everyone.
“You’ve got no fucking idea how good this feels,” Saunders told them, assuming a great many things in the process. Michael had once been taken captive by Islamists who hadn’t recognised him for a soldier, and had paid the price months later when he’d been able to get himself and the other surviving prisoners free and clear of their shitty little compound. It was amazing how thick hair could grow on a man in the hot desert sun, and shaving it off had felt like coming home.
Michael just shared a knowing glance with Richard; they knew each others’ stories and there wasn’t any need for words in front of a crazy bastard like Saunders. That fucker could think whatever he wanted for all Michael cared.
Saunders turned out to be a little more balanced than Powell had feared; there hadn’t been any outbursts of violence that would have required them to put him down like a mad dog, even if doing so would have allowed them to move into other, far more interesting duties. Most of what Saunders seemed to do was to focus on tearing all the alien shit out of smashed up alien ships, and moving it over to the one that was the least fucked up. He’d started work on repairs once he’d amassed a small mountain of technological garbage, and had spent the next few days turning large holes in the ship’s hull into equally large patches.
Even once he’d completed the work to his own satisfaction, the ship didn’t look anything like spaceworthy. If anything it looked exactly like it’d crashed a second time, and was waiting for someone to come and put it out of its fucking misery. Saunders seemed happy with it, however, and commenced his work on the inside with an enthusiasm Michael recognised as a man doing what he was made for. That was another thing Captain Powell had said to watch for: Saunders knew his way around alien technology, and that gave him the kind of dangerous edge that needed an eye kept on it; you could do a lot with a sharp knife, but if you didn’t watch it you’d cut your fucking finger off and then where would you be?
Nine days into their watch - Michael was thankful that they’d only pulled day duty on the bastard - Adrian Saunders was eating a breakfast of branflakes and fruit, sitting amongst a morass of cabling, panels, and all sorts of technological doodads that Michael could have told you sweet fuck all about. Powell walked in, took one look at the huge fuckin’ mess, and shot an angry look at Saunders. “Day nine, and this thing is a complete fookin’ mess!"
Unlike most men, military or otherwise, Saunders was entirely unintimidated by Captain Powell. If anything, he seemed to regard the concept of other people intimidating him as something of a joke, which Michael took as much of an affront that Powell himself did. “It’s a whole shitload better than it was when I started,” he said, although it didn’t look it from the unused junk that was laying everywhere. “And you’ll remember I said a week or two. I haven’t broken any promises yet."
Insubordinate as usual, but Powell had taken to ignoring it. Had it been Michael in his place, he doubted he would have been quite so forgiving. “I’m told you’re still relyin’ on our generator to power this piece of shite," Powell noted, still looking all kinds of pissed off. “Will this fookin’ thing even get into space?”
“Not without its own generators,” Saunders admitted, taking a big bite out of his fruit and chomping away happily on its crisp flesh. Michael wondered if he did that on purpose in some attempt to further infuriate everybody around him. “Don’t worry, I’ve got something in mind.”
The assurance didn’t make Powell any happier, and if anything his glare grew even darker. “You fookin’ well better, mate, because I’ve got people asking who the arsehole working on the ship is. It’s not lost on everybody that you’ve turned up alongside a bunch of prisoners, and you’re the only one walking around happy as can be. They’re wondering why that is!”
A fair question to Michael’s mind, he’d heard the talk amongst people in his time off and he and Richard both had gotten asked questions about it. Telling the colonists it was secret under ‘operational security’ had worn out its usefulness over the last couple of days, and now there were all sorts of fuckin’ rumours going around.
Saunders took his time and finished the piece of fruit with obvious relish before continuing, although it didn’t seem like he was being so much wilfully annoying as just crazy as fuck. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m planning on testing the kinetics tomorrow, and if all goes to plan I’m headed out to sea the day after. These boys of yours like water?”
Michael experienced the sort of sinking feeling most often attributed to submarinal activities and just being goddamned unlucky, and he could see that this little expedition was most likely going to involve both.
“They go where you go, so long as it’s on this planet,” Powell replied, effectively repeating what he’d said when he’d first assigned Michael and Richard to their duty. “That includes out to sea.”
“They’ll need some wet gear,” Adrian unnecessarily informed them with far more fuckin’ amusement than Michael cared to see. “You might be able to get by just using some vacuum suits. The Russians had some they might use.”
“I’ll see it’s done,” Powell replied curtly. “That all?”
Saunders hesitated in his response, and turned to check on one of the boxes of components he’d been separating from the others and had actually been taking notes on. He slid it across the floor with an extended leg, pushing it over towards Powell. “I got you a present,” he said. “Now you can be like Kevin Bacon.”
Powell looked into the box, apparently enjoying the same lack of comprehension about the fuckin’ psycho’s babbling that Michael and Richard experienced on a constant basis. “What the fook has Kevin Bacon got to do with fookin’ anything?"
Saunders had the temerity to sigh, as though he’d expected something more of them. “Hollow man. That’s the cloaking system I promised you.”
Irbzrk Orbital Shipyard
“I’d have preferred to leave you somewhere further away.” Kirk said. “The more we can do to minimize the rumours of Cimbrean’s continued existence, the better. And from what you’ve told me, the people on this station might know you.”
“I’m counting on it.” Jen replied, watching with apparent interest as Sanctuary slipped into the station’s tug field and was pulled in to moor - Julian knew that Kirk preferred a mooring to an enclosed landing bay. What it lacked in ease of access to the station’s facilities, it more than made up for in rapid departures.
Julian frowned. “Counting on it? I thought you were going to lay low.” he asked.
“Oh, I am. These people have had bad experiences with humans in the past though, so if we rock up and I start flinging around these… Dominion credits of yours, they’ll have me a ship built tomorrow.”
“Won’t they recognise you?” Julian asked. “I mean, if nothing else that red hair’s pretty distinctive.”
“Easily solved.” Jen said. She rummaged in the pack of gear she had persuaded Powell to give her, and produced a razor and shaving foam. Julian frowned, confused and a little shocked.
“What do you need those for?” He asked.
“Right now? Shaving my head.”
“But…”
“The nice thing about hair is that it grows back.” Jen interrupted him. “Whole heads don’t, and that’s what I stand to lose if the Hierarchy figures out that I’m still around.”
She found her scissors, and trotted towards the bathroom. “See you in a minute.”
About thirty minutes later, she returned, towelling off her head. She looked… skinnier, Julian decided. Even though he knew full well that removing her mane of red hair had done nothing to her waist or those firm dancer’s muscles, somehow the exposed line of her neck and scalp contrived to make her look taller and thinner, as if she had been stretched out. She made eye contact with him and he looked away, embarrassed. He hadn’t forgotten that she was the first - and to date only - woman he had met since his abduction, nor what she looked like naked. He mentally growled an order at himself to get it together. Kirk was good company, but if Julian had his way, their next trip to Earth would involve a visit to… Nevada, or Amsterdam, or Australia maybe. Somewhere he could rediscover that kind of human touch.
He briefly entertained the option of just coming out and suggesting it, but the same common sense that had seen him through seven Nightmare summers flagged that one as an immediate bad idea. Even if Jen didn’t react angrily, she definitely wouldn’t react positively, either, and he needed to salvage something resembling a professional working relationship with her.
She fished a green hat out of her bag. It looked like it was designed for cold weather, judging from the earflaps, the fuzzy insulated lining and the pocket on the cheeks which hinted at some kind of a mask to protect the face from wind chill. For now, she just tucked it onto her head with the flaps up.
“Is there anything else you need before you go?” Kirk asked her.
“No.” Jen said. She shook their hands, gripping Kirk’s cybernetic delicately, though he’d had it reinforced to cope with human grip strength. Then she was gone, out through the airlock and onto the station.
Kirk was already halfway to the command chair before Julian remembered to follow him.
“Next?” he asked. Kirk checked the inbox, then compared the codes within to the book he kept under the chair.
“Earth.” He said, mildly surprised.
“No shit?!” Julian exclaimed, delighted. “I get to go home?”
“Well… yes. If you want.” Kirk said. His simulated tone suggested very strongly that he’d rather keep Julian around, and Julian could see why - they seemed to have clicked well, Kirk providing the streetwise knowledge, political insight and galactic general-knowledge, not to mention his fairly substantial intellect, balanced nicely by Julian’s instincts, hard-won skills and sheer physicality.
“Sorry man.” He apologised. “It’s just been… years, you know? Do I get a vacation? I’ll want to catch up with family and… sort things out, you know.”
“And get laid.” Kirk translated, reminding Julian that he was dealing with a passionate student of human nature and a keen judge of people. Kirk knew the foibles both of humanity and of individual humans, probably better than they knew themselves.
He blushed. “That obvious, huh?”
“You’ve not been able to focus properly around Jen ever since we found her in the bathtub, and that was a month ago.” Kirk pointed out. “Yes, you’ll get shore leave, and an expenses account. My gift to you for all the Christmases you missed.”
“What will you be doing?” Julian asked.
“Planning the next phase in our mission.”
“You won’t be taking some leave yourself?”
“On Earth?” Kirk asked. “I can’t. Don’t get me wrong, I would dearly love to visit your great cities, tour your natural wonders and experience your culture first-hand. But a whole leave break spent inside the hazardous excursion suit would be torture.” he shrugged, an expansive four-armed gesture on his kind. “Besides, I love my work.” he added.
He disengaged the mooring clamps, pushed gently away from the shipyards with the gas thrusters, and then hit the wormhole drive. The instant it made contact with its counterpart in Sol, a crease in spacetime enfolded them, and they were gone.
Date Point: 3Y 8M 1W 5D AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
“So what’s up, Kevin?”
“Intel, Martin. Important intel.”
“This to do with your friend?”
“You’d better listen to what I recorded…”
Folctha colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches.
“Alright, girl…” Saunders said to the ship, patting the console in front of him, “now we’re going to see some real cool shit.”
Michael wasn’t sure about that, or about much of anything else right now. Neither he nor Richard felt comfortable flying around on this haphazard mess generously labelled a starship, and even less so given the fuckin’ nutter who was in charge. The huge fuckin’ spaceship ahead of them had been more like the real thing, even if it was half-trashed and mostly sunken beneath the waves, but they hid the impressed expressions well.
Saunders had taken his ship around it, surveying the damage and looking for a half-decent entry point. There was hardly much of a consistent hull remaining, with huge holes decorating the whole thing, and entire sections were missing, but they soon found the top of a gap that Saunders deemed as sufficient for purpose.
Gravity shifted in a similar way to the feeling of an elevator in descent, and pushed them downwards into the cerulean depths. From here the fantastic wreckage took on a moodier, haunted appearance, and in spite of his certainty that there was nothing to be found aboard more dangerous than himself, Michael swallowed. “But this is a spaceship," he found himself saying, “not a fuckin’ submarine…”
Saunders shot them a knowing smile. “Spot probably can’t go as deep as a sub, but she can probably get us where we need to go."
Michael ignored the fact that the madman was naming his spaceship and focused on the important issue. “Probably?” he asked, not liking that sort of uncertainty. He might have been prepared for danger, and even death, when coming to an alien world, but he’d really prefer it if his death didn’t involve drowning in a patched together starship that was slowly sinking into an alien ocean.
Richard was less willing to overlook the eccentricity. " ‘ang on a moment, did you just call this fookin’ thing 'Spot’?" he demanded.
Saunders shrugged, looking back towards his console to hopefully focus on whatever crazy shit he was about to do next. Not that Michael wanted the fuckin’ maniac to do crazy shit, it just seemed like sort of a given at this point, and he’d rather the requisite amount of attention be paid to make it a success. “Just looks sort of like a fucking huge dog head…” he explained, although Michael didn’t see how, “in a certain light.”
At least Richard didn’t press the point on that, waiting quietly next to Michael with only a small amount of nervous fidgeting. Saunders was focused for several more moments before he turned to glance over at them. “Opening the airlock outer door,” he warned them, illustrating that he wasn’t a complete fuckin’ idiot.
There was a brief sound of machinery working near the airlock, but nothing that followed it. That, it seemed, was enough to please Saunders. “Kinetic bubble holding.”
Michael shared a glance with Richard, waiting for everything to turn to shit. When it didn’t, Saunders turned to face them properly, lifting up his own helmet in preparation, and grinning at them like the psychotic madman he was. “I’d put my fucking helmet on now if I were you. I’m about to open the airlock inner door, and I’m not what you might call entirely confident we won’t all drown.”
They only hesitated for a moment before taking the advice. Now they were underwater, and in his hands, and they had to hope like hell that he knew what he was doing. Not fuckin’ reassuring. As it turned out they were worried for nothing, because the inner door opened to reveal a shimmering wall of water at the edge of the ship.
Saunders rose from his seat, stepped over to it and ran a hand through the water. “Gentlemen,” he said, holding up a dripping hand, “I give you the sea!”
Michael and Richard shared another worried glance, it was never good when the man you needed to keep you alive started making jokes at inappropriate times. Richard was unimpressed enough to tell the fucker what he thought, gesturing to his alien spacesuit as he did so. “You’re fookin’ mad if you reckon we’re going out there in these!”
Michael agreed with him though. “This is a space suit, mate," he said. “See a lot of fuckin’ space out dere? How d’you think we’re supposed to swim in dese?”
That just got more crazy from Saunders. “Oh,” he said, waggling his eyebrows, “I wasn’t going to swim."
At that he collected three stripped down alien hover devices, demonstrating his own for their benefit. He activated it, letting it pull him away, and dived into the ocean with mad laughter. Richard swore, repeatedly, and Michael was quick to join him. They grabbed their respective devices, repeating the demonstrated action, and let them drag them forward into the water beyond.
Michael hit the man with all of his might when they caught him at the entrance of the crashed ship, and was happy to hear the wind leave the stupid arsehole in spite of the water resistance. “Next time you do somethin’ like that it’s a knife,” he warned angrily. “What’s so fuckin’ useful down ’ere that you needed to come back?”
Saunders coughed, putting a hand to his side protectively. “Starship reactor,” he said, “it was still live after we landed…”
“Then why are all the fookin’ lights out?” Richard demanded, raising a very good point, though Michael figured it may be possible that being immersed in an ocean hadn’t helped.
“I blew them up last time I was here,” Saunders admitted with an unwarranted casual shrug.
Michael stared at the man, and Richard shook his head in disgust. “You’re just about the worst fookin’ thing a man could put on a spaceship…”
Saunders only shrugged again, apparently fully recovered from his injury, then turned and set off down a burned out corridor lit only by the small red power lights on their makeshift personal propulsion units.
Not a problem, Michael thought, remembering that he’d been in places a lot more fucked up than this burned out alien wreck. Admittedly those had usually been better lit, and never underwater, but they had been full of arseholes with guns so he had that in his favour… probably.
He looked warily at the dark shapes looming in the debris filled environment, jutting out from beyond any place their meagre light could reach. He shook his head and made quick to follow the madman. At some point the day had to improve.
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
The story was identical on Dvitiya, Trtiya, Caturtha, Pamcama and Sastha. We visited six worlds and found the same tragedy waiting for us every time. Six civilisations, all cut down in their prime. Most, their cities were flat fields, identifiable as having once been cities only by the eroded glass and corroded rebar that littered what was otherwise a verdant field.
On one, Mikhael and I had to flee for our lives back onto the Corti research ship when the biohazard alarms screamed at us. The buildings were still, to some degree, standing. Hvek later commented that the virus we brought back with us was about on par with the Spanish Flu in terms of virulence and deadliness. Given that the world on which we encountered it was a class ten, I can only assume that it killed… everyone.
Can you imagine, Mr. Jenkins, what those poor people must have felt? What the very last of their kind must have been thinking as he coughed his last bloody breath onto his pillow, having survived to watch everyone he loved and his whole world be torn apart by a disease that must have struck them like the wrath of an Asura?
I have nightmares.
Our tour lasted three years. We visited twelve more worlds. I ceased to name them after encountering that disease. But I did the mathematics.
According to conventional wisdom, sapience cannot, and does not, arise on deathworlds. And yet here I had eighteen planets that revealed that common knowledge as being utterly wrong. Statistically, deathworld species should be in the majority.
We are not unique, in short, in evolving here in such a deadly cradle. But we do seem to be unique in surviving the invention of the intercontinental ballistic missile.
The starship reactor had been a relatively unimpressive thing. Michael had been expecting something like out of Star Trek, but what he got was a big white box, about the size of a small truck, covered in small red and blue indicator lights. As it was the only thing lit in the room he didn’t need Saunders to tell him what it was, but the madman’s burst of happy laughter confirmed it.
Richard looked over at Michael and shook his head worriedly. “How are we supposed to move this fookin’ thing?” he demanded. “It’s the size of a fookin’ lorry!”
Saunders kept working, and soon the majority of the indicator lights shut down. “We don’t need the containment unit,” he explained. “I’ve already got like five of the fucking things.”
Michael guessed that wasn’t the same thing as having a functional reactor, a suspicion proven a moment later as the madman drew a two foot white cylinder from the unit; it was covered in a constant outpouring of bubbles from its entire surface, and Saunders passed it over to him without explanation. “Hang onto that for me, mate. I’ve got another four to pull out.”
Richard took the second in hand, inspecting it more closely. “How come you need all these fookin’ things when your ship is a bloody tiny thing compared to this?”
Saunders removed a third as he answered. “Because unlike the aliens,” he explained with unusual lucidity, “I believe in having some fucking redundancy. Four redundancies in this case.”
“Wait, you only need one of these?” Richard asked, looking between the alien technology and Saunders. “Won’t this be putting too much power through everything?”
That was a good point, but Saunders didn’t seem concerned. “Yeah, but I already took care of that,” he assured them. “Five times the power, five times the glory.”
That was less than reassuring, but what was Michael going to do? Saunders was dangerous, but he was also their only way out of a crashed alien starship, and back to base. He pulled the last of them free, setting them aside before wandering over to a small, completely sealed unit that he opened with a utility knife. A moment later he was flashing a grin at them, and hefting his own reactors. “Now,” he said, “let’s go back. We’ve still got two stops to go.”
“Where else are we fookin’ going?” Richard rightly objected. “We’re not supposed to be your fookin’ pack-mules, you know.”
The madman’s grin widened. “Art of war, mate,” he said. “It’s time for me to get to know my enemy. We’re going over to the Hierarchy ship.”
Hvek and Twanri were not bad people. They did not deserve to die. Neither did Mikhael. But in the Hierarchy, we are dealing with the kind of toes that are best left unstepped-on. And we had stepped heavily indeed.
Neither of the Corti suspected just how much Mikhael and I could hear, you see. They deactivated their translators when they wished to converse in private, and for the first two years, that approach worked. By the third, well… Corti speech is perfectly comprehensible to the human ear, after all. Aep rhafe newn dte etchlimya ogtup oonb zurtuu. We learned how to listen to them.
They spoke at length about this Hierarchy, enthused about how Twanri’s hypothesis was gaining evidence with every excursion. Alas, I never overheard them repeat exactly what that hypothesis was - they must both have been so intimately familiar with it that to speak it aloud would have been a waste of their time. But the essentials were clear. For some reason, within only twenty or thirty years at most after first splitting the atom, every species that has ever accomplished an industrial civilization as a native of a deathworld, has self-destructed, spectacularly.
We ourselves came painfully close, as I’m sure you know, but Twanri seemed to take that as proof that, rather than being an inevitable product of deathworld mentalities, perhaps these extinctions were precipitated somehow. She sense the invisible hand of this Hierarchy, gently pushing so many wonderful peoples off the precipice and into the long dark.
I dismissed the idea as excessive and outlandish, right up until the moment our ship came under attack. __
“Spot”. Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Saunders had installed the reactor cylinders as soon as they’d returned to the ship, and even without a passing knowledge in how alien shit worked, Michael could see the difference they made; the movements of the ship were faster and more reactive, while Saunders seemed less inclined to take painstaking lengths to ensure every little movement was the right one. They’d taken a quick trip out across the continent at incredible speeds before arriving in a forest clearing where the only thing of note had been an alien landing pod.
This, Saunders had explained, was the means by which Jennifer Delaney had reached the planet, but it was stripped of whatever he had been hoping to find. He hadn’t left empty handed, however, and had come away with a piece of tech he’d called the navigational unit.
After that they’d returned to the waters near the base, but this time they had remained above the water and Saunders had been content to conduct the dive by himself. The waters here were clearer than by the more recent crash, however, and the remains of a far more broken vessel were scattered on the sea floor below.
Michael squinted to see through the water, trying to get a good view. It was smaller than the previous ship by a long way, and there was more of it missing than remained. “What’s this fuckin’ thing then?”
“Space Illuminati starship,” Saunders answered candidly, and shortly noticed the looks this statement received. “Not making it up.”
Michael scoffed, but he remembered the interminable briefings back on Earth. The point had stuck that the galaxy was a damned strange place and that humanity’s combined experience of it to date probably wasn’t yet even a scratch on the surface. Next to the space dragons, UFO-nut big-eyed aliens and genuine bug-eyed monsters
“No shite?” Richard muttered, his attention returning to the shattered vessel. “Looks like it’s been blown to fookin’ ’ell!”
Saunders flashed the mad grin at him. “Not all of it, I hope, because otherwise this will be a waste of my fucking time.”
Saunders dove into the waters a moment later, leaving Michael and Richard to watch him from above, although if it hadn’t been for the small glow of light from the propulsion device they’d have lost sight of him amidst all the ruin.
“Holy shit…” Saunders muttered several minutes into his trip, prompting Michael to demand a report, only to discover that the madman was easily startled by nothing more than a fuckin’ fish; at least he could be entertaining.
When he did finally return, it was with a sack full of goodies, and he was eager to try them out. Richard and Michael, still frustratingly dependent on the Australian to get them home, sat patiently while Saunders fiddled with what he’d recovered, plugging in device after device until he finally came to one that caught his attention.
That one had spoken his name. Saunders had paused, aghast, muttered the word ‘tricks’, and had then commenced a conversation with an alien speaker that included some of what Powell had told them and a shitload more besides, even if they could only understand his half of it. Michael and Richard exchanged a glance. FTL communication was supposedly expensive as all hell and low- bandwidth even for the Corti, which was about the only thing that exonerated Saunders of any suspicion that he might be talking to some kind of handler or agent.
For all their boredom, both men were career spec-ops, and knew valuable intel when they heard it - they absorbed every word for later reporting to the Captain. They listened for hours before the Australian unplugged the device and returned to the cockpit, whereupon he set course, at long last, for Folctha. His shoulders had tensed and risen and his expression was murder itself.
“We going home?” Michael checked, acutely aware that if Saunders chose now to set the ship to fly off to some godforsaken end of creation pursuing this ‘Hierarchy’, then both he and Richard were along for the ride and unable to fly the ship.
Saunders turned to look at him with a new kind of cold, hard gaze. It was the kind that revealed a perfectly lucid man in full possession of his faculties - however temporarily that might be - and wanting to use them all to kill someone. Michael felt a chill as that hateful gaze landed on him; he had considered Saunders a threat before, though merely a disjointed one that could be dealt with; the lucid man before him was a different beast altogether, one wearing the face of the War himself. It was the first time he’d actually looked like a soldier, to Michael’s eyes, and therefore truly dangerous.
“Yeah,” he confirmed coldly, “So take a fucking seat. I’ve got intel Powell is going to want to hear.”
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Did you ever encounter Allebenellin, Mister Jenkins? Vile things. Mercenary, callous, venal and stupid. The answer to how a race with such a startling lack of ambition ever accomplished intelligence, let alone how they used tools prior to the invention of their exoskeletons given that they lack limbs, eludes and mystifies me.
In any case, we were crippled with the first volley. They boarded soon afterwards, and poor Hvek and Twanri were reduced to jelly by their pulse fire, sprayed across the command deck. These were the biggest ones, so-called “anti-tank” weaponry, and their fire caught Mikhael in the head. The blow killed him: massive fracturing and cerebral haemorrhage.
Nevertheless, it gave the worms pause, because where the Corti had simply… splattered… here was a creature so tough that, though dead, he was still pretty much intact. They may even have thought he was still alive, which brought me the few seconds I needed to shout the commands, in Corti, which opened all of the doors and lowered the atmosphere retainment fields even as I shut the hatch of my escape pod. Every single one of the marauders was either blown out into space, or else died gasping.
I escaped.
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches.
Powell heard the starship arrive long before Saunders made his usual commotion; the ship had come in fast and powerful, filling the air with a rolling thunder that echoed through the surrounding forests and sent alien birds into alien sky. Saunders was returning in a hurry, so the news probably wasn’t good, and by the time Powell had found him he was holding Lance Corporal Danny Michael in an arm lock and whispering sweet fookin’ nothings into his ear while Corporal Paul Richard just stood around holding his fookin’ dick.
Powell approached the trio, by now a spectacle for the colonists, with a fairly restrained expression of being completely pissed off, striding over into their view as he demanded to know what the fook they thought they were doing.
Saunders released the man as soon as he heard Powell’s voice, turning to face him with a fiercely present look in his eyes. There was focus there, with anger driving it, and Powell realised he’d have to step carefully until it passed. “Looking for you, Powell,” he replied. “Got a spare minute to deal with another lifetime of bullshit?”
“More bad _fookin’_news,” Powell breathed, having expected as much and still finding himself irritated at the man’s glib insubordination in spite of having expected that as well. To calm himself he had to remind himself that this was a man who had stripped down an alien cloaking system and had provided humanity with basic notes on how it seemed to function, thus proving himself useful even if he was as fookin’ shitful as a man could be. “Fookin’ wonderful. Yeah, I’ve got a spare minute.”
They stepped into the office Powell had reserved for himself, closing the door to hide their conversation away from the colonial rumourmongers; the things that were already circulating were bad enough without the truth getting out there. Powell took his seat, knowing he’d prefer to be seated for what was to come if Saunders was being even half-serious, and looked up at the man. “Start talkin’, Saunders.”
Saunders briefed him. Properly briefed him, his voice more level than it ever had been. The story was typically insane - a bat-girl trapped in a ping- pong ball sized computer, and what he’d learned from her. It wasn’t something that Powell would normally have believed, because who would really have thought that some fook’ed up alien version of the Matrix could actually exist? Saunders believed it, though, and more impressively when he glanced at Michael and Richard, they nodded slowly from behind Saunders’ eyeline.
Accepting that also meant that accepting the kind of headache Saunders had been promising; taking a man captive was one thing, but taking his mind was quite another, and presented the kind of security risks he’d have preferred stayed in science fiction.
Saunders finished his explanation by stating his intention to leave as soon as he possibly could. “Spot can fly,” he said, apparently having named his ship like he’d have named a dog, “Even if she’s not pretty, and I’ve got things I need to protect.”
“Don’t forget our deal,” Powell reminded him. “Good faith.”
Saunders nodded. “I’m going to need guns. Guns and ammunition.”
That was more than Powell was willing to simply give away, even in return for Saunders fulfilling their agreement. He’d have to be just as mad as Saunders to start handing over firearms. “I’m not handing over weapons to a crazy man without a good fookin’ reason,” he said. “Quid pro quo, remember?”
“Then I might have something you find useful,” Saunders returned with a smile. “I can build you a scanner that will let you know if hunters are in the system, cloaked or not. Then you won’t be caught with your fucking pants down.”
That was exactly the sort of thing he should have been offering for free, but Powell held his tongue. There was no need to antagonise the man when simply trading away a single weapon and some ammunition would provide him with more of a return on investment than he had believed possible. The Hunters represented a serious threat to the colony, and any way they could reduce that threat was worth the risk. Besides, had he been in Saunders’ situation he’d have done the same, reserving a bartering chip just in case. He’d have reserved several, in fact, which naturally made him suspect that Saunders had done so too.
It was becoming clear that, bug-fuck though he might be, Saunders was going to be an asset. Albeit, one that would need careful handling at arms’ length.
The man may have succeeded in restoring one of the ruined ships to life, but Powell thought he would wait until he produced what he promised. “If you can build us that," Powell promised, “I’ll make sure you get what you asked for.”
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
If you’re interested, the escape pod is probably still where I left it, somewhere in the Monongahela national forest. I walked until I found a road, hitch-hiked to Charlottesville. Hvek and Twanri had assured me that I would be amply rewarded for my service, and they had not lied - the Swiss bank account they had made me memorise the details of contained a lavish supply of funds, more than enough to pick a town at random on the map and work my way here by Greyhound.
Most went on this apartment, and on reinforcing it. The rest… keeps me alive, so I can tell my story.
The only reason I tell it to you now, Mr. Jenkins, is because, as you say, entering this room has probably already doomed you. I hope at least that the knowledge of WHO is going to kill you brings you some comfort.
Folctha colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Back on Earth, much thought and theorycrafting had gone into the problem of supplying the soldiers for the possibility of shipboard combat, where a stray bullet could mean fatal decompression, even with the damage control fields. Options had been considered up to and including reviving kinetic pulse weaponry, but with the tactical environment now apparently including things that were similarly tough to humanity - not to mention other humans - that project had been abandoned. Again.
The fact was, the only weaponry that could reliably hurt humans, or anything that had the ability to stand up to a human in combat, was also dangerous to starships and there was no way around that.
Unless - and Legsy was shamelessly self-congratulatory about this - you gave up on relying on the gun to be everything at once, and took a look at the ammo instead. Starships meant corridors. Corridors meant shotguns. Shotguns meant buckshot and slugs for dealing with humans, birdshot for the squishy ones. Problem solved. The smaller pellets of birdshot would have a much lower chance of damaging a starship, but were still devastating to alien flesh, and if you came across anything tougher, you just needed to use different ammo. Problem fucking solved.
The rest had involved persuading the mission planners to furnish their armory with magazine-fed SPAS-15s, which could rapidly change ammo types in response to a shifting tactical situation, rather than tube-fed M1014s which were a little less flexible. That had been easy once Powell had been convinced to back his towering celtic gun-nut comrade. Predicting the need to possibly arm the civilian colonists, the soldiers had arrived with more than they themselves could possibly use, and “losing” one of the shotguns to “Operational circumstances” seemed only reasonable considering how well Saunders had held up his end of the bargain. It went down on the paperwork as having been dismantled for spare parts, and the ammo was written off to “water damage”.
Powell entered the tent that served as the camp’s armoury in time to hear Legsy ask “Watcha think, boy, reckon that’ll do?” as he handed the gun over.
Adrian Saunders looked like a hundred Christmases had all arrived at once, and held the gun like it was the most wonderful thing he had ever laid hands or eyes on. Then, seeing Powell enter, he tried to sober his expression a little. “I… uh… yeah. Yeah, that’ll do.” he said, unconvincingly.
Legsy grinned, handed over the ammunition and then busied himself with cleaning the Minimi that was his own weapon of choice.
“The new sensors are up.” Powell said. “And a fook of a lot better than the old ones. I might just have been wrong about you being a waste of good calories.”
Adrian dodged the apology. “Jen could have told you that.” He replied.
The man still nettled Powell, for all that he’d proven his obvious worth as an engineer and an expert in alien technology. He’d obviously started out as a stubborn bastard, and his experiences had only driven him further into his intransigent shell, even if he put up a smokescreen of flippant no-fucks-given attitude to cover it.
“Jen thinks you’re dead.” he said. “Not a lot of point going into the skills and talents of a fookin’ dead man, is there?
Really, he should just stop poking. Saunders was badly damaged - best to just get on with it. He exercised some willpower and resolved to stick to the facts from now on and leave his opinions out of it. Saunders might be a danger to the colony, but he’d proven he was a useful risk, and probably not worth antagonising.
“Might have been worth knowing you on top of a fuckload of salvageable alien tech though, wouldn’t it?”
Powell wanted to point out that the only man on the planet - the only man in the whole human race as far as he knew - that could even have identified the technology as being still salvageable and in working condition was Adrian himself. Jen had her own set of skills, a sharp mind and was a quick study, but she hadn’t once shown anything more than a working, user-level knowledge of alien technology.
He stuck to his resolution though and didn’t rise to it.
“Your ship ready?”
“Yep. Spot’s all ready to go, provisions are all loaded… Just need to hump the artillery here and I’m done mate."
Powell didn’t comment that Saunders was holding a bag full of shotgun shells as if it were his cricketing gear, without appearing to be really conscious of it. Even in Cimbrean’s low gravity, that was an indication of the “Alien Mutant Juice” marinating his tissues.
“Good. Right now, according to those fancy sensors you set up, you’ve got a clear sky. No warp signatures within range and that’s… what, a couple parsecs or so?”
“About that.” Saunders agreed.
“So, you’ve got a clear run to get out of here without telling the galaxy about it, and there’s no guarantee that’s going to be true tomorrow. So, would you mind awfully-”
“-fucking off?” Adrian finished, interrupting him with a grin. “Too bad, I’ll miss the food here mate.”
Powell snorted, and extended a hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Saunders shook it.
“Just try not to get killed you crazy fookin’ prick.” he said.
Adrian grinned. “So far so good.”
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
“…That’s a brutal story, eh?”
“And Terri Boone died after hearing it, Martin.”
“Just playing Devil’s Advocate here, Kevin but… that doesn’t necessarily suggest there’s an alien conspiracy involved.”
“Fuck devil’s advocate. Do you want to go extinct?”
“…No.”
“Neither do I.”
Kevin Jenkins put his phone away, expression grim. “If I’m wrong and Singh is just a crazy hermit, oh well. Sorry to have wasted the loonies, man.”
He leaned forward. “But if I’m right then one of these fuckers could be on Earth right now, looking for an opening. With stakes that high, I think maybe we should take this ‘Hierarchy’ business seriously.” he said. “Don’t you?”
Chapter 17
Chapter 14: “The Hornet’s Nest” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 3Y 8M 2W AV
+0014+: Another failure.
+0023+: There have been victories also.
+0014+: Too few.
+0003+: The efforts of The Discarded work to our advantage.
+0006+: As I recall, Three, you were among those who advocated their termination.
+0003+: Your point?
+0006+: An acknowledgement of your fallibility would seem fitting.
+0004+: Petty bickering like that is for the Hosts. Three’s competence is not in doubt.
+0006+: As you say, Four.
+0014+: To address the observation: yes, The Discarded have helped contain the Deathworlders. That is a balance of power that will shift, as things are going. They buy us time, not victory.
+0016+: Agreed
+0031+: Agreed
+0004+: Agreed
+0006+: Perhaps a more senior agent should be placed in charge of that cell.
+0023+: Seventy-Two’s competence is also not in doubt.
+0003+: Your naysaying is becoming unconstructive, Six.
+0014+: The problem is escalating. This most recent failure was not orchestrated by a Deathworlder at all.
+0019+: Are you proposing that the Hosts might become energised and inspired?
+0014+: I am proposing that they already are.
System notification: User 0020 has joined.
+0006+: Well now. You grace us with your illustrious presence.
+0004+: Twenty assumes more risk than any of us. You will be respectful.
+0020+: Six’s respect is not required. I have completed my analysis of the debris field.
+0006+: Please, enlighten us. What miracle have the Deathworlders performed this time? Can they turn their skin to steel and shoot lasers from their eyes?
+0004+: Six.
+0006+: Twenty’s last report implied that the Deathworlders have solved the single-end wormhole problem. I will not apologise for my skepticism.
+0020+: No such inconsistencies. They appear to have an agent. A fast ship passed through the area shortly before the strike. I believe that it deployed tiny satellites, which self-destructed after the battle. If those satellites were stealthed and carried displacement beacons then it would explain the observed ability of these new ships to jump inside the sphere of engagement.
+0006+: It took you this long to determine that?
+0020+: Without compromising myself, yes.
+0006+: Useless.
System Notification: User 0006 was muted by User 0004. Reason: Correct your attitude.
+0014+: That was satisfying to watch.
+0004+: Correct yours too, or you will be next.
+0020+: I will not apologise for exercising discretion, caution and patience. Infiltrating The Discarded was difficult enough last time. They are not stupid.
+0002+: Six may be abrasive, but dissenting voices are valuable: They may cast the light where we are afraid to shine it. Soothe your wounded pride and examine the facts - these Deathworlders move quickly. If we are to successfully contain and destroy them then we must be similarly swift.
System Notification: User 0006 was granted speaking privileges by User 0002.
+0006+: At least somebody here pays attention.
+0002+: We have not granted you license to be disrespectful.
+0006+: …yes, Two.
+0020+: With respect, Two, avoidable setbacks will only serve to slow us in the long term. Hasty and ill-advised assaults have already cost us too much. The next must be slow, must be stealthy, must be unanticipated, and must be devastating.
+0008+: The evidence does appear to favour that.
+0020+: We must also put aside our power politics for now. Zero and Thirteen both failed because they acted alone in search of glory, and now they both need replacing. Now Twenty-Four has gone the same way. We must stop allowing them to pick us off one by one: This is too important for ego.
+0005+: You do not tell higher ranks what we “must” do.
+0020+: Then I respectfully suggest that we all set aside our pride and focus on combining our efforts to bring practical resolution to this crisis.
+0002+: Twenty has a duty to express their opinion in as forceful a manner as is necessary for its proper communication. You, Five, have a duty to heed what is said rather than overlooking it for the sake of pride and decorum.
+0005+: …yes, Two.
+0002+: We do not - yet - need to involve One. If Twenty’s approach is successful - if we collaborate to deliver a single, unforeseen and decisive blow to the Deathworlders - then One will never need to know this whole debacle ever happened.
+0004+: I still say that it was an unforgivable oversight not to foresee that intelligence might arise on that planet a second time.
+0006+: Two, may I have permission to remind Four that she was in equal part responsible for that oversight?
+0004+: How dare you!
+0002+: We believe you just did. Our permission would be redundant.
+0004+: I request a punishment.
+0002+: Denied. The observation is accurate, and even insubordination has its value. Nevertheless, Six, a little less insubordination, please?
+0006+: Of course, Two. You only had to ask.
System notification: User 0004 has signed out.
+0094+: The Deathworlders call that a “ragequit”, I believe.
+0057+: Apt.
+0014+: Can we please focus?
+0006+: Agreed. What do you recommend, Twenty?
+0020+: The Discarded.
+0014+: Sensible. They have already declared motive, they will seize the opportunity if it arises, and our risk of discovery will be negligible.
+0010+: We will need to remember to continue to monitor the deathworld after the scouring is complete.
+0006+: We will also need to resume monitoring on all the ones that have already been scoured. Some of them are nearly as old as Earth.
+0014+: You use their name for it?
+0006+: “Strak’kel” is so old-fashioned, and both names have a bit more life to them than “MY-31 043-3-TT12-I” don’t you think?
+0023+: Whatever Six calls them, we will need to re-survey more than a thousand planets to make sure they are still clear.
+0005+: If that surveydiscovers even one nascent civilization, then it will have been worth the trouble.
+0020+: I must go. I will do what I can to keep the Great Hunt high in the minds of The Discarded.
System notification: User 0020 has signed out.
+0002+: Meanwhile, the rest of us will cease to engage the Deathworlders piecemeal. We must deal with their homeworld first before any attempt can be made at clearing out whatever last little holes and hideaways they may find.
+0003+: The first objective in support of that goal will be the identification and termination of this agent of theirs.
+0006+: Wrong. The first objective in support of that goal will be the identification and conversion of this agent of theirs.
+0003+: Two, I request permission to punish Six’s insubordination.
+0002+: Denied. Cease petitioning us every time Six offends your pride. You should also cease to be so easily irritated by accurate corrections. Identification and conversion of the agent will become our top priority. Discussion concluded.
System notification: Session closed.
System notification: Private session between User 0002 and User 0006 Session Opened
+0002+: Your attitude does warrant our attention, however. We are a Hierarchy, remember. You should remember your place.
+0006+: I am the foundation for those above me. My role is to support and strengthen them all.
+0002+: Well recited. We assume you are making a point?
+0006+: Pride is a weakness. It is the weakness, in fact, that has cost us the most against these Deathworlders. I judge that my duty to the strength and success of the Hierarchy and the indefinite survival of our people outweighs the tradition of decorum. It is not my duty to - as the humans eloquently put it - “kiss their asses”.
+0002+: And that is why we are demoting you to seventy-two.
+0006+: I see. I’m to take over from the current incumbent? Discreetly?
+002+: Indeed. You care about the result, not about your rank. That… atypical approach may be of use here, in this atypical scenario.
+0006+: And if you’re very lucky, your report to One will mention the Humans only as just another Scoured species.
+0002+: We intend not to rely on luck.
System notification: Session closed.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV
San Diego, California, USA, Earth
The man standing in front of him needed to clear his throat three times before it cut through the fog of fatigue that had Gabriel’s mind in a choke hold and his forehead pressed to the desk. He looked up, and stole a swig of his almost-too-cold coffee before addressing the man in the suit who was waiting patiently for him.
“Help you?” he asked. The man smiled, and produced a card. It was small, white, and mostly filled with the man’s face and the badge of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“Agent Hamilton.” He said by way of an introduction, then aimed a thumb over his shoulder at a woman in a nearly identical suit whom Ares hadn’t even noticed. She had a black leather work folder under her arm and was holding three Starbucks coffees in a cardboard carrier. “This is Agent Williams.”
“You want the Latte, the Mocha, or the Americano?” she asked, offering the coffee.
Gabriel blinked, then managed to get his brain into second gear. “Uh… the Latte, thanks.” He said. She handed it to him, and he took a sip, grateful for coffee that was the right temperature and tasted a damnsight better than the copper-tasting poison the office’s overworked percolator produced. “Please, sit down.”
“I’d ask what the Agency is doing here, but I’m guessing it has something to do with a guy in New Jersey.” he said, taking a not-so-wild stab in the not- so-dark. After all, he’d seen the news.
Williams nodded - she had taken the Americano - and set down the folder on Gabriel’s desk. “A mister Ravinder Singh’s apartment was bombed in the small hours of yesterday morning, killing the occupant and three of his neighbors.” She said.
“That seems more like a police or Bureau matter.”
“His name wasn’t Ravinder Singh.” Hamilton added. “He was one of the top men in the Indian nuclear weapons program, who went missing a few years ago. And now he’s turned up dead in a bombing on the East coast, to me that seems a lot like an Agency matter."
“I didn’t know that part.” Ares confessed. He indicated the folder. “May I?”
Williams turned it around and opened it for him. They sipped their coffees patiently as he skimmed the documents within. It was clear why they had come to him. A still recovered from the camera above “Singh”’s door offered a clear identification for Kevin Jenkins: it was stapled to a summary of the legwork that had gone into tracing him. It wasn’t a long summary - Jenkins collecting his bag at Newark, his boarding pass, Jenkins going through security at San Diego International Airport, Jenkins checking out of the Bristol Hotel, a bit of a luck with the receptionist remembering that he had mentioned being in town for a funeral, cross-referenced against the times he entered and exited the hotel to Terri Boone’s funeral, and that in turn had led them to her family who had pointed them to Ares. Most of the investigation would have consisted of the coast-to-coast flight.
“You don’t have much on him yet, do you?” he commented, noting that aside from Jenkins’ name there was precious little of his personal details in the folder.
“That’s why we’re here.” Hamilton replied, evenly. “You had a good long conversation with him at that funeral.”
Gabriel sat back and took another swig of his coffee. “Yeah, I sent him to talk to Singh. He was close with the victim. She was a P. I., shot dead an assailant about, uh, six months before the second assailant got her. She knew she was in trouble and cited Singh as a witness who might be able to reveal the motive.”
“Could Jenkins have thought Singh was responsible and taken revenge?” Williams suggested.
“No.” Ares told them, not even bothering to conceal how little he thought of the idea. “He went to talk to Singh to try and get at the real responsible party… no sign of him since?”
“His rental car was returned and there was a possible ID at a gas station, heading north, but that’s all I know of so far.” Hamilton told him.
“Let me spare you the legwork. He’ll have gone to Scotch Creek.”
The two Agents did a synchronized glance at one another, then back at him, letting their expressions make the demand for elucidation.
“He said he’s the bartender up there.” Gabriel clarified.
“The bartender.” Williams repeated, skeptically.
Hamilton coughed. “Thank God for that. If he’s civilian base staff acting on his own then it’s a lot less of a problem than the Canadian military getting involved in a bombing down here.”
Ares frowned. “They’re our allies and friends, aren’t they?”
“They are, but allies and friends go through official channels over stuff like this.” Hamilton said. “Canada’s already catching a lot of political flak over their monopoly on alien technology, if there was any suggestion - right or not
- that they’d sent an agent down here who’d bombed an American building and killed American citizens, it’d put a serious dent in any relationship, however good."
“Not to mention the repercussions abroad.” added Williams.
"Entiendo. Well, I guess now you know who to make the call to, so you can go through official channels."
“Sure, and thanks. But I’d like to know more about this murder. You think they’re related?”
“The victim claimed as much and I’m convinced.” Ares allowed. “You guys have open minds?”
“Hard not to, nowadays.” Williams said, indicating the TV that was always playing quietly in the corner of the office, tuned to the news. The financial news was nothing but coverage of the partnership between several major companies - led by BAE, BHP Billiton and Red Bull - to collectively enter the lucrative market of asteroid mining, a feat that would have been impossible only three years previously. The news of the partnership had sent stocks in the involved corporations soaring, but the value of several elements - especially Platinum - had all taken a serious hit. It was just the latest in the long and storied drama of what was becoming known as the Second Space Race.
Gabriel nodded. “Then let me show you the evidence she left.” he said.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV Planet Guvendruduvundraguvnegrugnuvenderelgureg-ugunduvug Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy, Dominion Core
The annual Ugunduvug-vanrundrneg - the “world-storm” - was in its second day and approaching full force, powered by a quirk in the tidal dance of the Guvnurag homeworld’s three moons. This year’s looked set to be a relatively mild one, with only three dark striations of lightning-blistered cloud having so far formed from the angry black girdle around the equator, to lash out northwards and southwards towards the poles.
Such a comparatively gentle storm would easily be handled by the layers of storm protection installed by hundreds of generations of Guvnurag, from the simple earthworks and storm drains to channel and disperse the flash-flood waters, to the more modern innovations like the tidal barrages, the artificial barrier reefs, and the huge force fields that needed most of the year to charge.
In truth, Guvnurag were quite capable of enduring the Ugunduvug-vanrundrneg out in the open, huddled in a warm ball of furry bodies. Their thick, shaggy fur was equally adept at warming and waterproofing, and their large size meant a low relative surface area, combating the effects of cold and exposure. But it was by no means a safe or pleasant way to weather the storm, and most of the major engineering feats of Guvnurag history had arisen from the need to conquer their planet’s annual weather tantrum.
All of which was a little academic from geosynchronous orbit, of course. Space was infamously short on weather of any description. But it was hard for Councillor Vedreg of the Dominion Security Council to look down on the planet of his birth during this most iconic season and not reflect on such things.
Especially, he considered, when he was quite improperly being left waiting. The Confederacy’s Secretary of Security was uncharacteristically taking her time implying that something had come up which was important enough to keep her direct superior waiting - and uninformed, which seemed thoroughly unlikely
- or else there had been an unexpected delay.
When she arrived, however, the Secretary’s flanks were thrumming an incandescent, furious crimson. She was, by any sapient being’s standards, in a roaring snit to match the fury their homeworld was unleashing upon itself at this very moment.
Guvnurag folklore had always claimed that a gentle world-storm meant turbulent times ahead, as all the energy the world failed to release was diverted elsewhere. Vedreg, as with all modern Guvnurag, dismissed that as superstition, but right now, it seemed to be eerily prescient.
“Secretary Meerednegnel.” he greeted her, properly. “Shall I, just this once, dispense with the formalities and inquire as to what has precipitated your anger?”
Meered crashed down into her chair, vibrating the ornaments on her desk. “One of the missing system-shields has reported in.” She declared.
“I see.”
Vedreg set, rather more gently, in his own seat. The theft of two of their system defence fields - a pair that had been manufactured for delivery to two of the Dominion’s most vulnerable front-line staging worlds to keep the pressure on the Alliance - had been deeply embarrassing for the Confederacy, not least because even their best investigators couldn’t figure out how it had been managed. While the handling facility had reported a ship landing and departing around about the time of the theft, the timing was simply impossible. Nothing could have covered the intervening distance so quickly without being detected.
“May I ask where?” he inquired.
“The Far Reaches.” Meered replied.
Vedreg shaded a worried brown. That was bad news for any hope of recovery or investigation. The Far Reaches were aptly named - distantly removed from the Dominion Core, that region had only ever been accessible along a small number of spacelanes, most of which had filled in with interstellar gas and dust from lack of maintenance thanks to the war. While the tiny particles were no threat to a starship, the burst of high-energy particles they emitted upon entering the warp field could ionize the hull and degrade ship’s systems, or even build up a lethal capacitance that, if it discharged, could fry equipment or unfortunate crew. Even navies, pirates and even the Hunters preferred to stick to the cleared spacelanes where they could.
The few lanes that remained open in the area passed through annexed Celzi space and were heavily checkpointed. Sending a lane-clearing fleet to open a new route would take several cycles even if the Alliance left them alone. All in all, the news of the system shield’s new location was frustrating, even if it did come with the saving grace that it apparently hadn’t fallen into Alliance hands.
The Alliance… something about the Alliance? The memory tickled at him, elusive until he interrogated his cybernetic memory enhancement chip, which gladly supplied him with a connection between the Alliance and the Far Reaches.
"Where in the Far Reaches, may I ask?" he inquired.
“Some private retreat planet with one of those terse Corti names.” the Secretary told him. “Why?”
“It wasn’t Cimbrean, perchance?"
“…As a matter of fact, it was.” She shaded pink and teal, a cocktail of surprise and curiosity. “You’re familiar with it?”
“Oh dear.”
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV San Diego, California, USA, Earth
“Taking your work home, Gabe?”
Ares smiled. Detective James “Jimmy” Rowan was the closest thing he had to a good friend among the homicide detectives, and the two often backed each other up as partners.
“The CIA’s getting involved now. I need to get it all sorted out for them.” he said. The briefing with Hamilton and Williams had taken several hours as they had gone through all of Boone’s bequeathed findings and suspicions, followed by the fruits of Gabriel’s own research. Superior as his resources were, he had other cases to worry about, and so hadn’t been able to put the time in that he would have liked.
“The Agency. Man.” Jimmy leaned back in his chair, sucking on one of the tootsie pops that were supposedly helping him quit smoking. “Hell of a fuckin’ thing.”
“Nice guys, I thought.” Gabriel commented. “Not like your ray-ban wearing spook pendejos from those movies you love." “Yeah, reality’s always more boring.” Jimmy agreed. “Hey, don’t blow both your days off on that folder, okay? Go out, get drunk, get laid.”
“I was just going to watch NBA, man.”
“Come on, you can’t have had any action since your divorce, bro.” Jimmy insisted.
“Just because your balls need constant maintenance or they explode, doesn’t mean mine do.” Gabriel replied, smiling.
“Yeah, I know. Still not ready yet.” Jimmy gave up. “Enjoy your basketball, man.”
Gabriel lived only a few minutes’ drive from the precinct, in a nice but inexpensive apartment with a decent view of Downtown. Most days he didn’t even bother driving to work. Instead, he changed in the precinct locker room into his sweats, and jogged home, keeping his fitness up and working out the kinks and tensions of sitting at his desk for so many hours.
The exercise allowed his brain to freewheel, too. It was nice to get out of cop mode and just be Gabriel for a bit, but where Detective Ares was a cool and efficient professional, Gabriel was a worrier. The bombing, the CIA’s involvement, the casual brutality that had been inflicted on Terri Boone for digging exactly where he was digging now… If he’d bothered to drive in, he might even start checking his car for explosives.
As a result, he was in a strange mood when he got back to his apartment building - physically relaxed but mentally tense. He knew he was jumping at figurative shadows but he couldn’t forget that the first time he’d met Boone, she had just shot dead an intruder in her own apartment. An intruder who had very obviously been there to kill her.
And the lights were on in his. As was the TV - he could hear it.
This fact gave him several moments’ pause. He could see the glow under the door, and right now all his mind could spring to was that parking lot, and the carnage that had spread all over it.
He retrieved his gun from his bag and loaded it as slowly as he dared. He turned the key in the lock as quietly as he could, slipped inside, and ghosted along the hall carpet until he could poke his head gently around the corner and into the main room, ready to snap it back at the first hint of danger, convinced that his pounding heart would alert the intruder to his presence.
Somebody was sitting on his couch. His face was an unreadable skull mask in the television glow, and he definitely shouldn’t have been there. But there was no possibility that Gabriel could fail to recognise him.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV Planet Guvendruduvundraguvnegrugnuvenderelgureg-ugunduvug Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy, Dominion Core
“There was a pirate organisation that approached the Security Council some time ago. Their leader had come up with a… novel new idea.”
"Pirates? I wasn’t aware the Council was in the business of negotiating with murdering scum."
“These ones…” Vedreg’s flanks rippled through many colours as he hunted for the correct word, underpinned by a constant theme of awkward yellow. “introduced us to a new concept. 'Privateering’, they call it." he pronounced the English word very carefully: it fit awkwardly in the Guvnurag mouth.
“And what does that word translate as?”
“As they explained it, effectively, a Privateer accepts amnesty from one government for their crimes in return for confining their predations to the shipping of that government’s enemy.” he shuffled uncomfortably. “They also made it explicitly clear that they intended to allow any ship which simply surrendered and handed over their cargo to leave, alive and intact and that they would stamp out any pirate competition in the area."
Meered’s flanks glowed like embers, aghast. “And the Council agreed to this?" she asked.
“The Council is headed more by practicalists than idealists.” Vedreg admitted. “They were promised a reduction in piracy affecting our own shipping in the region, and effective disruption of Alliance shipping which might divert Celzi ships from the war.” There was a sweep of colour up his flank - the equivalent of a dismissive, contemptuous sniff. “If memory serves, Cimbrean was the base of operations for these ‘Privateers’.”
“What an extraordinary idea. But however competent or unusual these pirates, they’re still pirates, and whoever stole the generator was no gutter criminal." Meered scoffed.
“If memory serves…” Vedreg said, slowly. “The ringleader of these privateers is a human.”
Meered’s disbelief only served to increase the hue of her flanks. “Humans aren’t magical, Councillor Vedregnegnug.” she chastised.
“No, but they… may I show you something?”
“In support of your claim? Very well.”
Vedreg bowed his head and spread his arms - a gesture of thanks - and spoke to the office. “Room. Access my personal entertainment files. Folder “Earth”, search “London Marathon”.” he intoned. A chime indicated that the requested item had been found. “Display.”
They watched.
“(Twenty-seven miles)?!” Meered exclaimed, after only a few minutes.
“In (three hours) or less.” Vedreg added. Meered’s flanks turned white.
“That… could well explain the theft.” she said. “The sensors on the ground weren’t equipped to detect life forms.”
“It is to be hoped.” Vedreg said. “That this human’s loyalty to their species is less than their loyalty to the pirate band they have formed. I will request a status update. Hopefully this is just a case of pirates being pirates.”
Meered was clearly not hopeful. “And if it isn’t?”
“Then we had best start hoping that pessimist, Furfeg, is wrong.”
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV San Diego, California, USA, Earth.
“Hey Dad.”
Gabriel relaxed. Fortunately, Adam Ares hadn’t looked in his father’s direction, and so didn’t notice him lower the gun and relax.
“Hey yourself.” Gabriel replied, stepping into the room and ruffling the scrawny teenager’s hair. “Wasn’t expecting you today, amigo."
Adam pulled away from the hair-ruffle. “Mom’s being Mom again." he said, which was all the explanation he needed to give. This wasn’t the first time Adam had caught a cab over here to get away from her, and almost certainly wouldn’t be the last. It was why he had his own key, and the Superintendent knew his face and to let him in from the time his mother had confiscated it.
“Okay. Did you call Mrs. Almodovar?” Gabriel’s badge went a long way toward smoothing things over with DCFS, but it was still so much easier if their officer knew about these events when they happened, and heard them from Adam himself. He stuck the gun in the safe - the first thing he always did when he got home anyway, so fortunately there was nothing unusual there for Adam to notice.
Adam sighed. "Yes, Dad, I called Mrs. Almodovar." he confirmed, his voice full of all the weariness of a fifteen-year old who felt his competence was being question.
“Alright… woah.”
Adam had been watching a Game of Thrones rerun, and his ears went a brilliant pink as one of Emilia Clarke’s innumerable skin scenes filled the huge TV.
“Ah, shit, sorry Dad, I know it’s a bit… I mean, uh…” Adam stumbled.
“It’s cool, amigo. Just don’t jerk off on my couch or nothing."
"Da-ad! Yuk!"
Gabriel laughed, and shucked off his running shoes, which he kicked into the corner. He stole a glance at the on-screen nudity again before groaning and stretching his way through to the kitchen where he grabbed a cold beer from the fridge.
“I can’t be bothered to cook tonight, you want pizza or chinese?” he called.
“Chinese please.”
Gabriel knew his son’s preference, and placed the order - hell, the people down at Dragon Chef probably knew their usual order by now - then slumped down on the couch, glad to be home.
“Wanna talk about it?” he asked, when the commercials came on.
“She treats me like an idiot.” Adam complained. Clearly he’d been busting to get it out. “I… there’s this girl at school…”
“Cool.”
“I asked Mom for… advice, you know? On how to ask her out? I don’t even know why she got mad, she just started calling me a little sissy, and…”
“She’s been drinking again, huh?”
“Yeah…” They watched the commercials for a while, before Adam wiped his eyes. “Fuck the courts, man.” he said, for about the thousandth time since the custody hearings.
Gabriel gave his boy a one-armed hug. “A couple more years, amigo. You’ll get through it."
“Yeah. She probably wouldn’t let me date Ava anyway.” Adam groused.
“Ava? So that’s her name. You were hanging out with her by the gates when I picked you up last week, right?”
“…Yeah?”
“Shit, amigo, if you’re going to let your mom stop you from asking her out you’re a dumbass." Gabriel said. “Go for it!”
“What if she says no?”
Gabriel suppressed a laugh. “Little man, I saw the way she was looking at you. No way is that gonna happen.”
“She was?” Adam looked stunned and delighted. “but… nah, she wasn’t. Was she?”
“Hey, I’m a cop. Reading people is my job. And here’s a pro tip for you, amigo: If a girl’s got all her weight on one foot like that, and is playing with her hair and biting her lip? She wants you."
“You’re just saying that.”
“Google that shit, man.”
They sat in comfortable silence until the food arrived, though it was plain that Adam was no longer watching the screen. He only spoke again when they were eating at the table.
“So.. what, just ask her? Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“How? I mean, like, what do I say?”
“You like her?”
“Hell yeah I like her!” Adam exclaimed.
“Why? Is it just because she’s pretty?” She’d seemed more than that to Gabriel’s eye from a distant, but he wanted Adam to have his priorities straight.
“You think she’s pretty?” Adam asked.
“I’m older than you, amigo, not blind." Gabriel chuckled. “Come on, d’you like her just because she’s pretty, or is she… clever, funny, what?"
“…Yeah. She is.”
“Cool. Lead with that. It’s not hard.”
“So, what do I say?” Adam persisted.
Gabriel shrugged. “Next time you see her, after you’ve said hello, if there’s like, an awkward pause or something, you just say “Hey… I really like you. You’re funny, you’re smart, you’re pretty, and I was hoping we could go out on a date”, something like that.”
Adam looked blank. “That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s it. It’s not rocket surgery, man.” Gabriel grabbed the last dumpling and devoured it. For once, his son was too lost in thought to complain.
“But what if she says no?” He repeated.
Gabriel rolled his eyes and smiled, remembering how short his own confidence had been at that age. “Okay compadre, what I’m about to tell you may sound at first like the bleakest and most depressing thing in the world, but I promise this is the secret to love, okay?"
“What secret?”
Gabriel leaned forward. “There is no such thing, as a perfect girl.” he said. “There’s no “the one” or your “soulmate”. I know you’re really into her - and just trust your old man, she’s into you too - but she’s only human. If she DOES say no, then that’s her loss, okay? It’s not the end of the world. There’s other girls out there, and it’ll hurt and be embarrassing at first, but you’re tough, you’ll get on with your life and a handsome devil like you? You’ll be fending the ladies off with a bat.”
“You’re right, that sounds kinda shitty.” Adam agreed, with a weak smile.
“Trust me, it’s the best thing. You’ve got to understand, little man, relationships don’t just happen magically because an angel came down and touched you both, okay? That only happens in movies and pop music. You have to put work and effort into your girl, and it all starts with remembering that if she says no then she’s an idiot, and if she says yes then she’s the luckiest girl in the world, okay?”
“…okay.”
“D’you have have a few date ideas lined up?”
“Uh… I dunno, a movie?”
“Bad idea, amigo. Movies are just a couple of hours sitting in the dark ignoring each other, that’s no kind of a date. You wanna go do something where you’re actually interacting. Something she likes, and if you like it too, so much the better."
“Uh… she likes roller derby! She could teach me the rules while we watch?”
“Perfect!”
Gabriel finished his food. “Hey, can you clean this up? I’ma get your bedding out and hit the sack.”
“Sure, Dad…” Adam said. “And… thanks.”
“No problem.” Gabriel stood, ruffled his son’s hair again, and indicated the TV as he passed it. “Turn it off and go to sleep at midnight, and no jacking off on my couch.”
"Dad!"
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV Planet Guvendruduvundraguvnegrugnuvenderelgureg-ugunduvug Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy, Dominion Core
Once Vedreg had departed, and his shuttle had cleared docking procedures and shot away to superluminal speeds, bound for the Council Station, Secretary Meered did something that, had anybody witnessed it, would have struck them as strange.
She nodded off to sleep in her seat. A few seconds later, she woke, looking around as if thoroughly startled and dismayed.
Flanks rippling like an explosion in a paint factory, she hastily began to check her files, notes and appointments.
Then she stared at the page, wondering why she couldn’t read it. While that problem was occupying her attention, she idly wondered why her entire body was beginning to feel tingly and numb. She felt warm, though, and tired. Whatever it was she had been so… agitated up about could wait until… she yawned… until she’d had a nap…
Half an hour later, her aide’s frantic call to medical came much too late for Secretary Meered. The cause of death was recorded as cerebral infarction.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV San Diego, California, USA, Earth
“Welcome back. How was the East coast?”
“Cold, wet and gray. ”
Seventy-Two had made his position within the Hierarchy through exclusive use of biodrones. A signature technique was necessary - every Number needed a unique angle, something that made them more suitable for certain niches than were their fellows, and the biodrone angle had paid off beautifully in leading to the Earth assignment.
These human ones bothered him somewhat, though. Despite being entirely slaved to his will, they still retained an element of personality, and a tendency towards being talkative, or even garrulous.
Other Numbers may have seen this as a liability, but the humans seemed uniquely capable of spotting a fake in their midst. The first-generation biodrones, the ones that had been truly limited in faculties and personality, had provoked remarkably strong negative reactions among the few humans with whom they had interacted. The “uncanny valley” they called it - if it looked human but didn’t behave enough like one, then it stood out, which was the precise opposite of what a Biodrone was for. The successful newer models had much more mental flexibility, which wasn’t comfortable territory to be in.
That small hiccup aside, all it took to create a biodrone was one human and a little surgery which, thanks to their uniquely sturdy biology, the subject recovered from the operations far more swiftly - and was more likely to survive them - than any other sapient being that Seventy-Two had ever converted that way.. He would have to archive their DNA for future cloning programs.
Still. They weren’t cheap or easy to produce. Losing one to Boone’s ingenuity and paranoia had been painful, and no appropriate specimens for conversion had yet come his way. Being down to only two drones was making it harder and harder to keep pace with humanity’s developments.
It would be time to create a new one, soon.
The biodrone was behaving a little strangely, he noticed. It seemed to be drowsy. Even as he watched, it nodded off on its feet, waking up again after a second with a start.
“Are you malfunctioning?” he asked.
The drone smiled, a little peculiarly.
“Oh no,” it said, and there was a tone of voice there that didn’t belong. Something that was jarringly different to its established modes of behaviour. “I’m better than ever.”
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV
Today was, technically, the first of Gabriel’s two days off a week, but he’d never learned the secret to leaving his work at work, or at least not in the cases that really mattered.
After a breakfast of pancakes and a phone conversation with Mrs. Almodovar, Adam had been granted leave to stay at Gabriel’s apartment for a few days. Given that it was a school day, however, Gabriel had the place to himself for several hours.
By the end of those hours, the table - and the wall around it - were covered in documents and photographs, with sharpied comments, observations, coloured lines, speculation and the fruits of his research and a few phone calls. None of it amounted to a breakthrough.
“Hey Dad! She said… woah.” Adam stopped mid-celebration when he caught sight of the vast spread of information that had sprawled all over the apartment.
“She said yes?” Gabriel finished.
“She did!” Adam looked like he couldn’t believe his luck. “Jeez, Dad, what’s all this?”
“Murder case.” Gabriel told him. Adam picked up a photo from the table - a still of Johnson’s face, from the security cam footage, mercifully not including the victim’s remains.
“This the suspect?” He asked.
“Give me that.” Gabriel snatched it back. “Come on man, you know this stuff’s confidential.”
“Sorry Dad. Seriously though, is that him?”
Gabriel relented. Despite his best efforts to persuade the boy towards a safer and more lucrative career, Adam seemed dead-set on following his old man into law enforcement. He had to admit, the kid had the brain for it. “That’s him.” he confirmed.
Adam glanced at the picture again. “Looks about as average-white-guy as they come.” he opined.
“Yep. Average height, brown hair, brown eyes, no distinguishing features. A face that can disappear in the crowd.” Gabriel agreed. <And into thin air> he added in the privacy of his own mind. The vanishing act Johnson had pulled mid-video was causing him more and more alarm the more he thought about it. Half his day had involved taking a crash course in spacetime distortion physics, and the possible applications of the same reality-folding technology that allowed Pandora and her sisters to fly to Jupiter and back. Some kind of reverse-stasis technology that massively accelerated the murderer’s personal time, allowing him to move so fast as to disappear between frames seemed the most likely explanation, but if he had something like that at his disposal…
Adam continued to stare at the picture, clearly committing it to memory. He had a good memory for faces alright, Gabriel had to give his son that. But Johnson’s was so… generic that unless the kid was memorizing every wrinkle and fleck of white in the beard - and there was no reason to assume that Johnson had retained his beard after a flagrant public murder caught on film - it was a hopeless cause.
“Come on man, she said yes, don’t depress yourself with my work.” Gabriel chastised him, and started to clear it all away. He really should try to relax when he was off-duty anyway. “You’ve got a date!”
“Yeah!” Adam seemed happier than Gabriel had seen him in a long while. “We’re going to see the Derby Dolls on Saturday!”
“Sounds like a good date.” Gabriel told him. “You got anything to wear for it?”
“Not really…” Adam admitted. Gabriel nodded and stood.
“Come on then.” he said. “Let’s hit the mall.”
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV
Mr. Johnson raised his hands and looked at them as if he had never seen them before, and flexed them, balled them into fists and rolled his shoulder. “Strong…” He commented. There was something… off about his intonation. It was hard to describe. Previously the drone had projected an air of competent, contended ready-for-anything-ness. Now it was speaking with an air of… wonder, maybe. Or revelation.
Seventy-Two affected a frown, even though the Corti body wasn’t really equipped for that expression. “What are you doing?” he demanded, impatiently.
The drone grinned. “Your puppet’s been hijacked, Seventy-Two.” he said.
“Hijacked? …Who are you?”.
The grin broadened. “Six.”
“…And you chose a biodrone based on a Deathworlder to host you?" The thought was repugnant. He may control them, but the thought of ever using one as a Host was appalling.
“It was the only available host. Having tried it, however, I wholly recommend it: you should occupy one of these yourself, get out of that cage you’ve put yourself in.” Six replied. “Next to the Guvnurag I was wearing just a few minutes ago, this feels… oh! Liberating.”
He bent over backwards, planted his hands on the floor and kicked up until he was inverted, wobbling slightly, ignoring the way his body’s tie and jacket dangled, undignified, in his face. “So strong!" he exulted.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the input and assistance of a single-digit.” Seventy-two said, speaking with as much tartness as he could muster “but I was under the impression that this is my operation."
“Oh, it is. As far as the Numbers know, the operation on this planet is still being overseen by Seventy-Two. I am here… unofficially.”
"Unofficially?!" Seventy-Two spat the word.
“Officially so.”
If there was one thing a Corti body was well designed for, it was looking nonplussed. If there was one thing that Six seemed to be adept at (besides causing irritation) it was not deigning to notice nonplussed expressions. “Amazing. There are whole trees of autonomic and instinctive functionality in here. The poor things aren’t so much controlling their bodies as prompting it to do something it already knows how to do.”
A memory - a potential behavioural tic that might cause the higher-ranking Hierarch to become a little less obtuse, tickled Seventy-Two’s attention.
“Six… I would appreciate a clearer explanation of what you’re doing here, please.” he asked, politely.
“Certainly!” the mercurial Number flipped right-side up again and sat down, cross-legged. “You only had to ask. I am here because Earth has become priority one, and rather than break with decorum and insult your competence, Two felt that a more… subtle approach was required.”
“Hence you.” Seventy-Two concealed his opinion that there were exploding stars less subtle than Six behind an inflection of polite understanding.
“Supposedly. Why they felt I was appropriately subtle is beyond me..” Six replied, candidly. “Possibly they felt that throwing me at a potential disaster would be a good excuse to finally decompile my identity.”
“We’re not doing that badly down here.” Seventy-two protested.
“The humans outwitted Twenty-Four.” Six corrected him. “They’re flinging themselves into space as fast as they can get the infrastructure in place to do it. They have introduced the galaxy to whole new paradigms of combat.”
He leaned forward, hands dangling loose across his knees. “What we have here, my dear sibling, is a first-degree emergency, and I would have hoped that you would have had the wit to see it, even from down here in the thick of the fighting.”
“…They’re investigating me. Tenaciously, too.” Seventy-Two admitted. “They have government organisations on several tiers, all behaving like that damnably powerful immune system of theirs. They seem willing to believe what must sound utterly incredible to them, and they seem to be completely paranoid.”
“Paranoid?”
“They back up everything, store their data, spread it far and wide so that even if I kill the person who collected it, somebody else is able to continue their work. Silencing the investigator who betrayed us has only served to risk galvanising the investigation. I’ve never heard of anything like it.”
“No? In that case you’re lacking the knowledge of a fundamental component of their psychology, my friend.” Six stood. “And if you don’t know your enemy then failure is inevitable.”
He turned towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Seventy-two demanded. “There’s work to be done!”
“I’m going to know our enemy.” Six replied.
Seventy-Two gritted his teeth, and sent a communication to his last remaining biodrone. He was really going to need those replacements now.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV
“So, I’ve got a question.”
Gabriel glanced sideways at his son. “Shoot.”
“You said yesterday that you’re a cop, and how reading people is your job.”
“Yeah?”
“Can you teach me to do that?”
Gabriel laughed. “Why, so you can tell when a girl is interested in you?”
“Well… yeah!” Adam admitted, blushing. “But, it kinda seems like it’d be a cool thing to know anyway.”
Gabriel sighed internally. He was just furnishing the kid with more of the tools to grow up into a cop like his old man, he knew, but at the same time, knowing how to look at body language and movement was a useful skill for anybody. It could get a young man out of trouble if he could see trouble before it came gunning for him.
“Alright, let’s grab a snack and I’ll teach you a few things.” he said.
They selected coffee and donuts - prompting a predictable joke from Adam about those foodstuffs and Gabriel’s career - and settled in to a corner of the food court where they could see much of what was going on.
“Okay, so… body language.”
He looked around. The mall was fairly busy. Not heaving, but there was a fair density of humanity moving around. It was an excellent introduction. “How many people d’you think are here right now?”
Adam looked around then shrugged. “I dunno… a couple thousand?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.” Gabriel agreed. “How many d’you think are here looking to break the law?”
Adam thought about it then gave him a wide-eyed, head-shaking shrug.
“Damn near none of them.” Gabriel informed him. “Pretty much everybody here is just here to shop, buy stuff, go home, live their lives. Most people are decent human beings, okay? So what you’re looking out for is the handful who aren’t.”
“Okay. How?”
“Two things. The first part is profiling - what’s the crime that’s most likely to be committed where you are, and what type of person is most likely to commit it? That changes depending on where you are, and when. Here and now, the most likely crime is…?”
“Shoplifting.”
“Right! And that’s tricky because the profile for shoplifters is pretty vague. Men and women shoplift about equally, they do it on the spur of the moment… about the only thing you can look out for is groups of teenagers, kids about your age. Peer pressure makes them do stupid shit, you know?”
“Yeah…”
Gabriel guessed that his son knew a few kids at school who had admitted to, or even boasted about, the crime. There wasn’t much that could be done about it, and you had to let SOME stuff go or you’d never switch off.
“So you have to look out for the warning signs after the crime has been committed," he continued, pretending not to have noticed the hesitation “and that means you have to look for anyone who’s moving strangely.”
“Like how?”
“You just have to… watch people. Get a feel for how they normally move in this environment. Are they relaxed, are they tense, are they bored, eager, happy? This is a shopping mall, so most of the people here are moving kinda slow, they’re looking around at the advertisements, they’re window-browsing. Yeah?”
Adam was looking around at the crowd, and nodded. “Okay, yeah.”
“Right. So now you’ve got an idea of how people should be moving around here, you can basically ignore all those people. They’re behaving how they should be, so they’re probably not up to anything. Look for the people who aren’t moving that way."
Adam looked around then, pointed. “Him.”
“Yep. He’s walking fast, he’s not got any bags, he’s not looking around. So now you look at his face. What’s his expression?”
“He doesn’t really have one. I guess… bored?”
“Alright. No expression means he’s pretty comfortable, he’s not feeling tense or paranoid, or anything. So my guess is he knows exactly what he’s here for and he just wants to grab it and go and not waste time. He’s got better things to be doing. If I’m right then he’s not a problem.”
Adam frowned. “What if you’re wrong?” he asked
“Then I’m wrong. But like we said, round here the most likely crime is shoplifting, so it’s not like somebody could die if I fuck up. I’ve got a lot of people to look at so I have to trust my judgement. I can’t be suspicious of everyone just because I could be wrong."
Adam nodded his understanding. “Okay, so you look at how they move, then at their expression. What next?”
“That’s about it.” Gabriel said. His son’s expression turned dubious. “No, seriously, check the movement, check the expression. You have to learn to see the crowd as a bunch of moving abstract shapes and pick out the motion that’s wrong. Too fast, too slow, too jerky, aimed in the wrong direction… once you’ve done that, you look at the face, the shoulders and feet, trying to figure out if they’re feeling comfortable or not. If they’re moving wrong but look comfortable, then you ignore them. If they’re looking uncomfortable… well, that could still be a mom whose kid’s trying to swim in the fountain, so that’s why you observe them for a bit, try to figure out what’s going on with them.”
“That’s all there is to it, then?” Adam asked. “Sounds…”
“Unreliable as hell?” Gabriel finished for him. Adam looked like he wanted to agree, so he nodded. “Yep. it’s really only good for spotting the guys who really stand out, but those are the ones you most want to spot, so it works. Getting better at it is just practice."
Adam nodded distractedly and frowned at the crowd, clearly trying to practice what he’d just been told. Gabriel suppressed an amused snort and drained his coffee. “Anyway, you wanna get that shirt now?”
“Sure”.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV
Sights. Sounds. Smells. All so much more acute, all interlinking in fascinating ways. This was how a human viewed the world, a melange of sensory data all arriving at once, sending chemicals dancing and whirling through that intricate, dense neocortex. Six explored on foot, testing and analyzing the way his adopted body could just be aimed in a direction and set to travelling, how the very act of covering the distance one step at a time seemed to free and expand the mind.
Isolated as the core of his consciousness and sense of self were, running on the implants which riddled the alien body’s neural structure, he still felt it. Still felt the glow of endorphins even as the muscles of his new legs warmed and stretched: it was a surprisingly comfortable feeling, a kind of pleasant pain: the body revelled in motion even as that motion tested and taxed it.
There was so much to see. By day he wandered in the shade of the buildings of Downtown, occasionally venturing into the full glare of Sol’s ultraviolet- heavy radiance on the waterfront. He patiently explored the USS Midway museum, drank in the raw data of the antiquated vessel’s role and functionality, mentally noting to retain and use some of the innovative ideas that had gone into its construction. As dusk fell and the burning heat became a gentle ruddy warmness, he walked on the beach and indulged his hijacked flesh’s unaccountable instinct to remove its footwear.
It wasn’t like controlling the bodies of other lifeforms. Everything ran on instinct, everything was handled locally by independent systems that didn’t consult him at all, they just acted on a hair-trigger before finally bothering to inform him after the fact. He got some strange looks as he passed a series of females who wore practically nothing, lost in thought at the curious reaction they had - quite unbidden - inspired in his male body’s genitalia. Why should he have inherited human taboos and preferences?
As night fell, his feet carried him through Gaslamp, where he finally came to understand what the term “night-life” meant. Every shadow seemed to hum with some secret or another. Every single person he passed, even just as unconsidered blurs on the sidewalk, seemed to have a vital spark to them - they were going somewhere, they were doing things, for a reason.
His hijacked body’s instincts swung into gear - that group of males over there were large and boisterous, a potential threat: Avoid them. That alleyway was dark: Don’t go down it. That building over there was an oasis of warmth and light, from which issued smells and sounds that spoke to several parts of his body at once.
His stomach issued a strange noise, and he allowed his feet to carry him toward the bar and grill.
He was fortunate, he realised, to have done his research on how to pay for goods and services on this planet.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV “I was expecting you to have a hangover.” Seventy-Two commented.
“You have a low opinion of me.” Six replied. He’d sampled intoxication - he hadn’t cared for it. Possibly that was a product of the inherent disconnect between his sense of identity, cloistered away in the cerebral implants, and the rest of the brain, but the experience had been frustrating - a loss of both agility and sensory acuity, for no apparent gain. The effects had dissipated after a few hours, leaving him resolved to not do it again.
The tastes of the food he had sampled, however, were sharp and pleasant memories. He had eaten meat for the first time, sampling the flesh of once- animal life: unfamiliar textures had seduced his palate - rare steak, chicken caesar, frankfurter, cheese!
“So do you know our enemy yet?” Seventy-Two inquired, not bothering to conceal his disdain.
“More than I did.” Six allowed. “There are a few more things to see tonight before I begin my work.”
“And once you’ve learned it all? What then?”
“I have already learned that I cannot learn it all. This is just one city, a paltry million-and-a-half individuals. There is a whole planet out there filled by more than seven billion humans; I don’t have the time to sample everything on offer."
He grinned again. “But I have learned a lot already. About how they think, about what drives them, about the way in which they experience the world. The weaknesses are revealing themselves.”
“And how do we exploit those weaknesses?”
“First, an experiment.”
“I see.” Seventy-two sounded dubious. “And what will this ‘experiment’ of yours entail?”
Six sat down. “I learned an expression of theirs last night. They say: ‘poking the hornet’s nest’.”
“I’m familiar with it. It’s an allegory for doing something very foolish.”
“All data points arrive from doing something ostensibly foolish.” Six replied. “We’ll need to sacrifice your last biodrone.”
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV
Adam had followed up his Dad’s insight into how to crowd-watch with some Internet research of his own, and felt he was starting to get the hang of the skill. He’d also done some research on how to have a good first date. Arriving early at Skateworld allowed him to accomplish both.
After a few minutes, he got into a rhythm, watching people come and go not as people but as shapes, moving. He got a feel for HOW they were moving, where and why. It was a pleasant surprise to him when he noticed one shape start to move differently, turning towards him and picking up speed and bounce…
“Hey!”
Adam jolted out of his thoughts, but smiled warmly as Ava trotted up to him, beaming from ear to ear. He felt his face warm as she kissed him hello.
“This was a great idea, I was going to say we should watch a movie or something.” she enthused.
Adam laughed slightly. “My Dad told me that’d just be two hours of sitting in the dark ignoring each other.” he confessed. “I’d rather see you and talk to you.”
After he’d said it, the fear struck him that the line was corny and over-the- top, but Ava seemed to take it very well - she blushed and bounced happily in her shoes, then took his hand and led him towards the entrance.
Adam allowed himself to be led, secretly amazed at how well things were going. <maybe this isn’t so difficult after all…>
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV
The Biodrone waited. The order would soon come.
In a lot of ways, it was still human. While it lacked anything resembling a sense of self-interest or an agenda of its own, it still had its emotional responses, and something which might be considered a personality.
It had, for lack of a better word, liked its counterparts. Both the one that was destroyed and the one which was now occupied by a Controller. It felt, to some limited degree, a sense of loss and grief over their destruction.
It felt similarly about its own imminent destruction. Had it been asked, it would have preferred not to do what it was about to do.
But it had not been asked. That was not its Role. It had been tasked, and it would do. And it would die.
But for now, it waited.
Most of it did not want to die. Part of it - the last imprisoned vestiges of this body’s former psyche - did. But even they did not want to escape into death’s clutches like this.
Not taking so many with them. Not murdering innocents.
But the biodrone waited. The order would soon come.
And it would do. And it would die.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV
Ava had insisted that, because Adam had paid for the tickets, she would pay for the snacks and drinks, and in any case she needed the restroom, and had left him alone to guard their stuff and their seats while the pre-game was still going on. The teams were being announced in a flurry of girly-macho pseudonyms: “Kitty Crash”, “Victoria van Boom”, “EradiKate” and so on that he’d never remember anyway, so he fell back into playing his crowd-watching game.
That lady over there… worried for her kid standing on the rail. That guy over there… no, he was just after his cellphone. That lady over there was running, but… no, she just settled into her seat with a smile, sharing a lively greeting and a hug-and-double-cheek-kiss with her friend. That guy over there… was…
“Oh shit." He swore.
Nobody else could be so… average, so bland. It was almost a defining trait in its own right. If he hadn’t been walking too slowly, looking around at the crowd rather than down at the players, if he hadn’t been jigging slowly as he moved, as if anticipating something, Adam’s eyes would have skipped straight over the guy. As it was, the anomalous movement and attitude drew his eye, and his memory did the rest.
He feverishly dug in his jeans pocket for his own phone, just as Ava returned.
“Okay, I’m… what’s up?” she asked, sensing his urgency.
“I recognised somebody.” Adam said, quietly.
“Anyone I know?” she asked, looking out over the crowd. Her own eyes skipped straight over the guy.
“He’s the suspect in a murder case Dad’s working!” he hissed. “Sit down!”
She did so, paling. Adam retrieved his phone and stood, managing to snap a great picture of John Doe’s face under the pretense of taking a selfie.
He sat again, and tapped furiously at the screen - “this guy @ derby!” - and forwarded it to his Dad’s number.
“What do we do?” Ava asked. “Do we call the cops, or…?”
“I just did.” Adam said. “I really hope I’m wrong."
She took his hand, manicured fingers intertwining with his own. It made him feel a little better, a little less afraid.
He knew he wasn’t wrong.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV
+<Impatience; Derision> I really don’t see what this accomplishes.+
Six was gaining increased control over his human body, and managed to avoid allowing a tic of irritation to cross his face. Not that he felt it would blow his cover, but ideally he would prefer to go completely unnoticed, rather than be remembered as the strange man in the crowd making faces for no apparent reason.
+<Weary tolerance> Seventy-Two, I have been a single-digit Number since before you were compiled. I have played my part in the cleansing of five deathworlds before this one. The only reason I’m not ordering you to shut up and stop repeating your doubt is because I hate standing on rank. I just ask - please - that you trust that I know what I’m doing.+
There was no reply for a few minutes, buying him the time to show his ticket, enter the venue, find his assigned seat and look around with interest at the gathered crowd, most of whom were holding up their phones and cameras, getting snapshots to bleat at each other about where they were and what they were doing.
He sat down when 72 intruded on his thoughts again. +<resignation; frustration> Very well. I trust your judgment. I just ask that you please share some of your reasoning with me.+
+<Satisfaction> You only had to ask.+
He paused to gather his thoughts, thinking how best to explain it to the much junior Number.
+<Mentoring> Despite our late alert to just how far along the humans were, we still established our presence on this planet sufficiently early that the usual strategy of engineering a large-scale exchange of nuclear armaments should have worked. There was no reason for it not to.+
+<Skeptical> If you say so.+
Six smiled. Two groups of human females had assembled on the open floor below, wearing coloured clothing to indicate their team, plus some light impact- resistant armour to protect their joints and head, and curious wheeled shoes. He wondered idly what the rules of the game were.
+<Assertive> I do say so. The failure of the strategy implies that there is some self-correcting element in the human psyche which compensates for the usual aggression of the deathworlder mindset. They are capable of being presented with an existential threat and choosing NOT to attack it, out of longer-term self interest.+
The teams set up - a huddle of eight players, four from each team, blocking the path of the two in the back wearing a starred cover on their helmets.
Seventy-Two still wasn’t persuaded. +<Dismissive> So they’re not stupid. You’ve not explained what that has to do with wasting my last biodrone on this suicide mission.+
+<Explanatory> Their behaviour in a small crisis may shed light on their probable reaction to a larger one. By observing the former, I intend to gain insight into possible avenues of attack which we can exploit to eradicate them.+
A whistle blew, and the two players with stars on their helmets launched themselves forward, battling to get past the players in front. It was all remarkably physical, the players forcing one another off-balance and restraining one another with force that would have crippled or killed most life forms. Even as he watched, one of the starred players fell and slid some way on her back, her helmeted skull bouncing against the hard polished concrete floor. It was a serious blow, but she bounced back to her feet and threw herself into the fray again as if it was routine.
+<defeat> I can’t find fault with your reasoning. I just hope this pays off with useful intelligence.+
+<confidence> It will.+
There was no reply. The crowd emitted a delighted noise as one of the starred players broke free and accelerated around the oval track before diving straight back into the scrum she had so recently escaped. This time, with speed on her side she skipped through the pack and out the far side, at one point teetering on one wheeled foot on the very precipice of the track. The other starred player broke loose and gave chase, prompting the first one to dodge three more of the other team before patting her flanks three times, prompting a whistle to sound.
Eight points were awarded, and Six leant forward, interested to figure out the rules of this bellicose game before it went extinct along with the species that invented it.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV
Adam’s phone pinged after a tense two minutes.
The message from Dad read simply: “It’s him GTFO dont alert crowd: panic even more dngrs.”
Ava read the message, looked at his expression, and thank Christ, decided not to argue. She just stood with him and followed him out of the stands, down the stairs, and into the street, silent, pale and tense.
“What now?” Ava asked. “I mean, we just left all those people in there…”
“Dad said not to alarm them.” Adam said. “The cops’ll keep them safe.”
“I hope so.” she folded her arms low across her tummy, hunched and stressed. Adam didn’t even think twice - he drew her in for a hug.
He looked at his phone as it pinged again. The message just read: "Proud of you. Love you. Stay safe."
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV
Seventy-two would have truly preferred to keep his last drone intact, but Six’s superior rank - even if the older Number preferred not to rely on it, carried all the weight it needed to.
Still, it was good that the arrogant Hierarch had shut up for the time being. It allowed Seventy-Two time to think and prepare some contingencies that *might * - with luck - mean they got to keep the biodrone after all.
His hopes of that were dashed when Six’s impatient mental tones cut into his planning. +<query> What is the biodrone’s ETA?+
+<Report> It has arrived. Retrieving the weapon from the vehicle’s cargo compartment now.+
This was, technically, a small lie - the drone had been sitting in the car park for a few minutes awaiting the go signal while 72 desperately tried to work a survival scenario that would allow him to retain his last precious drone. Annoyed and resigned, he wrote the thing off. Six would just have to acquire the raw material to create the replacements himself, being the last remaining ambulatory part of the operation.
+<Satisfaction> Good. Remember to instruct it not to shoot into the section where I’m sitting.+
72 couldn’t resist ironically echoing Six’s own words back at him. _<_Patient request*> I just ask - please - that you trust that I know what I’m doing.+
This was met with silence.
One of his watcher programs flashed up possibly relevant activity. He had snuck the virus into the San Diego PD dispatch system years ago: it was in its own way a little bit sapient, and could creatively interpret the flow of data inside the law enforcement information networks, looking for relevant or useful information.
He allowed the information to be injected into his consciousness as he worked at getting the drone into the building undetected so that it could “poke the hornet’s nest” as Six had ordered.
"Dispatch, Eight-one-niner, I have a tipoff on a suspect wanted for multiple violent felonies. He’s at Skateworld, Linda Vista and Comstock, please advise."
Disbelief was the only conceivable response. There was no possible way that Six’s biodrone could have been recognised, it was designed to be utterly anonymous. The things vanished in crowded areas. Its social stealth should have been perfect.
He ordered the armed Biodrone to abort its assault on the building, and listened.
"Eight-one-niner, Dispatch, is the sighting confirmed?"
"Dispatch, Eight-one-niner, positive ID, this guy’s wanted for multiple homicide and domestic terrorism, could be a mass shooting about to start over there, request special tactics."
Special tactics. What, exactly, that meant was not known to Seventy-Two, but there was no point sending in the biodrone now - it would surely be intercepted and destroyed without accomplishing anything more than they already had.
In fact, now he thought about it, this was exactly the kind of response that Six had intended to elicit. That it was arriving before anything even started was… very troubling, but…
“*Eight-one-niner, Dispatch, be advised, special tactics is enroute, creating talk group with their captain.”
For the first time since he had arrived on Earth, Seventy-Two understood the urge to swear, and spoke aloud: “Feces!”
He followed that declaration with an urgent transmission to Six. +<Alarm; disbelief> Armed response units will be converging on your location imminently. Abort.+
+<Incredulity> That’s impossible, nothing’s happened yet.+
+<Firm assertion> I’m listening to their communications. Abort.+
+<Reluctant acknowledgment> Aborting.+
+<firm> I’ve withdrawn the assault unit, too. I think we have all the information you need.+
+<Worried> I think you’re right…+
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV
“Suspect’s a white male, late thirties to early forties, brown hair and full beard, wearing a charcoal suit and red tie.”
Gabriel gritted his teeth as Jimmy Rowan took a chance turning right at an intersection without properly stopping to check it. It earned a few honks, but it gained a few seconds, and didn’t need him to hit the siren. The closer they could get without making that noise, the better their hopes that “Johnson” would still be in place when they arrived.
The Special Tactics team was well ahead of him. Copy that. We’re going in plain clothes, tag him, tranq him, side room and search. Do it right and nobody needs to know."
Gabriel keyed his radio again as a red light mercifully turned green just in time.
“Be warned, he’s suspect in a bombing on the East Coast, could be wearing a vest.” he advised.
"We’ve got bomb squad." the SWAT captain reassured him. "ETA one minute"
Dispatch’s voice cut into the conversation again. "Responding units, be advised we have report on a possible second shooter, loitering in the car park. Caller says she saw him get a rifle out of the trunk."
The SWAT captain’s reply was terse. "Copy, Dispatch."
There was nothing for it but to let Jimmy drive, and to pray.
Please God let my son be safe…
He tapped the voice recognition on his phone, and shouted at it over the sound of his howling engine. “Call Agent Hamilton!” he instructed.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV
Six’s escape had been planned down to the finest detail on the assumption that nobody could spot him if he was part of a mob of panicked civilians fleeing a massacre.
He wasn’t prepared to just… leave, to abort the mission. That wasn’t a scenario that had been deemed possible.
+<Anxiety; stress> HOW?! Can they predict the future or something?+ he demanded over the thought-link.
+<reassuring; tense> Don’t be ridiculous.+
+<Gnawing fear> But they have a word for it! "Clairvoyance“! Why would they have a word for something like that if they couldn’t do it?+
+<Firm command> You are panicking. Just get out of there and we will determine how this is possible once you are safe.+
People were bustling this way and that: he flinched nervously away from them, kept his face bowed, tried to escape unseen. He brushed past a muscular male in a jacket and hat, ignoring off the man’s “watch it, buddy” as he turned his face away and walked as fast as he dared towards the exit.
Nobody challenged him as he stepped outside and breathed a sigh of relief. Out on the street, the anonymity of his biodrone body would protect him.
Something dense, hard, and fleshy hit him from the side - he didn’t hear it coming, there was no flash of movement in his peripheral vision. There was just the pain of his face against the asphalt, the discomfort of his limbs being restrained, a piercing pain as something violated his assumed skin, and then the world melted away into dreams and timeless nonsense.
In the dark, the component modules of his personality were left to scream and rage within the separate prisons of the implants that sustained them.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV
The situation was changing faster than Seventy-Two could cope. There was too much to juggle, too many unknown factors. Six’s line had gone dark, threats were everywhere, none of them properly identified.
The biodrone’s orders were to retreat, and so it retreated along the preplanned route. It did not mind the conflicting orders, it simply obeyed the most recent one.
There were two armed threats in the way. Its orders included self-preservation and evading capture. It opened fire.
Return fire cut it down.
For only the second time in his life, Seventy-Two swore.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 4d AV
“Adam!”
“Dad!”
Gabriel Ares barrelled into his son at speed and drew him into a bear-hug.
“What’s going on?” Adam asked.
“SWAT’s inside, they’re going for a low-profile capture.” Gabriel replied. “But there’s a second gunman about the place we need to get-”
There was a thumping sound, and something hot and wet splattered Adam’s face.
Gabriel frowned at him. “Your face…?”
There were gunshots. Ava started screaming.
Jimmy lowered his gun. “Holy fuck did you see-” he began, then his expression changed as Gabriel fell to the ground.
"Shit! Dispatch, need an ambulance west side of Skateworld ASAP! Officer down, officer down!"
Chapter 18
Chapter 15: “Forever Changed” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date point: ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth
There was a change in the texture of nothingness, a return of some of the functionality of his body. Six wasted no time in extending his sense of self outwards from its cloistered life inside the implants, and into the meat he was wearing.
It was, surprisingly, not too bad. His mouth was dry, and his head ached a little, but he awoke to find himself lying - clean, clothed and dignified - on a bed.
It wasn’t exactly a comfortable bed, but nor was it torturously hard. It was just a simple mattress, with a pillow-shaped raised bit at one end in lieu of an actual pillow, and a blanket. It was the sole feature of a plain grey room, other than a door which looked, if anything, even more solid than the walls around it, and a sturdy yellowish light panel in the ceiling. There wasn’t even a window.
He sat up, enjoying the feeling of his limbs moving again, appreciating the way they reported none of the discomfort he had felt when last conscious and pinned face-down to the San Diego sidewalk.
His link to 72 was dead. The micro-wormhole connecting him to the Hierarchy had, somehow, closed itself. Wherever he was, it was at the very bottom of a communications black hole.
No matter. Unexpected complications or not, the mission remained the same: gather information. Something would, presumably, be happening soon. He would record it, he would remember it, he would find a means of escape, and rather than being a disaster, his hive-poking would turn out to be a triumph.
For now, he sat, and waited.
He didn’t need to wait long. Though there were no obvious sensors or cameras in the cell, pretty soon there was a sliding sound - a panel had opened about eye level on his door. It shut immediately afterwards, and was followed by a second, larger hatch at about waist height, through which was thrust a tray.
The smell wafting off it immediately reminded him that he was hungry. Unbidden, his stomach emitted that peculiar growling sound again, and his mouth went into overdrive, salivary glands anticipating the arrival of food.
It turned out to be quite bland fare next to his last meal of just a few days ago. Some white substance, like a dry… gel, almost, or paste. Its taste was pleasant but simple. The chunky brown-white fluid in a separate compartment went well with it, and also with the brownish crumbly item. There was certainly nothing to complain about there, but it wasn’t a patch on the steak and burgers he had so recently eaten.
But then again, what did he expect as a prisoner? In truth, he would have expected far worse than this. A comfortable bed in a clean, dry and warm cell? A filling hot meal and a tall container of cold water? It was a conundrum.
He was still puzzling over this peculiarity when there was a banging on the door, which opened. Three humans stood without, holding blunt black weapons.
Ah. THIS was more like it. A beating. This was closer to what he had expected.
The human in the middle spoke to him. “Detainee, please face the far wall.” He instructed. “Crouch on your knees, place your hands on your head and interlock your fingers.”
“And if I don’t?” Six challenged. He could handle a beating. This… nice treatment was getting to him.
“Detainee, please comply. We will be forceful if we must.”
There was that word again. “Please”. It seemed so strange to have the armed guards address him politely and respectfully, even if they were being impersonal.
He glanced at the far wall, wondering if he should just comply and see what awaited him if he did. After all, why go through all that pain unnecessarily?
The guard spoke again. “Detainee, this is your final warning. Your compliance is mandatory for everyone’s safety, including yours.”
So. No beating. They’d just restrain him and… what, take him somewhere? Either way, there was no point in suffering the inconvenience.
“Fine. I comply.” he said, turning to the wall and kneeling. The guards stepped into the room.
“Hands on your head and fingers interlaced please, detainee.”
Six obeyed.
There was an efficient bustle of movement. His hands and feet were bound with metal, though from the looseness at the ankles he would be able to shuffle a walk. Something dark went over his eyes, something soft over his ears. His world became a purely tactile one, full of no sensation but the hard floor under his knees, the weight on his limbs. Strong hands lifted him to his feet, and he could sense - he wasn’t sure how, but his body reported certainty of the fact - that two of the guards moved into position near him, guiding him with physical contact, pushing him forwards just enough to get the message across that he should be walking. As predicted, he couldn’t hit any kind of a stride, but he was able to walk after a shuffling, slow fashion.
Six tried to judge the route as they left the cell, but quickly gave up. There were so many turns and he was spun around a few times at some points, completely throwing any attempt to track where he was or how far he had gone. For all he knew they could have walked past his cell door five times before he heard - faintly, through the stuff on his head - the sound of a door.
A chair was bumped gently against the back of his knees, and those same hands that had guided him for the last few minutes helped him sit down. There were a few tugging sensations, and sound and light returned in a rush, making him blink and grimace.
“Hello.”
The greeter was seated opposite him, smiling faintly as the handlers filed out of the room. It wasn’t a large room - in fact it was just the two chairs, a desk, and a conspicuous camera mounted on the ceiling. The only features on the desk where a small laptop, turned towards the human so that Six couldn’t see the screen, and a slim paper dossier and pen.
“My name’s Stephen, I’ve been assigned to your case.” the man opposite him continued. “My goal here is to learn as much as I can about you and your associates, but before we begin… Have you been fed well? Are you comfortable enough?”
This was not, Six thought, how an interrogation should go.
Date Point 3y 8m 3w AV
Something was very wrong in the life of Adam Ares.
He’d never realised before just how small his Dad was. In fact, Adam had stood taller than his old man for a couple of years, but he’d always seemed large to Adam.
Now, wrapped up in hospital gown and blankets and violating tubes as he was, that illusion was shattered. Gabriel was a small man, but not a frail man. Not usually. Right now, though…
That alone felt like a crippling loss, and he thanked Jesus Christ and all the angels that it was the only loss he’d endured. Gabriel was, miraculously, very much still alive, and according to the doctors recovering nice and strong. The bullet had entered in the small of the back, bounced off a vertebra, obliterated a kidney and exited through the flank, leaving behind bruising of the lumbar spinal cord and a badly perforated bowel but - crucially - it had missed the renal artery. By which small grace, Gabriel’s life had been saved.
They hadn’t let him stay. He hadn’t been there when Gabriel had first woken up. He hadn’t even been able to visit until after a shouting match with his Mom and a heated phone call with Mrs. Almodovar.
But he’d finally been able to visit, and now…
Gabriel shifted, then woke. He blinked at his son, confused for a second, and then smiled. “Hey, Amigo."
Adam gave up on trying to be manly. He threw himself forward and felt Gabriel bring his free arm - the one without an IV drip in - up and around to hug him, albeit with a grunt of pain.
“Sorry…” Adam muttered.
“It’s okay.”
“Jesus Christ, Dad, I thought…" Adam couldn’t even say it, it just made the tears hurt more as they forced themselves out. “I thought…”
“I know. I’m sorry little man, I dropped the ball. I should have been keeping an eye out.”
A laugh forced its way out between the sobs. “Yeah, you’d better be!”
There was a minute’s silence, and then Adam pulled away, wiping his eyes. “Shit, Dad, please don’t ever do that to me again.”
Gabriel smiled, but sobered. “From what the doctors are telling me, I might be taking early retirement.” he said. “Between the kidney and my spine…”
Adam’s eyes widened. “You’re gonna be able to walk aren’t you?”
“Four out of five.” Gabriel promised. “Or so Doctor Boylan says. I heard it’s all about willpower, so I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be in a wheelchair. But pretty sure I’m never passing physical again so…” he shrugged. “Guess that was my career. It’s okay, I’ve got plenty saved up and invested.”
“You love your job, though.” Adam said.
“Yeah. But it’s just a job, Amigo. There’s more important things."
Gabriel ruffled his son’s hair, then sat back. “Shit, I get tired quick.” he complained.
“It’s okay. I… Ava and I are having another go at dating tonight, I should get ready.”
Gabriel smiled. “Good for you, man…” he said, closing his eyes.
“Yeah. Hopefully it’ll go better this time.”
Gabriel chuckled, then yawned. “Yeah. Pretty sure dates aren’t s’posed to have… shooting…” he mumbled.
Adam let him fall asleep, then let himself out.
Date point: ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth
“Um… yes. Thank you, I’m quite comfortable.” Six admitted. It was true, in fact: the seat was cushioned and ergonomic, and he felt perfectly fine sitting upon it.
“Good to know.” Stephen replied. “So… I’m going to start this interview now. Could you please tell me your name?”
“Mr. Johnson.” Six replied, promptly. That particular feature of the drone’s cover was hardwired into the same implants that now hosted his personality.
Stephen nodded. “I was hoping for your full name.” he said softly, drumming his fingers on the table. The combination of the drumming and Stephen’s mild tones did something very strange to Six - the sounds were actually pleasant, in a way that he had never encountered before. He shook it off and focused on the task at hand. This was still an interrogation, however alien it might be, and Six had five hundred thousand years of experience to draw on to help him. A human who wasn’t even an infant relative to that lifetime wasn’t going to get the better of him just by being nice.
“I don’t know your full name." he pointed out.
“True. I’m Moore, Stephen Moore.”
“Thank you.” Six said, but didn’t reveal his cover’s first name, although this was in large part due to the cover not having been assigned a fixed first name. He remained silent as he rifled through the biodrone’s past mission history in search of the most recently used first name.
“Okay, if you don’t feel like sharing yet, that’s fine.” Stephen said. He tapped on the keyboard of the laptop in front of him, and the gentle tapping, clicking noises the keys made as they were depressed again elicited that same strange pleasantness in Six’s head. It felt… relaxing, warm, comfortable.
He immediately stiffened. What if he was under the influence of some kind of drug? Humans were particularly susceptible to hallucinogens and similar substances, perhaps that meal had been full of some kind of compound that would open him up to speaking the truth.
The stiffening attracted Stephen’s attention. “Is everything alright?” he asked.
“What was in that food I ate?” Six demanded.
“Uhmmm.. mashed potato, biscuits and gravy, peas and carrots.” Stephen replied, after checking his notes. “Why?”
Six was an inexpert reader of human expressions and body language, even with the aid of the specialist subroutines that lurked deep inside any translator implant, but there was no mistaking the honest curiosity in his interrogator’s reaction. It implied that either the food had not been drugged, or - less likely - that Stephen did not know about it.
Perhaps the sensation was just another symptom of human strangeness, one to which he had not hitherto been exposed. He didn’t know. For now, it was safest to withhold his suspicions rather than voice them and out himself as nonhuman. If the reaction was perfectly normal and he commented on it as if it weren’t, then he would have blundered.
“I’m…” he thought how best to make an excuse. “…I was expecting something less pleasant.”
Stephen nodded. “I understand. But we’re professionals here, we don’t do that kind of thing. You have my solemn promise that you’re perfectly safe.”
“That seems… counter-intuitive.” Six told him.
“Perhaps. We’re interested in information, and a peaceful resolution. That’s the first and most important priority. As for you, your person and rights are protected by…” here, Stephen paused and thought for a second, “Oh, a whole mess of laws, which we’re not interested in breaking. It’s better for everyone that they remain unbroken.”
“How noble.” Six scoffed. “Or maybe you’re just trying to get me to relax so you can catch me off-guard.”
Stephen inclined his head. “Is that what you’d do?” he asked.
Six didn’t answer, and after a few seconds Stephen shrugged. He typed something on the laptop in front of him, letting the silence slide.
“Shall we move on to the actual questions?” he asked. “What’s your name again?”
“Mr.” Six emphasised the word “Johnson.”
“Still no first name?”
“No.”
“Not, for instance, Edward? That’s the name you used on your flights to and from New York.”
Unbidden, a detail from the biodrone’s most recent mission surfaced. Yes. Edward.
“…Edward Johnson.”
“Thank you.” Stephen tapped on his laptop again. “But is that your real name?”
Six sneered at him “Of course it is.”
Stephen gave an uncomfortable little grimace. “So, why did you rent a car under the name Paul Johnson a few weeks prior? Why is the name on your apartment’s lease Mr. Richard Johnson?”
He smiled. “Most people don’t change their name as often as they change their jeans.”
They sat in silence for a minute, with Stephen just staring at him, giving Six time to think. There was, he realised, simply no way to maintain the facade of being Mr. Johnson. The damnable drone’s recall was too disconnected from his control, the details of its cover too vague, too hard to retrieve on short notice. A change of tack was in order. He would stick to what he himself knew, without relying on the drone.
“Call me… Six.” he said, finally. It wasn’t like the simple number would reveal anything.
“Six. Fair enough. Thank you.”
Six only stared at him, awaiting the next question.
“Okay, Six… you’re not human, are you?”
Date Point: 3y 8m 3w AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada.
♫♪There’s just an illusion of something different / the very reason they keep telling you something’s missing / but whatever it is you won’t get from…♪♫
“Y-hello?”
"Jenkins, it’s Tremblay."
Kevin yawned and sat up. “Morning, General.” He squinted at the glowing numbers in the dark. “Dude, it’s like oh-five-thirty.”
"Yeah, well, ET intel consultant’s a job that puts you permanently on call, eh? I’ve got some fine gentlemen from down south want a word with you, AND a priority message from the colony. Grab some of that wonder coffee you make and get up here."
The advice to make himself a coffee was sensible on two levels: even if he hadn’t needed to drum up some alertness and drive away the effects of inadequate sleep, it was five-thirty in a winter’s morning in British Columbia. Next to his native Austin, he may as well be above the arctic circle, and three years hadn’t yet served to acclimatize him to the cold. The little disposable cup of triple-strength Mocha served to keep his fingers warm as he grumbled a path through the snow.
A helicopter added to his misery as it came in low overhead while he was passing the security checks to get into the base’s command building, kicking up a blizzard that even made the Quebecois guard flinch inside his greatcoat. Getting inside the heated complex of offices and briefing rooms was heaven.
He knew the way to Tremblay’s office by heart, but as ever there was an escort. Even three years as a civilian contractor and consultant didn’t buy the freedom to walk the base unescorted.
Fortunately, the guard was known to him, and they swapped some small-talk on the way up.
Tremblay’s office was verging on being crowded, occupied as it was by the man himself - looking, Kevin was pleased to note, just as groggy and dishevelled as he felt - plus another CA general, this one with the little crown above his crossed sabers that indicated a Lieutenant-general, superior to Tremblay’s own rank of Brigadier-General, and four men in suits.
“Who’s this then?” the senior officer asked as he entered. He looked disgustingly alert and well-groomed.
“Major-General Paul Rutherford - Kevin Jenkins.” Tremblay introduced. “Our ET intel consultant.”
“I know you!” Rutherford exclaimed. “You were the one in that interview that got all the ETs so shit-scared way back.”
Kevin grimaced and nodded. “Yeah, that was me.”
“You said some rather nasty things about your own species there, Jenkins.” Rutherford pressed, earning him Kevin’s best cool stare. It lasted for several seconds.
“When I said those things, I meant every word.” he said. “Still do, too. And from the looks of things, history has proven me goddamn well right.”
Rutherford snorted, and looked at Tremblay. “You were right Martin, he’s a dick.” he said.
Tremblay’s glance shot around the room as Kevin raised an eyebrow at him, and he cleared his throat. “Commander Higgins and Group Captain Temba here are with MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service.” he said. “Agents Hamilton and Williams here are CIA, and Lieutenant Leclerc behind you is with our own CSIS.”
Jenkins turned around. Leclerc was a tiny woman whose feet weren’t even touching the floor as she sat behind the door, watching and listening. She gave him a faint smile.
“I assume you have some ET intel you want me to consult on?” He asked, settling in the last remaining seat after dragging it away from Tremblay’s desk and turning it around so he could straddle it.
“Before we begin, I want to make it clear that this meeting is classified and its content is Need-To-Know only, under all the relevant laws of, and treaties between, our respective governments. If you don’t accept that, then get out.” Rutherford said. He fixed Kevin with an especially challenging glare, and seemed only grudgingly satisfied when Kevin nodded his understanding and acceptance. This was far from being the first classified meeting he’d attended. “…Martin?
Tremblay just extended an open-palmed hand, inviting the CIA agents to speak first. Williams stood, and the lights dimmed as she turned on the projector.
“Five days ago we apprehended this man in San Diego.” She said. The slide showed a bearded, brown-haired man of indeterminate age and nondescript features. “An accomplice - ” the slide was of somebody who looked effectively identical " - was gunned down after badly wounding San Diego PD homicide detective Gabriel Ares."
“Ares? Shit!” Kevin ignored the disapproving looks his interruption garnered. “Is he okay?”
“He’s recovering in hospital. The doctors give him a good prognosis.” Williams assured him. “May I continue?”
She cleared her throat. “At present, we’re holding John Doe here in a stasis box while he’s moved to a secure holding facility for interrogation. The good thing about that is that we’ve got plenty of time to get our intel together. At this point, however, The Company considers it extremely likely that he’s a member of an extraterrestrial organisation known as “The Hierarchy”, with unknown but apparently hostile motives towards Earth and the whole human race.”
The lights came back up. Rutherford took over. “The purpose of this meeting is to compare notes and to furnish the CIA with everything they might need to aid the interrogation. Mr. Jenkins will reiterate everything that he has learned about the Hierarchy.”
“And the Brits?” Kevin asked, looking at them.
Temba cleared his throat. “As a British Overseas Territory, the settlement of Folctha on the planet Cimbrean reports any intelligence or developments directly to us, and classified.”
Higgins elaborated. “The most recent of that information appears to be somewhat relevant.”
“Let’s hear it.” Jenkins challenged.
“We’d prefer to hear from you first, Mr. Jenkins.” Higgins said, softly.
“Hear what, exactly?” He asked.
Hamilton leaned forward. “Everything.”
Date Point: ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth.
“Well, dropping the nonhuman bombshell early seems to have paid off. Pay up.”
One of the team - there were eight of them total in the room for today - rolled his eyes and dug out a fifty dollar note, which he handed over. The bet didn’t really mean anything: that particular note had been changing hands from bet to bet for so long that nobody could remembers whose wallet (or wager) had originally produced it. “Interesting session.” he commented, as ‘Stephen’ entered the room.
Stephen wasn’t his real name - that was just the booth persona, a tool to give the detainee the convincing illusion of forming real trust and a relationship with a real person, while hopefully shielding the interrogator from getting too close. It was a tough line to tread, though - any hint of insincerity could set back the interrogation a long way. It was a damn tough job.
“How’re we doing?” He asked, grabbing a cola and sandwich from the little desktop fridge in the corner.
“Plenty of data points. He seems to respond well to politeness, and he changed tack nicely when you caught him in the lie about his name. And he definitely had a moment of panic when you dropped the “not human” bomb on him.”
“I saw it.” ‘Stephen’ agreed. “He telegraphs a lot - I was expecting an alien infiltrator to be more… stone-faced.”
“We’ve still not really established that he’s actually an ET.”
There was a gentle throat-clearing from the team’s psychologist. She was the sort of person who spoke only rarely, but commanded total attention when she did. “He pegs almost maximum on the Hypochondriasis and Psychopathic Deviate scales.” She commented, referring to something on her tablet computer. “We haven’t seen enough to rate him otherwise yet, but already, he’s a long way from ‘normal’.”
“Good start, then. What would you like for the next session?”
“Hmm…” She conferred with her assistant for a second, ending in a mutual nodding. “Schizophrenia and/or Hypomania, please?”
“Makes sense…” There was a general taking of notes.
“Lots of interesting tics. Especially that thing when I drummed my fingers.” ‘Stephen’ commented.
“That looked like ASMR to me.” the assistant psychologist chimed in.
The facility commander frowned. “ASMR?”
“Eh, the acronym’s pure pseudoscience.” said one of the team. “but the phenomenon itself is… kind of a pleasant warm fuzzy feeling in the head in response to certain stimuli.”
“What stimuli?”
“Oh… gentle tapping and scratching, soft speech, personal attention, that kind of thing.”
“You sure that’s a real thing?”
“I get it myself.” admitted the psych assistant.
The one who had explained the phenomenon nodded. “Same.”
“Sounds like it could be a useful reward. Easy to control in the booth.” added the second ’gator.
“We’ll try it.” ‘Stephen’ agreed. “I’ll do some research ahead of tomorrow’s session.”
The lead interrogator rubbed his chin. “What are you thinking of going with? If anything?”
“Still probing for now. I think ego’s going to play a big role going forward, but as for up or down… I dunno.”
“We’ve got more material for ego-down.”
“True, but we should save that.” the lead ’gator said. “For now, I think we keep it slow. Direct questions, pounce on any lies we spot, build the relationship and get a better picture.”
“Yeah, it’s still early days.” agreed the second ’gator.
“Okay. We happy with that?” There was general agreement. “Okay. We’ll call it there, start working on the next session’s questions in the morning. We’ve had a long day people, good work.”
Date Point: 3y 8m 3w AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada
“During my travels, I ran into the idea of the Hierarchy a few times, always in the same way that we’d talk about… you know, the Illuminati, or Area 51, or… fucking lizard people from Venus, or whatever. You know, a legend, a myth, a… conspiracy theory. Nobody took it seriously."
They did the unnerving thing of listening to him and NOT asking any questions.
“Anyway. I met Terri Boone on V-day. She was a P. I., and her client had employed her to tour the country looking for real abductees. Not the idiot anal probe mothership motherfuckers: the real deal, like me."
“She was literally in my bar when the Hunters hit Rogers Arena. Everyone’s flipping their shit over the monsters on TV, and I was grinning like a madman because, you know, I knew what was going to happen next. Been there, done that, worn the blood spatter. I took a group that big damn near solo, just a Rickyticky with a broken arm called Kirk for backup."
“This is the same Kirk who flies for the GRA now? The one who supplies Cimbrean?” asked Temba.
“Same guy, yeah. So anyway, after that I went along with Terri on her job. I had a load of money saved up and nothing to spend it on, so I thought ‘why not?’ and this… plan, just formed. About getting all the abductees to chip in their experience in this big scrapbook of sketches and personal accounts. We got news of this base being set up and we just… bounced up here, from abductee to abductee, collecting life stories along the way.”
“The Hierarchy was mentioned a few times in there too. We just stuck it in the ‘weird shit’ section. We figured it was, like, ET pop culture, you know? Anyway, that scrapbook was pretty much turned wholesale into the EBM.” he continued, referring to the Extraterrestrial Briefing Manual that had gone out from Scotch Creek to Toronto, from there to world governments, and from a leak in one of them onto the Internet in short order. “Most of the convoy gave their interviews, gave up their last little bits of intel, most of them went home. I stayed here.”
“Terri left before we even got up here, though. Think we were in… Colorado, maybe? She got a phone call, and just took off. I didn’t hear from her again until about, uh… eight or nine months ago, when she just showed up at my bar here on base. She said she was betraying her employer’s trust, handed over a USB stick full of the names of people who’re probably still off Earth right now, and a letter which she promised me not to open until I knew it needed opening.”
“That was the login and password for the online drive.” Hamilton said.
“Yeah. I think she must have known she was messing with some really dangerous people, and was going to get maybe killed, you know? She… we had… fun, you know? Which, I didn’t complain at the time, but I didn’t think she’d liked me that much before, so I guess she was… trying to squeeze as much out of life while she could.”
“Focus please, Kevin.” Tremblay reminded him.
“Right, sorry. Uhm… Anyway, last I saw of her, she left for San Diego, and the next I ever heard about her was Ares calling me a couple months ago to let me know she’d been killed, and question me about the murder.”
They listened, and he kept talking to fill the silence.
“I went to the funeral. Had a talk with Ares, he said there wasn’t much he could do to follow up on some of the leads on that cloud drive. Jurisdiction and all that bullshit, you know? But he did let me know the name of this guy Ravi Singh in New Jersey.”
“His name wasn’t Singh.” Williams said.
“I know. But, that’s how I knew him. He said he was this… nuclear disaster, fallout specialist kinda guy for the Indian nuke program. I’ll spare you the full story - I recorded it though, Tremblay’s got the recording - but the TL;DR version is that he visited… think he said eighteen planets, all class ten or higher, Deathworlds like Earth, and they all had the remnants of civilization on them.”
“Now, we’re supposed to be unique, right? The only Deathworlders in the galaxy? But here there’s eighteen ten-plus planets full of cities, all nuked to shit and gone. Apparently the Corti who took him felt that was really good evidence to support the existence of the Hierarchy. Guess it was on the money, because their ship got boarded, the Corti and the Ukrainian that they’d taken alongside Singh got iced, and he only escaped because he’s smart and paranoid and learned their language. Got back to Earth, went dark in New Jersey and stayed there. I don’t know how Terri found him.”
He shrugged. “He could probably tell you better what the Hierarchy’s all about than I could.” he confessed.
“They bombed his apartment building a couple of days after you visited.” Williams revealed. “Collapsed half of it. Five dead, including ‘Singh’ himself.”
Jenkins just closed his eyes and grimaced.
“Alright. You want my opinion? What I think the facts mean?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“I think the Hierarchy keep the conspiracy theory going because it’s… what’s that term? Plausible deniability. I think they’re real, and I think they wipe out deathworld civilizations.”
“Do you have any idea why they might do that?” Higgins asked.
“Fear! I mean, look at how much the others are shitting themselves over us.” Kevin replied. “Shoving up a forcefield, telling their ships and stations to throw us to the wolves… While I was up there I got moved on as often because they were shit-scared of me as for vagrancy. One little show of some supernatural feat like picking up a forty-pound crate in point seven Gs - you know, nothing to us, but to them it’s like "he’s an unstoppable monster, get him off the station!“. You know, I heard one of us got involved in the Dom-All war like, thirteen years ago? That stupid motherfucker’s the reason every station in the sky has a locker full of nervejam grenades nowadays. Even if the, like, general public didn’t know about us before my dumb ass got on the news mouthing off about religion? The authorities sure as shit did, and they armed their security guys accordingly. They’re fucking afraid of us, man."
“To the point of genociding… how many planets?”
“Fuck if I know. But… yeah. See threat: destroy threat. That’s how they’re thinking, most likely.”
“How are we a threat to them?” Rutherford asked.
Kevin half-laughed the word “Bro!”, shaking his head. “We’re the end of them. We’re the end of the way things used to be. Once we’re out there - like, really out there, not dipping our toe in the kiddy end like we’re doing right now? We. Will. Eat. Them. Alive. Because we can’t not, alright? Shit’s gonna get Darwinian out there, and we’ve got a four point five billion year head start over every single one of those poor dumb assholes."
He sipped his coffee and, finding it cold, set it down next to him in disgust. “The Hierarchy are just the only ones smart enough to know it. And they’re the ones doing the sensible fucking thing and wiping out threats before they become a threat."
Higgins frowned. “You make it sound almost as if you admire them for that.” he said.
Kevin shrugged. “How hard would you fight, if defeat meant the world became a place where everything you loved and lived for could no longer exist?" he asked.
“Do you mean to say you think they should succeed?” Higgins inquired.
“Hell the fuck no! I’ve been out there man, it’s a crapsack! If it’s not violently insane, it’s corrupt and callous, and if it’s not corrupt and callous it’s dumb as a stump! And that’s the status quo the Hierarchy would kill us all to protect! Things need shaking up out there! That’s the only way the galaxy’s going to become a better place, is if we head out there and start banging heads together. Gently, so they don’t burst."
“How Texan.” Higgins noted, drily.
He turned to General Rutherford. “Shall I share our part of the briefing now, sir?” he asked.
Rutherford nodded. “Oh, yes. Please do.”
Date Point: ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth.
Time behaved strangely in the cell. There was nothing to do, nothing to look at or inspire him. For the sake of having anything to do, Six found himself doing some exercises he could remember seeing being practiced on the beach in San Diego, though he had no idea if he was doing them right.
That alone might be an indicator of his non-human status, and he was undoubtedly being surveilled, but it was that or… nothing.
So, he exercised, he slept, he was fed, and led - ears and eyes covered - to a simple bathroom where he was allowed to perform his stolen body’s necessary ablutions and clean himself. They even provided him with clean clothing. It was the only vaguely interesting thing to happen for what felt like it must have been the best part of two days.
It was a strange relief, therefore, to be finally retrieved by his taciturn handlers - never the same handlers twice, nor did they speak to him except to issue orders - and ushered back into the interview room.
The questions became, oddly, less pointed, less targeted. They started to query him about some bizarre things, claiming that it was all about “getting to know him”. Questions like his favourite foodstuffs and his preferred recreational activity were easy enough to answer, from his limited pool of human experience. Others, however, were truly strange. A favourite colour? As if there was something preferable about one narrow slice of the EM spectrum over any other arbitrary slice? The question was impenetrably strange to him. He just took a random stab and replied “green”.
That was after what felt like weeks, however, once he had bored of playing the game of refusing to answer. Nothing seemed to faze Stephen, who seemed equally content to ask the same stupid questions again and again, and was equally comfortable with any answer, or even none. It was strange, he seemed to just… genuinely enjoy Six’s company.
Six found he had no option but to look forward to Stephen’s company and his interrogations. They were the only thing that broke the monotony. Sleep. Eat. Excrete. Every so often he was taken to a large featureless room where there was room to walk, and the floor was padded for basic exercises under the watchful, silent eye of his handlers. Every day he was given the opportunity to clean up and put on fresh clothing. Every time he returned to his cell after leaving, it had been cleaned, and the bedding replaced. He was being exceptionally well looked-after, but there was nothing to do. At all.
The introduction of a second interrogator - “Carl” - almost felt like the opening of a whole new world of experience. He was similar to Stephen in most respects - a little lower and more gravelly of voice, a little less handsome, but equally polite, equally patient, equally… insightful. Neither man allowed even the faintest hint of a discrepancy to pass: they would pounce on it, pry at it, probe it with questions and unrelenting logic. They would repeat the same question over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN! It was like being slowly and inefficiently murdered with words, and no matter how often it happened, no matter how aware he was of what they were doing, the sheer irritation of it always teased out just a little bit more from him, just another detail in the hope that maybe this crumb would convince them to stop asking. With each one, they eroded yet another fragment of his lies, exposing the truth one grain at a time until all his falsehoods were gone, dissected in painstaking detail and incinerated under the glare of incomprehensibly patient scrutiny.
Despite this, the sheer novelty of having a second person to talk to was like emerging to feel the cool breeze on his face.
That became his routine, if such a word could even apply to something that seemed to happen totally at random throughout his “day.” Sometimes it was Stephen. Sometimes it was Carl. Either way, the sessions became the only interesting part of his day.
Today, it was Stephen. He didn’t even acknowledge Six’s presence for several minutes. He just… read the dossier, occasionally jotting a note or something in it. As they turned, and as the pencil scritch-scratched its way across them, those thick paper pages made a noise that echoed pleasantly in Six’s head, and he entered a kind of trance just listening to the soft sound.
He was jolted out of it when the dossier was flipped closed with a sharp snap.
“Hello Six.” Stephen said, as if he hadn’t just spent who-knew-how-long ignoring the detainee. They both always began the session with those same words.
“…Hello, Stephen.”
“Did you sleep well?”
They always asked that. The answer was always the same.
“…Not really.”
“Hmm…” Stephen frowned. “You’ve been here a while now, I would have expected you to adapt to it by now. Maybe you need a more comfortable bed.”
By Six’s starved standards, even a change to a slightly more comfortable bed sounded like bliss.
“…Is that an option?” he asked. One personality module in one implant sneered and chastised himself for the pathetic eagerness that he totally failed to keep out of his voice.
“It could be. But you ARE a detainee here, you know. Why should I give you special treatment?”
“…Of course, you wouldn’t just offer something like that without a price. Quid pro quo, yes?"
Stephen didn’t react beyond a slight uptick in the light smile he always wore. “I’m going to repeat a few questions we’ve gone over before.” he said.
“Oh, go on.”
“What’s your name?”
“You’re asking me that again?" the absurdity of it jolted Six right out of the terse mood he’d been trying to slip into. It had been the very first question Stephen had asked him, long since answered. Why would he pointlessly resurrect it now?
“What’s your name?” Stephen repeated.
Six snorted. “Mr. Johnson.” He replied, sarcastically.
Stephen’s head waved around and he smiled slightly as if the sarcasm were amusing, rather than irritating. “Please tell me your name?” He insisted.
Six sighed. “…Six…”
He was pleased to discover that the keyboard sounds were just as pleasant as ever when Stephen wrote something.
“…What’s your real name, Six?"
“That is my real name.”
“Really? Sounds more like a number to me. Surely you weren’t born as little baby Six?”
“You presume a lot about me, Stephen.”
“What, that you were born? I think that one’s a pretty universal constant. Even if you ARE an ET.”
Six said nothing. Stephen just smiled that gentle smile of his. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask you if you were comfortable.”
“I am. thankyou.”
“How was your meal?”
“Filling.” that was about all it had been.
“That’s good. So… which is it?”
“…what?”
“Well, Six is a number, and no culture I ever heard of name their kids after numbers. So either you’re not human or else you’re lying about your name. Or both, of course.”
“We name our kids some pretty strange things.” Six said.
“Who do?”
“Humans.”
“But you aren’t human, though. Are you?”
“So you keep claiming. But when there’s a woman called Moon Unit Zappa out there, you can hardly use the fact that my name is ‘Six’ as evidence of that, can you?”
Stephen’s little tilt of the head might have indicated concession. “That argument might hold more water if your head wasn’t stuffed full of alien technology.” he said.
Six considered his response, trying to map out the potential future paths of the conversation. He could claim to be a former abductee, but that would fall apart soon enough - too many inventions stacked on top of each other, he’d slip and allow a discrepancy eventually. He could -
“So why did you bomb that apartment in New Jersey?” Stephen asked, completely throwing him with the non-sequitur.
Fortunately, the truth here would work to his advantage. “That wasn’t me.”
“That was your associate, then? Considering you aren’t brothers, you really look very much alike.”
“And how do you know we aren’t brothers?”
“Genetic testing. You may look identical, but you couldn’t be less related.”
“I-”
“What about that roller derby? What did you hope to gain by shooting up a bunch of kids and their parents?”
“I didn’t have a gun. I wasn’t-”
“Why did you kill Terri Boone?”
“…Who?”
“San Diego, the car park? You killed her with a grenade launcher. Why?”
“I didn’t do that.”
“That’s funny, because for that one, we have DNA evidence that says it was you. So why did you kill her?"
“Like I said, it wasn’t me.”
“We have all the evidence which proves that it was you. So why did you kill her?”
“This is getting tiresome.”
“Why did you kill Terri Boone?”
“…”
“Why did you kill Terri Boone?”
“Would you stop that?”
“Answer the question and I’ll stop. Why did you kill-”
“It. Wasn’t. Me.”
“You’re lying. Why did you-”
"Fine!" Six exploded. “I’m not human! I’m an independent consciousness capable of uploading myself into any appropriate host! I wasn’t even on Earth when this body killed Boone!”
“Thank you.” Stephen said, mildly. He tapped away at his computer again, and Six calmed a little, shaking as the full weight of what had happened hit him. The words had erupted out of him on a tide of frustration, driven by his total deprivation of anything resembling an intellectual stimulus for… he didn’t know. Months? It felt like months. Parts of him could only figuratively gape, aghast that the secret he had guarded all of that time was finally thrown away, mined out of him by nothing but boredom.
“What, you believe that?” He asked, trying to fill his voice with scorn, hoping that mockery might salvage his failure.
“We already knew that’s what the Hierarchy is.” Stephen said. Still typing “I just needed to hear you say it.”
“Now you’re lying." Six accused. The door opened behind him and his handlers returned.
“Detainee, please stand.” they ordered. Stephen gathered his things, nodded to him, and made to leave by the opposite door.
“Come back here!” Six snapped, surging to his feet as far as his restraints would allow and straining against them. "Come back here, you! You’re LYING!"
Stephen didn’t even dignify that accusation with a response.
Six’s handlers… handled him. He seethed in the dark every step of the long and winding walk back to his cell, which seemed to take twice as long as it usually did. When they finally arrived, he found that his bed had been replaced, and a small table and chair introduced to the room. There were some coarse paper pages and a graphite stick.
Six’s bruised pride hated himself for the way he was pathetically grateful for them.
Date Point 3y 8m 3w AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada.
“During the deployment of the civilian colonists, we were able to send over a smaller version of the jump array installed right here at Scotch Creek.” Higgins began. Jenkins raised a hand.
“I’m sorry, ‘jump array’? I thought they were travelling on Kirk’s ship?”
“The Jump array is, as far as we can tell, a uniquely human invention.” Tremblay said. “Bartlett came up with it. Point-to-point transport of materiel via wormhole between two Array stations. One end’s here on base, the other end of that big array is on Kirk’s ship.”
“…cool!”
“Well, anyway.” Higgins continued. “We assembled a smaller version, which we’re calling the ‘postbox’. It’s a useful way to support the colony - they can send back written messages and USB sticks to stay in touch, we can send over spare parts, medical supplies… Right now we’re sending over the pieces to construct a coffin-sized version for transit of individual persons.”
“Yesterday, the military commander there, Captain Owen Powell, sent us back this urgent report.”
The lights dimmed again and Temba selected a video file.
The face addressing the camera was a tired-looking, bearded man wearing a black pullover and a dull green beany. "Project Starstep CO’s daily report, Fifteen-thirty hours, mission day eighty-two." he recited, in a thick accent that reminded Kevin of Sean Bean. "Saunders came back, broadcasting IFF this time, thankfully. He’s given us a couple of starships he claims he stole from the Hierarchy. I’m going to repeat my request to get some experts in ET tech assigned here ASAP: he’s right, we NEED people who can take these things apart. Bad news is, the bloody things don’t have jump drives, so we can’t send them back to Earth for analysis."
"The worse news is, that this is just two - Saunders kept a third - out of probably a whole lot of this class of ship. They have better-than-best cloaking tech, and so do their missiles. These aren’t small ships, neither. They’re bigger than an aircraft carrier, about as heavily armed as a cruiser, and from what I saw they’re equipped for assault, bombardment, and invasion. There’s got to be some kind of a shipyard out there making these things."
"I’ve talked it over with Sir Jeremy, and our recommendations are as follows: One: We need to get the Coffin set up and bring forward the schedule for the full-scale Array. Two: I want to raise the system shield and go public. Sooner we do it, the less likely we are to have some infiltrator sneak in and drop a beacon. Three: I’m going to need naval crews to assign to these things, and somebody who knows how to refit them with a jump drive. Four: Saunders thinks we should keep them here to defend the colony. I disagree: I think there’s a shipyard out there that needs capturing if possible, and blowing the fook up if not. My lads are itching for a real mission. No further recommendations at this time."
He swigged some water before continuing.
"The other half of Saunders’ delivery, which you’ll probably find more immediately useful, is enclosed. This Hierarchy he keeps talking about apparently have the ability to treat a mind like a data file - transfer it, store it, run it on computers. I’ve gone over that in a previous report. This time, he’s delivered the - he called it the dissected consciousness of a Hierarchy agent known as ‘Zero’. We can’t make heads nor tails of it, but he’s got a friend who can interrogate it - enclosed is what’s been learned so far. I’m inclined to trust it."
He rubbed his beard.
"The existence of a Hierarchy cell on Earth seems likely. Hopefully the information in this document will help Intelligence catch the buggers."
He examined some paperwork for a second, thinking.
"Nowt else to report militarily. Colonial militia training is going well. Sir Jeremy’s civilian report will follow in due time, I consider this high- priority so am sending now. Powell out."
Higgins turned the lights back up.
“Saunders is an Australian abductee.” he clarified. “And apparently something of a practical expert in alien technology. He crash-landed an Alliance cruiser on Cimbrean a few weeks ago, and was cooperative in sharing intelligence and technology with the project. It’s thanks to him that this facility has a working cloaking device to study. Educated by his own example, some of the SBS divers were able to retrieve examples of working alien power generators.”
“As for the content of the report,” Temba picked up “It details - pretty much in full - what, exactly, the Hierarchy is.”
Date Point: 3y 11m 2w AV
National Air and Space Museum, Washington D. C., USA, Earth.
“It’s amazing how much you can come to care about an inanimate object.”
Rylee wasn’t accustomed to public speaking. Nor was she accustomed to dressing for official functions or historic moments. She felt more comfortable in a jumpsuit or her flight suit than in a dress.
“I admit: I’m in love with Pandora. Together we created history. I’d fly her forever if I could. But Pandora doesn’t belong to me. With the retirement of the Lockheed-Martin TS-101 X-plane, she now belongs to history, and I am proud that she will continue to serve and inspire mankind, here in this illustrious Smithsonian Museum."
Camera flashes caught every moment. She knew they’d comment that she was crying: she didn’t care. She was allowed to mourn the turning of this page. She stretched up on tip-toe to kiss Pandora’s nose, and rested her forehead against the plane’s cool hull, ignoring the redoubled sparkle of the media for a few seconds.
Then she collected herself and turned back to the microphone, accepting the museum director’s offered handkerchief as he asked the reporters for questions.
Date Point: ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth.
“So what did he write?”
“Looks like mostly doodling…”
Monitoring the detainee’s scribbles and notes was a routine operation, done whenever they cleaned up his cell while he was outside of it. It wasn’t a difficult process. One or two quick snaps with the camera was all it took. There was a lot that could be learned about the detainee from what they chose to jot down by way of entertaining themselves.
The pages were densely packed with what appeared to be mostly nonsense and doodles: scribbles, spirals, zig-zag lines. There was a kind of aesthetic to it, albeit a spartan, mathematical one. Six’s lines were mostly either parallel or perpendicular, or at least as much so as could be managed by unpracticed human hands. Beyond that, he didn’t seem to care what he drew so long as the graphite made a stimulating sound on the paper. Mostly, it was just a geometric right-angled mess.
“Not a lot to go on.”
“No…”
She looked around at the team. Her job went both ways - as psychologist, not only was she there to analyze and hypothesize about the detainee’s reactions, she was there to keep an eye on the ’gators and their intel support, make sure they were holding up okay.
It was a fact little suspected by the civilian world that interrogation was practically as hard on the people conducting it as upon their detainee. While the interrogators had the luxury of seeing the outside world, freedom of movement, nice meals, unlimited entertainment and all the perks of being a free American citizen, at the end of the day they were still tearing a man apart piece by piece to learn the things he held most dear.
Only a true psychopath could have done that without being torn up in turn, and a psychopath simply wouldn’t have a place on this team.
And Six was proving to be a tough nut to crack. ‘Stephen’ and ‘Carl’ were both veterans and experts, having done this many times before. Their information had saved lives, they knew how to cope.
But there was always the possibility that this time might be the time that all their experience and coping mechanisms failed them. Their veterancy was not an excuse for her to become lax in monitoring them.
She watched the two booth-guys for a minute. They were talking, quietly, and while both looked stressed and subdued there were no immediate causes for alarm that she could detect.
Long-term…
Well. Maybe she could recommend something that would be good both for them and for the detainee.
Date Point: 3y 11m 3w AV
Dominion Embassy Station 172, Terra/Luna L1 point.
“Are you okay?”
Sister Niral had elected to remain aboard the Embassy station until her pregnancy forced her back to Gao. The preliminary results were encouraging - she was expecting triplets, and if she’d been human, might have been called “glowing”.
As it was, she was the first person Rylee went to after the unpleasant necessity of the Smithsonian meetings, speeches, interviews and photographs. Any awkwardness between them was long since past, and over the months since, as the last few flights of the TS-101 had wound down, they had become fast friends.
Niral, it turned out, loved to groom her sisters’ fur, and this quirk extended to human hair. Rylee kept it short by necessity - long hair and space helmets did NOT mix - but it felt good to let her nonhuman friend work on it.
Rylee sighed. “I will be.” she said. “I always knew Pandora was an X-plane, a prototype. She’s wonderful, but she’s not a patch on what companies like LockMart can produce now that they know what they’re doing."
“You’ll be flying the replacement?”
“Hey, my career’s not over just because they’re retiring my sled.” Rylee told her. “Though, I’m being headhunted by the private sector. Lots of big money being flashed at me to try to get me to quit NASA and test-pilot their designs.”
Niral issued a kind of melodic purr that Rylee had learned passed for the equivalent of a “hmm” in her species. “That doesn’t sound like you at all.” she said.
“Nope. I’m in it for the science, for the species, not to get rich while I make some billionaires even richer.”
“What do you think it’ll be like? The replacement?”
“Similar.” Rylee admitted. “A lot went right with the one-oh-one, but it was… you know, the tolerances were looser because we didn’t know what it’d be like, and that hurts performance.”
“I think only you would notice the difference.” Niral commented, chittering a Gaoian laugh. As a diplomat herself, the fields of aeronautics and piloting were outside her experience, but she had gathered enough from the arguments between the two pilots in her life to know that Rylee’s constant maintenance and tuning of her ‘sled’ was enough to earn margins that any Gaoian pilot would have considered not worth the effort.
“Hey, the little differences add up. Point-five percent might not sound like much, but at the kind of accelerations we… think these things will get up to in the field, that could be the difference between a fatal hit and a clean miss.”
“There’s other things, too. Our ES field tech’s improving by leaps and bounds, the JPL’s turned out their most efficient warp engine yet… you watch, I’ll always love Pandora but I’m not dumb enough to think that her replacement will be worse. It’ll be better: WAY better."
“So what are you doing in the interim?” Niral asked.
“Classified, sorry babe.”
Niral knew better than to pry, so the two sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before the quarters spoke an untranslated sentence in a Gaoian dialect. To Rylee’s untrained ear, it sounded not dissimilar to Korean.
“A launch!” the Gaoian said, abandoning Rylee’s scalp to spring over the window. “I still can’t quite believe your people still use rockets…”
“Well, they’ve got kinetics and ES fields now.” Rylee said, joining her. There was something fun about watching a launch, from orbit. “And Earth’s gravity hasn’t changed - they’re still the best way to haul bulk stuff into orbit for us.”
Technically, “Kinetics” was a gross misnomer which routinely earned an impromptu lecture on correct definitions for anybody who was so incautious as to utter it within earshot of scientific pedants, or on the Internet, but the translated alien vernacular was tenacious. It was hardly surprising that it had been one of Time’s words of the year, given that the introduction of what was, after all, an extremely small and efficient engine had decimated the cost-per-kilogram of material transport from ground to orbit, revitalizing the space industry practically overnight.
From where the station rested at the Terra/Luna L1 point, Earth was much, MUCH too far away to make out such a tiny event as a launch with the naked eye of course, but the station took care of that, zooming and magnifying to an incredible degree, so that the vehicle became a spike of light atop a pillar, smoking its way up from the curvature of the planet. The perspective was a little false, but it looked cool as hell.
“How much can this thing zoom in?” she asked. Niral spoke to the room in Gaoian again - it was curious how directions to the station’s controlling systems didn’t get translated - and the view zoomed in even further, until the rocket itself filled the view, a slender white spike marked down its flank with the livery of several world-famous companies, the so-called “Big Ten” that were co-operating in the Second Space Race.
“Oh my God! That’s Hephaestus One!” Rylee exclaimed. “I forgot that was today!”
“Hephaestus One?”
“Yeah! It’s the first flight out to Ceres.” Rylee explained. “They’re going to set up an asteroid mining hub and shipyard out there.”
“Your people move fast!” Niral remarked, clearly impressed. “It took us ten Gaoian years to launch our first asteroid mining operation.”
“How long is that in Earth years?”
“Room?”
The room displayed a conversion table on the window alongside the view of the rocket. Rylee read it and nodded.
“I bet I know the reason.” she said. “Will this room take voice commands from me?”
“It should do…”
“Great.” Rylee looked around, then shrugged and commanded: “Uh, Room: Display side-by-side comparisons of the estimated number of asteroids in the Sol system versus the Gao system, and display survey maps for rare earth elements on Earth and the planet Gao.”
Graphs and two globes appeared side-by side on the walls and windows as the station’s interface systems interpreted the command and expanded on it, trying to guess not only what Rylee had asked for, but also what she might not yet know she wanted.
She had to admit - as unimpressive as some of the achievements of nonhuman life were, when it came to user-friendly interfaces, they were the absolute masters. It looked like something straight out of a movie, but practical. Every element was clearly presented, its relationship to every other, obvious. She took a moment to appreciate the accomplishment, before turning to the relevant data.
“See here? Sol has a HUGE density of inner-system asteroids next to Gao.” she said. “And then over here, look: Your homeworld’s pretty rich in Rare Earths and they’re all spread out pretty evenly. But Earth is poor in Rare Earths, and they’re mostly here, under the control of only a couple of political factions. But there’s a boatload in the asteroids.” she indicated a chart demonstrating the estimated absolute tonnage of various elements and minerals in the asteroid belt. “And we need rare earth magnets to build ES field generators. And ES field generators are a huge boom industry right now.”
“So getting out there quickly ensures that the supply remains constant and averts a future problem? Sensible.” Niral said.
Rylee laughed. “So getting out there quickly ensures that a whole bunch of very rich people get even richer.” She countered.
“You don’t sound like you mind that.” Niral said.
“Why should I? It works. You said it yourself, it took you guys twice as long to do this.”
“It sounds… greedy.” Niral objected.
“Yeah! Greed is good, girl!”
Niral just stared at her. “Rylee, if it wasn’t for the sex thing, that would be the most alien thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Rylee just shrugged. “Room, clear the data, focus on the rocket again.”
They watched it separate a stage. Force fields unfolded around and behind it, catching the solar wind and reminding Rylee of an ancient sailship as they swept Hephaestus One’s path clear of orbital debris and sucked down power for the warp engine. It took only seconds: in a flare of light, the private rocket leapt into the impossible distance and was gone.
“Alien or not honey, there’s the proof.” she said.
Date Point ???
Classified Facility, Earth.
“Hello, Six.”
“…”
“How are you feeling today?”
“…”
“Did you sleep well? How’s the new bed?”
“…”
“Not talking to me?”
“…”
“Okay. Let me know if you want to talk.”
The unspeakable bastard just got out a deck of playing cards and started to deal them out on the desk in front of him, playing some kind of a game as if Six’s stubborn silence were of exactly no consequence to him.
The sound washed over him, as it always seemed to. He wondered if that was why Stephen used these tools - because he too enjoyed the sound they made. Was it a quirk of the way humans saw the world, that simple things could be so… mesmerizing?
“Beats me why I bother with the cards.” Stephen commented. “I could play on the computer instead…”
That didn’t seem like an attractive option.
“Hey, do you want this deck?”
The offer surprised him. Surely Stephen wasn’t serious? But then again, he’d been true to his word about the bed…
No. It was just a trick to get him to give up and start talking again. He wouldn’t be swayed that easily, and so Six folded his arms and continued to glare.
“Suit yourself.” Stephen finished his game, and put the cards away. Surprisingly he stood up. “I guess you’re not in the mood today? That’s cool, we’ll do something a little different. See you in a few minutes.”
He exited the room as the guards entered. Six knew better than to resist by now, but he was curious about this ‘something a little different’, and his pulse picked up a little as the guards led him to somewhere that had… an indefinably different texture to the area around his cell and the interrogation room. It was hard to tell - the human body had senses he was sure weren’t quite analogous to anything else he had experienced. Despite the total disorientation of the darkness and silence, he could still somehow feel that the area around him was not the same, somehow. There was a feeling of volume.
The sensation was validated when his blindfold was removed. He WAS somewhere new, a larger area - still totally enclosed, but big enough to run if he so wanted. There was a hoop of some kind attached to the wall a little above head height, and some markings on the ground.
Stephen and Carl were both waiting for him, having apparently changed into plain, loose clothing that looked much more comfortable than their suits, and a pair of soft shoes. Carl was holding a stippled orange sphere with black lines on its surface.
“What’s this?” Six asked, then cursed himself for giving in to the surprise as his shackles were removed and the guards retired to stand watchfully at the door.
“Basketball.” Carl said, and threw the ball to the ground. It bounced back up, and he gently flung it down again with his other hand. “The idea is to get the ball to fall through that hoop on the wall, and stop me from doing the same. You can’t run while holding the ball, though - you have to bounce it on the floor like this.” he demonstrated, swapping the ball from hand to hand via the hard surface.
“What’s your angle here, gentlemen?” Six asked, suspiciously.
Carl threw the ball gently to Stephen, who caught it and spun it on one finger in a display of impressive coordination. “No angle. This is a morale and welfare session now. You need the stimulation and exercise.” he said.
“So, it’s a reward for good behavior.”
“That too.” Stephen agreed. “Come on, you going to play or not?” His arms punched straight out, flinging the ball at Six, who astonished himself by catching the high-speed object.
He considered resisting, but after the sheer grey sameness of the last few weeks, how could he? He knew he was being manipulated, he knew this was just another tool in the arsenal that these people were using to dissect him and extract his valuable knowledge, but no amount of willpower in the world could stop him from being, on everything but the purely cerebral level, shamefully eager to move, to play, to do something different.
He bounced the ball.
When the session ended, who-knew how long later, he was exhausted, but he felt alive, and something approaching happy for the first time since arriving in this place.
Date Point: 4y 3w AV
Asteroid Ceres, Sol System
Construction work on Ceres Base had begun well before the first engineers had arrived. Cargo modules full of the raw materials, equipment, prefabricated units, life support systems, artificial gravity generators and ES field generators necessary to construct a working facility had been injected into orbit, revolving slowly in the asteroid’s pathetic gravity.
It had all come together with only a few minor disasters. With the ability to deliver engineers to the worksite to remote-control the construction vehicles without significant communications lag, gentle landings in Ceres’ miniscule gravity had been trivial. Setbacks, however, were inevitable. One of the modular base components had suffered a failure of its landing, running out of fuel and falling to ground several hundred meters from its intended location. Moving it had required the assembly and delivery of a specialist module- refuelling drone
The planned landing site for another module had turned out to be the sheer edge of a crater. Fortunately, the module had not been a location-critical one, and its eventual installation on the far side of the base was just going to be one of those peculiar quirks that lent it a unique character.
That was Phase One, just making the place livable in the long term, appropriate for habitation and experimentation. It had consumed only half of the orbiting equipment.
The second phase, and the other half, was to turn the facility into something that would, ultimately, turn a profit. The smaller part of that, equipment- wise, was the Survey Center, a launch and control platform for a fleet of Unmanned Space Vehicles that would - assuming their design and technology worked as intended - survey the tumbling, diffuse rocks of the Belt in search of Platinum, Rare Earths, Iron, Nickel, Titanium, and of course water.
The larger part, dwarfing the facility despite not yet being complete, was the sprawling industrial monstrosity of the refining and smelting equipment, literally “printing” itself into existence piece by piece out of local materials.
This edifice couldn’t possibly have been built on Earth - it was an eyesore testament to low-gravity industry, constructed around a functional contempt for aesthetics.
Drew Cavendish loved it.
But then again, Drew Cavendish didn’t have much patience for aesthetics for the sake of aesthetics. His sense of beauty revolved around the practical, the working, the mechanically efficient. He was the sort of man who would squint bewildered at an art gallery, but wax poetic about an example of expert welding.
Ceres Base was therefore the perfect destination for him, after a career spent working oil and gas rigs in the North Sea. That was a field that had been in terminal decline even before the arrival of effectively free solar energy in the form of ES field technology and - rumour had it - the long-awaited holy grail of nuclear fusion.
Taking up with BHP Billiton’s fledgling asteroid mining program had just been sensible for somebody with twenty years of experience in Atmospheric Diving Suits. Not least because the basic salary was 50% higher than he’d been earning at the peak of his Earthly career, with a promise of simply huge annual yield-based bonuses.
Naively, he’d assumed that piloting a Red Bull spacesuit wasn’t so very dissimilar to driving an ADS. Both were bulky, rigid, prevented you from scratching your itches and served to keep you more or less comfortable when surrounded by a medium - or lack thereof - that would kill you, for all intents and purposes instantly.
That had been driven out of him in simulator time with a VR headset. Movements that would have been perfectly safe when welding a deep water rig, where the water would cushion and stop any stray movements, could send an incautious spacewalker drifting. A ’walker could get in serious trouble just millimeters from a handhold, with nothing to kick, swim or exert any force against to move them the tantalizing distance back to safety.
He had been surprised to learn that, in freefall and when out of contact with any surface, moving his arm also pushed the rest of his body around in accordance with Sir Isaac Newton’s most ancient and famous principle of reaction. Unnoticeable when your boots were firmly on a surface under even the most tepid gravity - but enough to set a man spinning when floating free, and surprisingly tiring.
But, he had cleared training. Quickly, too, and with straight As. And now… here he was. Ceres. And beyond one glamorous tour out here getting the place set up, once the first bonus rolled in?
Well, he’d always promised himself that he would one day leave the grey and choppy seas of Northern Europe behind for waters that were clearer, calmer, and garnished with bikini-clad waitresses and fruit drinks. He’d never anticipated that his route to paradise would be via deep space, but that was life. He’d get there.
All he had to do was work.
“Bloody impressive.” he commented, watching the pressure doors swing themselves closed behind the Hephaestus vehicle that had delivered him and some other newbies. Technically, the landing bay was perfectly pressurised by the gossamer curtain of an atmosphere retention field, but Health and Safety regulations insisted that the vehicle’s own airlocks were not to be opened until the physical pressure doors were closed and the seals had been checked.
It was a source of considerable bemusement for the handful of nonhumans who had been taken on as consultants and advisors to the operation that the LLC would simply not hear a single word about relying on atmosphere retention fields. They seemed to regard it as quaint to be leery of relying on a system that could fail in a heartbeat if it lost power. Drew wondered just how bloody daft and foolhardy these aliens must be to rely on a bloody force field to keep their air in, without redundancies or failsafes.
Still. Questionable attitude to safety aside, they knew more about mining asteroids than any human did, and that made them sufficiently valuable to the operation that translation and disease-suppression implants had been mandatory for all personnel. Drew was already in the habit of running his fingers over the slight ridges of metal that adorned his temple, which was already being called the “Spacer’s Tattoo”, but he’d fortunately managed to suppress the urge to lick the back of his too-clean teeth.
"Sugoi." agreed Heikichi.
Heikichi Togo’s ship suit bore the three diamonds of Mitsubishi. He was an expert in industrial robotics whose English could charitably be described as “abysmal”, but that simply didn’t matter thanks to the implants. He could rattle away in Japanese all he wanted and, despite not speaking word one of that language himself, Drew would know exactly what he meant. That had significantly freed up the LLC to recruit from all over the world without regard for language barriers.
“D’you know where you’re sleeping yet, Togo-san?” he asked. Drew may not have spoken a word of Japanese, but he knew about calling people ‘-san’ if you wanted to be polite, and it seemed to be appreciated.
“Not yet.” Togo admitted. “If the company hasn’t got a place picked out for me, I think I’ll just have to pick out my own.”
“Well, I’m in D-block, and you seem like you’d make a good top-bunk buddy.” Drew told him as the safety teams declared the hangar sealed and the H-vehicle popped its seals.
“Thank you, Cavendish-san.”
“Hey, we don’t stand on ceremony like that where I’m from. You can call me Drew if you want.”
"Daroo."
“Close enough, mate.” They shook hands and parted ways, bound for the offices of their respective company reps.
The complex was eerily quiet compared to the staging platform in Earth orbit. Where that was a space station, made oddly loud by the absence of any medium outside to carry away the sounds so that they echoed around the interior, here the facility’s modules were anchored to the rock of the asteroid and had a layer of sound insulation on their underside that conducted noises away into Ceres itself. It was much more peaceful, and cooler too for the same reasons.
Still, it WAS cramped, full of narrow corridors lined with equipment, conduits, cables and piping, all hung with instructions and safety posters. He could see why a maximum BMI had been one of the conditions of employment - anybody too bulky in these corridors would have been a serious obstacle to the flow of traffic that already involved turning sideways every few steps.
The B-B administrative module felt almost like any office complex back on Earth, albeit one that was after-hours, or maybe open on a holiday. The only movement so far was a trio of IT techs getting the computers set up, and the Dyson robot vacuum cleaner that was methodically patrolling the carpet. He was just wondering which office was to be his and whose he should report to when a slick-haired skinny blond man with a chestnut tan and a few too many wrinkles for his age stuck his head out and shot him a very white smile. He was wearing a loud blue aloha shirt over his company overalls.
“G’day! You Cavendish?” he asked. He couldn’t have been more stereotypically Australian if he’d been wearing a hat with corks in it.
“That’s me.” Drew agreed.
“Beaut.” The antipodean extended a hand. “Drew Martin, mate, I’m yer foreman.”
“Ah, you’re the other Drew?” Cavendish returned the handshake. “Good to meet you, mate. I heard good things about you from Dai Dawson.”
“Good old Dai.” Martin grinned. “Bloody good miner that one, had Bauxite in his bones.”
“He said something similar about you.”
“Ripper. Come on, step into my office.”
Martin’s office was, mercifully, not as Straya’d up as the man himself - in fact it was the purely professional space of somebody who took their job completely seriously. The walls were already thoroughly papered in charts, rotas, schedules, checklists and more - the paraphernalia of a mining director. His desk was a line of four monitors, all currently on a screensaver.
“Good news is, we’ve found our first rock already.” he declared. “One of the USVs caught a nice first prospect, and it’s in a stable Ceres orbit too, so no time limit either. Perfect first score.”
“How big?”
“CB group, two hundred and eighty meters. About twenty-seven metric megatons of bencubbinite.”
Both Drews grinned. That one rock alone contained enough nickel and iron to assemble the entire facility.
“So we’re just installing the stability thrusters.” Drew C mused, thinking ahead. There would be no need for anything else for an asteroid that was orbiting Ceres itself. Just enough to correct its orbit whenever it became perturbed. His team’s job was to fly out to new stakes and fit them with the engines that would gently nudge them into Ceres orbit for the mining teams to take over.
“Bloody right!”
“When?”
“Your team arrives Thursday. I want you checking the suits and gear, make sure everything’s up to code. We’ll go when you’re happy.”
“Great. I’ll get settled in for now, start on all that in the day shift tomorrow.”
“Bonzer. Looks like it’ll be good workin’ with ya, you pommie bastard.”
Drew chuckled, knowing full well that Drew M was just being friendly. “Looks like.” he agreed.
Date point: ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth
Six hated himself.
He hated humans.
He especially hated Stephen and Carl.
But most of all, he hated the conclusion he was starting to form.
The conclusion was this: That victory was impossible. There was, he was coming to realise, simply no way to withhold the information that his interrogators wanted. He should suicide now, pop the implants in his head and rob them of their victory before they won it.
But something was stopping him and the thing that most frustrated him was that he simply couldn’t figure out what it was.
He was being played like an instrument - little rewards were given when he surrendered, snatched away the second he fought back. The incredible boredom grated against his very essence as a thinking being, relieved only by interrogation sessions and - he had come to truly crave these - Morale and Welfare sessions.
He felt like he had been stuck in his hole for a YEAR. Time had lost meaning. He slept because there was little else to do. He rationed the meager entertainment he was allowed, mourned it whenever his noncompliance took it away from him.
And he knew - knew - that they weren’t being cruel. Not really. The rules were clear, and were enforced without malice. If he complied, he was granted some perks. If he didn’t, then he lost them. In that regard he might as well have been enduring the attention of a machine rather than of people, and he couldn’t blame the system when it was plainly clear that the degree of stimulation and reward he received was a product of his own actions.
He would punish himself out of pride. Then he would spend what felt like weeks desperately clawing back what his stubborn foolishness had cost him.
He couldn’t win, and he knew it.
And it was this thought that finally blossomed into an understanding of why he didn’t just self-terminate.
He was SIX. A single-digit, architect of the death of species. He knew himself to be among the very, very best that the Hierarchy had at its disposal. Above his rank, they became administrators and planners, divorced from the reality of the fight. Below his rank, the other Numbers lacked his experience and competence.
And he couldn’t win.
And if he couldn’t… could the Hierarchy?
In the dark hours in his cell, he thought about it, scratching idly at the one perk he had retained - his paper and graphite.
And when they came to collect him in the morning, he walked calmly, surprised to find that the worst was over, now that he had given up.
Today, it was Carl’s turn to interview him.
“Hello, Six.”
“Hello, Carl.”
“How are you today?
“…beaten.”
Carl raised his eyebrows. “Beaten?”
Six wept.
And he started to speak.
He told them everything.
Date Point: 4y 2m 1w AV.
Orlando, Florida, USA, Earth.
Gabriel Ares leaned heavily on his cane as he watched the kids shoot down the ramp into the water at the end of the Jurassic Park ride, in a white plume that soaked some of the spectators.
The fight to take Adam away from San Diego for a few days had been an arduous one. His ex-wife had fought it every step of the way. But, by mercy and probably the hand of an archangel, the courts had agreed that a police detective who was recovering from near-fatal injuries had every right to take his only child on vacation.
Securing the permission of Ava’s parents to bring their daughter along had been much easier. She and Adam were totally devoted to one another. That fact had been the light that kept the depression at bay while Gabriel convalesced.
He was treating them - and himself - to a week-long tour of the major theme parks.
The kids bounced up to him a few minutes later, hand in hand. Both were now past their sixteenth birthdays, and Gabriel wished his own love life had been so good at that age.
“Where next?” Adam asked. Ava nudged him in the ribs and rolled her eyes.
“Are you okay, Gabe?” she asked. Gabriel had insisted that she use his first name.
“I’m a bit sore.” he admitted. “I could do to sit down. You guys want ice- cream?”
“Sounds good.” she agreed. Adam looked like he’d have preferred to run straight to the next ride, but he relented, knowing that Gabe still wasn’t fully recovered yet. He’d spent so long in a hospital bed thanks to the spinal damage that all the muscles in his legs had atrophied, and his rehab therapy hadn’t yet quite restored him to full working order.
"Bueno." Gabriel fished a few dollars from his wallet and waved them in the general direction of the last vendor they’d seen, then puffed and grimaced his way to the nearest available bench and lowered himself into it, enjoying the sun.
Life was, all things considered, pretty good. He was alive and on the mend, his boy was in love, and his novel was coming along nicely.
Considering it hadn’t been so long ago that he’d been racing to save the kids from a mass-shooting only to be shot himself, life was pretty damn good.
"Dad! DAD!!"
The kids were pelting back towards him, and their expressions drove the ache and fatigue out of him. He lurched to his feet.
Children shouldn’t have worn such expressions of terror.
“What happened?!”
Date Point ??? AV
Classified Facility, Earth.
At some point during Six’s final failure, Carl had moved his chair around the desk, and was just sitting there, rubbing a hand up and down Six’s spine. It was contact, real contact, a genuine gesture of comfort and compassion from one of the men who had broken him.
There was a long silence after the last secret spilled from him.
“Hey… Six? I’m sorry man.”
Six looked up, and the sight of tears in Carl’s own eyes shook him deeply. He’d known that he had built something of a relationship - even a warped friendship - with his interrogators over his long incarceration. But he had always persuaded himself that it was a distant one, with a thick professional barrier in place.
<They hurt themselves to break me> He thought. But he wouldn’t have been Six if he hadn’t tried to fight back, to claim something here and now, in Carl’s moment of weakness. To hurt him, on an emotional level.
"Fuck you. You’ve beaten me. I’ve betrayed everything I ever lived or cared for. I’ve DESTROYED the Hierarchy. And now you’re fucking sorry?!" he exclaimed.
“More than you can know, man. I’ve been through this, it’s how I learned to do it.”
Carl looked down and wiped his eye, before looking back up, and now there was a determined set to his face.
“You and I are a lot alike, Six. We’ll do anything for our people. Me… I’ll bleed for them. I’ll hurt myself in all kinds of ways for all the lucky fucks out there -" he waved an arm at the wall, indicating the whole world beyond “- who don’t know the first goddamn thing about what kind of pain gets put into keeping their lives happy and safe. So yeah, I get it. And I’m so very, very sorry that I did this to you. I mean that. And Stephen would say it too, if he was here."
Six just looked away. “It doesn’t matter if you’re sorry or not. You’ve won. I’ve lost. And if your people wage war like they get information out of people, then my kind are doomed.”
There was a long silence. Then Carl stood, returned to his side of the desk, and grabbed a folder from under his laptop.
“…Do you remember one of the first things you were told when you arrived here, Six?” he asked.
Six just stared at him blank. But, too tired and defeated to put up a fight, he reviewed his memory archives of the very first session. One of the - he had now learned, few - advantages of being a machine intellect was perfect recall of details like that.
“I was told… That Stephen was assigned to my case.” he said, reciting the memory in order. “That your goal was to learn as much as possible about my associates and me. That my first meal here consisted of mashed potato, biscuits and gravy, and peas and carrots. That you don’t do ‘that kind of thing’, meaning the torture I had alluded to moments earlier. That I was perfectly safe. That your first and most important priorities were information and…”
He paused. “And…”
“…And a peaceful resolution.” Carl finished for him.
“I’ve just told you that the Hierarchy’s objective is your extinction, and you’re saying that you still want a peaceful resolution?"
Carl rested his elbows on the desktop. “My nation has fought bloody and difficult wars in opposition to genocide all across our planet. And from what you’ve told me, your species and the Hierarchy are about the same thing to each other as this organisation is to the American public. Which means that your people are… more or less - blameless of plotting to destroy us."
He shrugged. “For me, the idea of wiping out your civilization of trillions to save our civilization of billions sticks in the craw. Never mind that doing so would mean having to slaughter every other living thing in the galaxy."
“Which you could.” Six said.
“Easily.” Carl agreed. “If we wanted to. We don’t.”
Six snorted. “You aren’t authorized to speak for your whole species.”
“Nope.” Carl agreed again. “But still: we don’t. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we’ll just sit back and invite you to wipe us out. If it comes to it, if the only way to survive is to wipe out every living thing in the Milky Way? We would, if we have to."
He locked eyes with Six. "Do we have to?"
“What’s the alternative?”
“The alternative is, you and I come up with a way to save both our peoples."
Date Point: 4y 2m 1w AV.
San Diego, California, USA, Earth.
Seventy-Two was panicking, and now was a terrible time to be doing that.
He had planned to switch safe-houses immediately upon the fiasco at Skateworld, but that was a complicated and risky process which demanded biodrones for maximum security. Things were just too sensitive to rely on local resources - these things weren’t Vzk’tk, Robalin or Allebenellin. They weren’t stupid or mercenary enough to fail to notice something amiss.
So, against his better judgement and good protocol, he had been forced to remain where he was for months, hoping that finally some appropriate human subject would blunder into his stasis trap for conversion into a biodrone.
That hadn’t happened. Instead, months had passed without development. Six had been declared killed, and restored from his last backup. The replacement Six had not returned to Earth, but had remained offworld to ponder the implications of the almost prescient response to their planned hive-poking. 72 was, for the time being, on his own again while the Hierarchy decided what to do.
For now, he needed to rebuild his assets and await orders.
Then the assault started.
It came from nowhere. Cars converged on the building in whose basement he lurked, peeling out of the ordinary city traffic all at once, parking synchronized in the alleyways and streets around him, while vans hauled into place and heavily armed, heavily armoured soldiers deployed barricades, holding back the city public.
There were three layers of door and wall between 72’s inner sanctum and street level. The outermost layer was breached almost before he had become alert to the attack, physically smashed off their hinges by men with steel tools.
The second layer of doors were thicker and sturdier. They bought him time to consider his options.
There were almost none. While every Hierarchy safehouse had contingencies in place to destroy it and leave no evidence of its having been there, all bar one of them relied on the sanctuary not being under attack at the time.
Well. That settled it then: all bar one meant there was only one option. He began his backup as the second doors were opened by means of explosive charges.
It finished just as those same charges were being rigged on the third and final doors.
They blew inwards just as Seventy-Two sent the command.
Kilolightyears away, undetectable in interstellar space, an ancient repository received a signal it had not been sent in nearly four million years. In response to that signal, it sent one of its stored packages directly to Earth via wormhole displacement.
Light bent and reality warped in the middle of the room as the first soldiers barged in. The event horizon collapsed, leaving behind a sphere of perfect blackness, like a black hole hanging in the middle of the room.
Without its power source, the stasis field collapsed within a microsecond.
Very, very briefly, five kilograms of pure antimatter were let loose in the heart of downtown San Diego.
They forever changed the face of the Earth.
Chapter 19
Chapter 16: “Firebird” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 4y 2m 1w 2d AV
Classified Facility, Earth
CIA Interrogation Team Planning Session
“Two and a half million people dead. Another half-million expected to die worldwide from the mid-term repercussions, and nobody has even BEGUN to predict the long-term effects. The largest and busiest container port in the United States damaged to the point where the repairs are going to take years. Major earthquake damage all along the San Andreas fault zone, eruptions as far north as Mount Rainier and thank fuck for the tsunami warning systems in Hawaii and along the Asian Pacific Rim because without them the death toll might have doubled."
There was a grim and angry silence, during which the folder slapped down accusingly onto the table.
“You assured me he told us EVERYTHING.”
“He did tell us about that, sir.”
“The hell he did! He told us it was the one option that would NOT get used!”
“He told us that it was the one option that he wouldn’t use, sir."
“I want you to go over every single thing that piece of shit xeno" - the word was expectorated with all the venom of a racial epithet - “has told us and God help me but if there’s even a hint that…. you know what, just get it the fuck done!"
There was a shocked silence as their collective superior barged out of the room. The tension finally broke when the base commander took a deep breath.
“I do believe that man’s head is about to roll.” he commented, exploiting the full sardonic, drawled breadth of his Georgia accent.
Nobody laughed - the devastation in California was simply too raw and solemn for that. But they did all let go of just a little tension.
“Serve him the fuck right.” ‘Carl’ said. “He screwed the pooch.”
“He’s still our boss.” the CO reminded them. “So keep that to yourself and do what he said. Full review.”
“The Strategic Debriefing is unchanged though, right? Six is still… fragile.”
“…Yeah. For now we proceed as planned. But break the news about Diego to him, see how he reacts. I’m still not convinced he’s serious about defecting.”
Date Point: 4y 2m 1w 2d AV
Orlando, Florida, USA, Earth
Gabriel Ares
"As of this time we are assuming 100% casualties within five kilometers of ground zero. All of the addresses you’ve given, sir, are within that radius. I’m so sorry."
“I… Thank you. I’ll pass that along.”
"Well, they might have been outside the lethal radius at the time, so we’ll keep your number on file in case any resident of those addresses turns up alive."
“I appreciate it. Good luck.”
"And you, sir."
The kids were side-by side on the bed, watching the TV with their fingers interlaced and their knuckles white. He couldn’t read either of their expressions - they seemed to have passed beyond grief and into some miserable calm state beyond, where there was nothing to do but drink in the disaster and pray.
Nobody was listening to the physics expert who was expanding at length on the technical difference between a nuclear explosion and this event, which apparently had the hallmarks of some kind of antimatter-based weapon. They were just watching the hole, still glowing and smoking like Hell’s own aperture.
“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Ava stated. It wasn’t that she was calm and euthymic - it was more that she had no more crying left.
Gabriel couldn’t sugar-coat the answer to that question. “FEMA’s assuming so.” he said. “They’ll call me back if there’s… you know, a miracle.”
“They would have called me by now.” she said.
“And Mom?” Adam asked. Gabriel just shook his head. While his ex-wife and son had often been antagonistic and frustrated with each other, he knew that she had still been his mother. He doubted that even she, as alcoholic and obtuse as she could be, would stay out of contact after such a disaster. Of course, the cell network in the area might just be overworked and badly damaged but…
But Gabriel didn’t believe in clinging to forlorn hope.
He put his arm around them both, and they watched.
Date Point: 4y 2m 1w 5d AV
Classified Facility, Earth
Six
His cell had improved beyond all recognition. The bed was downright comfortable and warm, the desk had been supplemented with a well-stocked bookshelf and a musical device.
This last was bliss next to the eternity of sensory deprivation he had suffered. It was apparently outdated by modern human standards, but used in his case because the “CDs” that he loaded into it came in their own cases with information about the music they contained, and the device’s lack of any broadcast ability.
In short, he felt less like a detainee and more like a welcome guest nowadays.
He had spent hours working through the stack of music left for him, swiftly discarding some, enthralled by others. There was one, however, that he kept coming back to.
♪♫“Freude, schoner Gotterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium, Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!”♫♪
He was humming along when there was a loud knock on the door.
That part was new, too. The door was no longer being opened by his handlers and his compliance demanded - now they were requesting entry, letting him rule the space a little. It was another liberty, received with a gratitude he was no longer finding so pathetic. If the situation was reversed, he knew full well that any human prisoner in his own custody would not have been treated even a fraction so well.
The hood, earmuffs and restraints were the same, but that part was just sensible. He was still a prisoner, claiming defection, actual motives still uncertain. The logic of his treatment from start to finish was crystal-clear, methodical, oh-so-sensible. He shuffled along, by now trusting his handlers implicitly.
“Hello, Stephen!” he began “What… What happened?”
Stephen had a grim expression as he placed a newspaper on the table between them.
An involuntary groan cascaded down Six’s whole body as he read the headline: “San Diego Destroyed!”
There was a long silence as he read the summary below the full page spread of the huge glowing hole where once had stood the thriving Downtown whose streets had so enthralled him.
“How many?” He croaked, eventually.
“Maybe as many as three million. It’s not clear yet.” Stephen replied.
All the joy and comfort of his newfound privileges fled him, and he withered in his seat.
“There’s no hope now, is there? Your people are going to want justice for this.”
“We are.” Stephen agreed “But peace is still on the table, believe that. Justice doesn’t have to mean genocide.”
“I thought we were smarter than this… I really did.”
He sighed, and rubbed his face. It was amazing how the body language just swept over him - all hosts instilled some of their instinctive behaviours on the occupying mind-state, that part was familiar. But the degree to which the human body imposed its own mannerisms was an order of magnitude more powerful. He doubted he’d ever be the same again for having occupied one.
He looked up and met Stephen’s eye. “What do you need from me?”
Date point: 4y 2m 1w 6d AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada.
Kevin Jenkins
♪♫I don’t know about you, but this looks like imprisonment/ what’s worse is that the prisoners don’t know that they’re prisoners/ even defend the…♫♪
“Jesus fuck, he’s alive…”
“What? Who?”
“It’s Ares.” Kevin answered the phone. “Jenkins. Fuck, Ares, I thought you were dead.”
It was a genuine pleasure to hear that same hispanic lilt come over the line. “Guess I should thank a bullet in the back for that. I went on vacation with my son, we’re in Florida.”
“Well, I’m glad man. I heard about… the thing, that you stopped.”
“Know what happened to him?”
“Sorry, dude. No-can-discuss.”
“If that bastard was respons-”
“No. Can. Discuss. Man, you’re a cop, you should understand this shit.”
“…you’re right. Sorry, Jenkins.”
Ares hung up.
Tremblay gave him an appraising look. The general was off-duty, or at least as much so as he ever got, and nursing one of Kevin’s own home-brews. “He wanted you to break confidentiality?”
Kevin sighed. “Yeah. I mean, I can see why. Poor bastard’s just lost everything, I’d be out to kick ass in his position.”
There was a minute of silent thought before Tremblay spoke again. “So, answer me truthfully. If I hadn’t been sitting here, would you have, I don’t know, dropped a hint or something?”
“Nah, man.” When Tremblay arched an eyebrow. “Maybe a few months ago, maybe. But not after learning about those fucking biodrone things.”
“You don’t think Ares could be one?”
“Hell no! But, y’know, I finally get the whole “loose lips sink ships” thing, right?”
Tremblay nodded, apparently satisfied. “It’s a shame there’s not much we can do for him.” he said. “He deserves something.”
“Hm.”
They drank in silence for a bit, before Kevin asked, apropos of nothing: “The Brits are going public with the Cimbrean colony soon, aren’t they?”
“Day after tomorrow, I think.”
“Hmm…”
Date Point: 4y sm 2w AV
Classified Facility, Earth
Interrogation Team Planning Session
“I wish I could tell you. We’re very much… what was the phrase? ‘In uncharted territory’ now.”
“Can’t you speculate?”
“I’ll try, but Stephen, you need to understand that I am not human. I think that’s the communications failure that led to this.”
“Why does that change anything?”
“Humans are deathworlders. You’re evolved to live on a planet which is routinely dangerous, and you’ve especially evolved to rely on - and exploit - other humans for your survival. While every social sapient obviously has the instincts for guessing at the motives and possible future actions of others of their species, and other sapients, your instinct for it is much more acute. So please, be skeptical of just how accurate my conclusions are likely to be.”
“…Okay. But please try.”
On screen, Six’s recorded self sighed and rubbed his chin.
“I imagine that by now, my personality backup will have been activated. Being as senior as I am, I can tell you how I would react to this news and how it might affect their response.”
“That’s fine.”
“I would be shitting myself. This is a full-blown catastrophe from the Hierarchy’s perspective - our mandate is secrecy and deniability, and now an enclave has been raided and a city-busting self-destruct option deployed because there was no faster alternative that would have guaranteed destruction of all our assets. Seventy-Two has probably been decompiled. They may find him blameless, in which case he will be recompiled but that takes months.”
“Decompiled… so, they’ll have taken him apart and read his memories?”
“Read everything. His decision-making process from start to finish, what he knew, everything he experienced and thought right up until the moment the process was begun. The analysis is thorough beyond description - there is no organic equivalent.”
Six coughed, and thought. “What they will see, is that I went silent, and that some time later, a precisely targeted assault hit Seventy-Two’s base of operations. Frankly Stephen, that operation was a huge mistake on your peoples’ part.”
“Why’s that?”
“You mean besides the two and a half million deaths?” Six snorted. “It means I’m now known to have failed to retain at least some secrets. They certainly won’t suspect that I am now collaborating with you, but If I were my restored self, I would recommend an immediate full decompile and analysis before any merger went ahead. And on top of that, I would insist on the backup being the dominant personality. Releasing me back into the Hierarchy to work from the inside is no longer an option.”
“I think we’re drifting off topic here.”
“You’re right, we are. Sorry. As for what they will do next…” Six shrugged expressively. “We can probably rule out the best-case scenario where they come to the same conclusions I have about our chances. We had already, fortunately, established that any kind of a direct conflict would carry unacceptable risks both of widespread discovery and of your people actually winning. Which means their most likely avenue of attack will be sabotage and politics.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, that they will influence the media to portray humanity as a dangerous threat on par with the Hunters. They will infiltrate the security councils and vote in favour of resolutions that are detrimental to Earth. If they can, they will attempt to return to Earth and do the same thing to your own politicians and media outlets. If your people build starships, they will attempt to spin it as a waste of resources. Seventy-Two’s networks will not have died with his enclave, there will still be avenues they can use to back politicians who might put heavy taxes on space industry, or they might engineer internecine warfare down here to distract you and keep you looking down.”
They stopped the playback.
“That’s not a lot to go on.” Said their new boss. As the CO had correctly guessed, his predecessor had been swiftly (though quietly) fired over San Diego, and the new incumbent was keen to avoid a repeat.
“Or too much.”
“Exactly. I need more than a few educated guesses at their possible strategies if I’m going to form a coherent response.”
“Six hasn’t been in the loop for months now. At this point, we can’t reasonably expect him to give us more than that, sir.”
“Then what use is he to us?”
There was a general looking-around. ‘Carl’ finally broke the silence. “For what it’s worth sir, I’m convinced that he means every word about trying to change the Hierarchy’s approach and become our agent on the inside.”
“You think we should release him?”
“It’s a huge gamble, but at this point, we’ve got every truly relevant bit of information, and the rest is speculation that we can probably do for ourselves. And I think that gamble would pay off.”
Heads nodded.
“I’ll take that under advisement. Is there anything more of use in that recording?”
“You’ve got the gist of it, sir. He was fairly consistent in his opinion of how they’ll respond. He did, however, namedrop a potential individual of interest."
“Oh? Who?”
“Nobody human. He thinks they’re where Seventy-two got his ‘biodrone’ implants from.”
“Intriguing. I think I’d better call my British opposite number.”
“The Brits? Why?”
The boss chuckled. “Let’s just say they got their hands on something that makes Scotch Creek look like a scifi convention…”
Date Point: 4y 2m 3w AV
Ceres Base, Sol
Drew Cavendish
“I call.”
They laid their hands on the table.
“Okay, that’s two pair threes and nines for the Englishman, and… Three Queens for Togo-san. Sorry, Cavendish.”
“Bollocks!”
“Pay up, ya pommie bastard, he won fair and square.”
Heikichi grinned uncertainly, still a little uncomfortable with the way the Drews casually insulted each other at every opportunity, but by now used to it and well aware that it was all friendliness.
The truth was, Drew C and Drew M were now fast friends, with the stoic and efficient Brit serving to neatly offset Drew Martin’s antipodean ebullience. On the job, both men were complete professionals. Off duty, they were the hub of the base’s intercorporate social life, running as they did a little unofficial venture - known universally as “the Speakeasy” - in a corner of the survey drone service hangar. There was no alcohol to be had: everybody needed to be sharp at all times in case of emergencies, but it was amazing just how entertaining fruit juice could get if you knew a few secrets.
There was a general cheering from the Mitsubishi contingent as Drew handed over his chips then stood up to go mix a Triple-B - a “Blue-Balled on the Beach”.
He paused as the facility-wide tannoy chimed.
“All mining and construction section chiefs, please report to Meeting Room A. Mining and construction chiefs to Meeting Room A, thank you.”
Drew M just shrugged at him. They left the Speakeasy in the capable hands of Emma Henderson, one of the BAE engineers whose job revolve around keeping all the air inside the facility, and jogged up the stairs to the third floor of the survey drone hangar module and took the well-travelled shortcut through the misplaced Cargill Hydroponics Module.
The CHM’s managers had wisely decided to install a clear tunnel to keep traffic separate from the experimental crops, rather than ban the use of one of the most convenient routes through the station, meaning that for a minute or so they walked surrounded on all sides by growing plants, greenery and botanical research. The accidental placement of the CHM at the heart of the facility rather than on its outskirts had proved to be a real morale-booster - everybody seemed to love it, and there were always a few off-duty workers just hanging out in the tunnel, enjoying the sight of life flourishing in the experimental conditions.
From there, one of the many intersection modules, each of which played a vital role in damage control and life support. They hung a right through one of the three E*ON Power Modules, another intersection module, and finally into the Facility Administration and Resources Module.
It was a running gag on base that the companies which comprised the Ceres LLC had jointly and equally paid for this particular module because none of them individually wanted to buy the FARM.
Meeting Room A was just like any other meeting or boardroom. The same table, the same chairs. The large, expensive and structurally compromising windows seemed like an anachronism in the otherwise utilitarian Ceres Base. There was little point in having a breathtaking view of the inside of an irregular concrete dome, after all.
But eventually, that dome would be the innermost of a triple pressure hull 3D- printed in concrete made of Ceres’ own regolith. Eventually, landscaping and lakes and a simulacrum of a park on Earth would fill the open space inside the domes, complete with a projected sky and a day/night cycle. People could endure confinement inside the pressurised modules only for so long before the desire to get outside and feel a fresh breeze on their face could grow distracting. The facility intended to have that opportunity available for morale purposes quite early on, as soon as there were several sturdy layers of airtight concrete between the fragile human occupants and the voracious nothing outside.
The Drews weren’t the first to arrive, nor the last. They settled in at one end of the table and swapped small-talk and speculation while everybody filed in, some still dirty and sweaty from hardsuit time.
The last to arrive were the people who had presumably called the meeting. Only the very senior management wore suits on Ceres, and these four did - the representative managers for BHP-B, BAE and Skanska, along with the facility administrator, Adele Park, who did a quick head-count and nodded.
“Thank you all for coming.” she told them. “Before we begin, I need to confirm that the content of this meeting is subject to your non-disclosure agreements. Is everyone on board with that?”
There was a general nodding, and so she stood aside for the BAE rep.
“Last week, BAE Systems successfully bid on a contract for the British Ministry of Defence to begin construction of a fleet of starships.” he said. Drew C raised a hand. “Yes?”
“Last I checked that barrier’s still out there.” he pointed out.
“It is, but the customer doesn’t seem to care. May I continue?”
“Right, sorry.”
“The contract is for three spaceborne destroyers. We were fortunate in that we’ve been adapting our existing blueprints and coming up with new ones pretty much since the Second Space Race began, so we’ve got the plans. We just need somewhere to build them.” he indicated the BHP-B and Skanska reps. “That’s where our friends in the mining and construction industries come in.”
“Ceres is an ideal location for a dry-dock. We have existing infrastructure, none of the debris that would threaten a shipyard built in orbit over Earth, it’s a low-gravity environment and there’s a ready supply of raw materials right here, rolling straight out of the ore processor. We just need one built.”
He handed over to the Billiton rep, who activated the wall screen, showing off what were, to Drew C’s informed eye, clearly some pretty hasty plans.
“Stage one is going to be open-cast mining of Ceres itself.” he said. “There’s a lot of water-ice not far below us, that’s what we’ll mostly be digging through, but we can use it. We’ve already got a small supply pit meeting this facility’s water demands: if we expand that dig into the drydock pit then we’ll generate enough of a surplus to last us for years. Yes?”
This was in response to a construction team leader who was asking why the shipyard couldn’t just be built on the surface.
“Sinking it below the surface will protect the construction work from meteoroids and solar radiation. As a side benefit, the long-term plan for Ceres Base includes subterranean expansion, and the wall of the shipyard pit would serve very well for getting that expansions started, when we get that far. Not to mention the aforementioned valuable water.”
He glanced at his notes. “While the mine itself is going to be pretty standard, we’ll be working in vacuum and weak gravity, which are going to complicate things. Were reassigning Andrew Cavendish and Andrew Martin to foreman the project.”
“Really? Us?” Drew C asked.
The rep chuckled. “If you weren’t aware, Drew, as of three days ago you’re actually the man with the most EVA experience in the history of the human race.”
“That’s… news to me.”
“Well, it’s true. That thruster assembly you constructed on Monday was your eighteenth spacewalk and took you past the eighty-three hour mark. You’ve walked more often and for longer than Anatoly Solovyev. There’s nobody with more EVA experience, and that means we need you watching out for the miners when we bring them in.”
There was a general murmur of agreement and congratulations. Clearly the milestone had gone overlooked by everybody else as well. Drew had other things on his mind.
“If I’ve been out there that long, how’s my radiation count?” he asked.
“You’re fine. Those Red Bull suits have some imported alien radiation shielding technology in them. You got a worse dose when you were cutting granite back in two thousand five.”
Drew didn’t know if he exactly trusted alien technology - when it came to radiation, he felt a lot better with several meters of concrete protecting him, rather than some flimsy xeno solution, but he shrugged it off. The company stood to lose far too much if they lied to him about his dose.
“Okay. Do I get a raise?”
There was general laughter. Finally somebody was asking the important questions.
“Yes, Drew, you get a raise.” The rep smiled, rolling his eyes.
“Bloody lovely. I’ll draw up our safety guidelines and training.” he promised.
“Good. Anyway, once the pit’s at size, installing the gantries and structures to turn it into a shipyard is Skanska’s job. Tom, you want to take over?”
Drew only half-listened as the briefing continued, and barely registered Drew M nudging him in the elbow and murmuring “Good on yer, mate.”
He was getting paid more, and that meant he was a step closer to that tropical island.
Date Point: 4y 3m AV
Amnag-Dwuz Biotech Head Offices
Planet Origin, Corti Directorate Core World
It took less than a second for Director Nmrb’s life to change drastically. He went, during that second, from reading productivity reports and financial information, to falling out of his chair and fouling himself in terror as the expensive imported Cq’twj-wood door of his office - a wood renowned for its sterngth and solidity - was physically ripped out of its frame without there having been any kind of a hint from any source that there might be something outside of it that might wish to do so.
He crawled under the desk, mentally pulsing the panic alarm signal through his cybernetics.
The desk was physically picked up and, to add further insult to the scenario, was flung across the room with contemptuous ease. This did have the dubiously positive side-effect of revealing the identity of his assailant - five humans.
He would have vented again, if there’d been anything left in his system to manage it. Each one of the deathworlders was wrapped head to toe in equipment that had a dull, functional appearance to it, and carrying their weapons with apparent ease when he doubted that he himself would have been able to lift them unassisted.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, boys!” Exclaimed the biggest one of them, probably the one that had accelerated his table across the room, where two of the others were using it for cover against any potential targets that might come through the door. “And I thought the fuckin’ robo-worms smelled bad!”
“Mind on the job. You. Name.” The new speaker, clearly a ranking individual, addressed Nmrb directly.
“N-Nmrb!” Nmrb squeaked. The big, loud one was carrying a gun that was a good half as large again as the others, and yet Nmrb’s translation implant was tentatively interpreting his body language - the face, sadly, was impossible to see behind the cloth and goggles - as nonchalant good humour.
“Good. You’re being abducted. Do not argue, do not resist, do not try to call for aid. We will know if you do. We don’t intend to hurt you, but the strength difference means you’ll be safer if we don’t have to restrain you. Do you understand?”
“Contact!” one of the others reported. “Robo-worms, three of them.”
Nmrb fought his emotions under control. The Annebenellin guards in this building were equipped for human suppression, this should be a short fight.
It was.
“Drop ’em!”
The human who had reported contact fired his weapon. It chatter-spat three bursts of firepower. He did not need to shoot any more than that.
“Clear.” he reported, in a flat, calm tone of voice.
The leader turned his attention back to Nmrb. “Do you understand?” he repeated.
They left via the roof, where what was unmistakably a hunter dropship decloaked in the ripping winds, just long enough to collect them.
The second they were aboard and their weapons made safe, the team diverted their full attention to him. Nmrb took a look around the interior. Hunter though it had once been, the ship had obviously been badly damaged at some point and then hybridized with human technology to get it spaceworthy again. The interior was cramped and rugged, with straps and netting holding a variety of equipment snug against the walls and ceiling wherever there was room. Despite this, there was still plenty of space inside, a legacy of the fact that humans were physically much more compact than Hunters.
The commanding human produced a cloth and a flask of water, which Nmrb used to accomplish the humiliating process of cleaning himself. One of the soldiers just opened the ramp and threw the soiled thing out once he was done, apparently unperturbed by the terminal-velocity drop outside, or the angry wind that snatched at him.
They had given him time to think at least. Time to recover his wits and his dignity.
“You have questions for me.” he said, exercising the full extent of his species’ emotional discipline.
“Our commanding officer does. We’re just the collection detail.” said the leader.
“And your commanding officer is…?”
“Always angry.” said the big one. The humans laughed, even the leader.
They were headed into orbit, and that alone troubled Nmrb. While the Hunter raiding-ship was especially designed to infiltrate even heavily-defended words, relying on its tiny size and cloak to evade detection, nothing that might loiter in orbit could possibly do so for very long without the use of ultra-advanced cloaking technology. Even the puny dimple in local spacetime made by its own mass gravity would have to be smoothed out.
Nevertheless, they landed, without having gone to FTL, and without having re- entered the atmosphere.
There was a detail of more human soldiers on deck, plus a human in a different uniform. She stepped forward smartly and addressed Nmrb directly.
“Welcome aboard HMS Caledonia." She said. “My name is Lieutenant Ellen McDaniel: As your advocate, my job is to see to it that your rights as an intelligent being are not violated during your stay here.”
“Why am I here?” Nmrb demanded.
“You have been detained on suspicion of conspiracy to perform an act of genocide.” McDaniel told him. “Furthermore we suspect that you are complicit in-”
"Genocide?!" Nmrb exclaimed. McDaniel didn’t so much as blink.
“As I was saying, you are also suspected of complicity in the detonation of a weapon of mass destruction within the bounds of the city of San Diego on Earth, leading directly to the death of more than two million individuals.”
She handed him a datapad. “Your arrest is legal under section nine hundred and seven point two, paragraph twelve of the three hundred and third resolution of the Dominion Justice Council.”
“You aren’t Dominion signatories.” Nmrb snapped, scanning the datapad.
“The right of non-members to exercise Dominion law against signatory members is outlined in section…”
“Yes, yes…” Nmrb was familiar with the principle. It was both irritating and alarming to see that the humans had become so well-informed about the minutiae of Dominion law, so quickly.
He pressed his thumb to the biometric patch at the datapad’s corner, confirming his legal status - detained for questioning, but not yet on trial, with a maximum duration to his detainment no longer than three standard diurnals, and not a short unit duration longer.
“Thank you. Please follow me.”
The Caledonia‘s layout had a degree of familiarity to it, but some unique twists. It was almost a Corti ship in its construction, but there were elements to the architecture and configuration that were more in keeping with Alliance shipbuilding principles. Whoever had originally built it had obviously not been human, however: the deathworlders’ aftermarket modifications cut through the ship like a sour note, crude but sturdy in contrast to the technological elegance that surrounded them. The most striking change was the introduction of thick steel doors at regular intervals along the corridors, operated physically and probably requiring more strength than most beings could muster. It was clearly a counter-boarding measure, though Nmrb couldn’t for a moment envision who - or what - would be so self- destructively reckless as to board any vessel known to contain more than one human.
Their tour was not a long one. McDaniel led him into a room whose original purpose had probably not involved the human-built furniture that dominated the middle - a large oval table and several chairs.
“Mr. Nmrb, sirs.” McDaniel said, impressing him with her ability to pronounce his name correctly.
The room contained several more humans, these ones very plainly commanders to judge by the apparent structure of the rank insignia they wore. The one anomaly was wearing no obvious uniform at all, just patterned dark green lower-limb garments, a black torso-garment, and a dark green head covering with a badge on the front depicting a blade bisecting two parallel blue lines, and the motto “By Strength And Guile”.
“Right.” he said. None of the others spoke, giving the impression that this… under-identified individual either outranked them, or held their esteem. He flopped a large hardcopy printout onto the table. “D’you recognise these fookin’ things?”
Nmrb examined the image, eager to co-operate and be returned to the planet below.
The things in the image were a little hard to place for a second, but then he interrogated his memory cybernetic, and felt dread settle on him.
He was looking at a complete set of the custom neural implants. These ones had been carefully removed from their recipient’s brain and preserved as best as crude Terran surgery could allow, but the delicate nanofilaments that actually did the work of interfacing with the recipient’s neural structure on the ultrafine level were all unsurprisingly severed. There was no way the patient could have survived their excision, assuming they had been alive at all when they went on the operating table.
“Those are not from our standard catalogue.” he said, stalling for time.
“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you recognise them.”
The Corti reputation for intellect was not accidental, nor the product of bluff and propaganda, and Nmrb was sharp even by Corti standards. He resurrected knowledge and skills that he had not been called upon to exercise in many years, and analysed the items in the picture with a cyberneticist’s eye, rather than an administrator’s.
“This one appears to be a custom motor neurone bridging implant.” he said. “It seems to have been specialized for installation in your own species, but-”
“I didn’t ask you what they are." the human repeated. Something about his tone of voice shot straight into the primitive depths of Nmrb’s hindbrain and sent desperate signals to the effect that something very dangerous was angry at him. “I asked you whether you fookin’ recognise them."
“I d-don’t.” Nmrb stammered, lying.
“That’s funny, because they’ve got all the signatures of having come the labs YOU worked in and administrate.”
“In which case,” suggested one of the other humans, this one wearing insignia which if Nmrb understood the logic correctly - indicated that he was the highest-ranking officer. “Allowing him to continue his analysis of their function may be worth our while.”
Nmrb decided that he liked this one, even as he recognised the strategy of using the voice of aggression and the voice of calm reason in opposition against one another to pressure him.
He cleared his throat, and bowed slightly to the advocate of sensibility. “As I was saying. This next one is… a top of the line interspecies communication implant, we don’t even sell these yet. This third one look like a… neuroplasticity inhibitor?”
“You sound confused by that.”
“Neuroplasticity inhibitors are built to correct a disorder that affects about one in every eight thousand Corti.” Nmrb explained. “I can think of no reason why one would be installed in a human. This fourth one appears to be a high- end augmentation package. Those are highly customisable so I cannot tell you its exact function, but typical options would include cybernetic instant- access memory, logical sub-processors, focus and attention boosters, or even communications. We currently have no production models of any of these implants suitable for installation in a human.”
“Why not?”
“Economically unviable given the quarantine of your homeworld.”
“But you could build these.”
“We did build these, it seems. Just from looking at a picture, I cannot give you more information than I already have."
“So this is a custom order. We will need to know who the client is.”
“And how am I supposed to explain this breach of client confidentiality to the board?”
The unmarked one with the surly attitude spoke again. “The ‘client’ is responsible for the destruction of a city on Earth, and we’re fookin’ angry about that.” He snarled. It really was incredible how this being’s anger seemed to directly bypass every refined Corti mental trick and intimidate the lingering animal part. “D’you think that explanation might work?”
“Given your… unexpected and alarming apparent ability to operate away from your homeworld despite the existence of a supposedly impenetrable barrier, I’m sure that this information will have… some effect, yes.” Nmrb agreed, finding it quite hard to retain his composure under the human’s oh-so-carnivorous glare.
“Good.”
Date Point: 4y 3m AV
HMS Myrmidon, in orbit around Cimbrean.
“Well, it’s official. The existence of this colony is now public knowledge, both on Earth and out in the greater galaxy.”
Sir Jeremy Sandy seemed remarkably well-rested considering how hectic his last few days must have been. Preparing the colony to go public, recording a press statement, finalizing the provisional draft of the opening proposals for the first Colonial Council, a formal naming ceremony for Folctha and so much more should have taken a real toll on him. Instead, the Old Man - everybody referred to him as that, respectfully - seemed composed and steady.
It was the considered opinion of Captain David Manning that the Old Man must have absolutely cast-iron discipline about his sleep schedule.
It was a skill he himself had never learned, and he was constantly suffering for it, but there was just so much to do. Assimilating the two plundered Hierarchy vessels - since renamed Caledonia and Myrmidon - into the Royal Navy was always going to have been an immense task, especially given the total lack of appropriate orbital facilities to refit them, anywhere in humanity’s controlled territory.
That hadn’t changed. While Earth’s stipend from the Dominion as a newly- Contacted race, plus the compensation settlement for the Enclosure, had been more than enough to afford a top-class shipyard, the fact was that securing such a thing from either side would have upset the delicate neutrality that was the Global Representative Assembly’s choice of policy.
Besides, there was good reason not to trust the alien tech. So much of it was unknown, so little of it operating at standards of safety or redundancy which would have satisfied even the most slapdash of human engineers. Thin single- skin hulls held together by forcefields were, presumably, at least safe enough to run a major interstellar economy or two on, but they didn’t come close to the rigorous demands of the British Armed Services.
All of which meant that such infrastructure would need to be bootstrapped on Earth, which would take months at the bare minimum.
So, the ships were effectively being refit in flight. Even having large chunks powered down, depressurised, replaced and powered up again. They were barely recognisable as being the same sleek vessels that had first arrived at Cimbrean months ago. Gone were the quantum reactor cores, spirited away to Earth for study and replaced by vast banks of supercapacitors. Gone too were the coilguns, plasma cannons and missile tubes. The outer hulls, once mirror- polished artistic marvels, had been methodically stripped off, reshaped, sanded, and slathered in matte-black RADAR-absorbent stealthing paint. That alone had taken the crew literal months of angle-grinding and wire-brushing, made all the more complicated by the fact that, helped though they were by the artificial gravity, they still had to work in spacesuits. Which meant training them first.
Caledonia’s urgent mission had pulled her away long before the refit was completed. There was still a cloud of marooned hull panels orbiting gently at her anchorage. Myrmidon was more intact - her stealthing was complete, and the first two of a total of seven Skymaster guns had now been installed, powered and connected to their magazines, as had the first of a trio of Phalanx CIWS.
Much had been kept, of course. The cloak remained, as did the single quantum core necessary to power it indefinitely. The ship’s “keel” - the thick structural spine to which the engines and hull were both anchored - had been reinforced rather than replaced. The small craft bays were untouched, though everybody wanted some kind of physical door to supplement the atmosphere retention field. The general internal layout was completely unchanged, except for having been stripped of anything remotely resembling electronics. The plumbing and electrical wiring was similarly untouched - even aliens, it seemed, couldn’t screw up the basic logistics of getting water and electricity safely throughout the ship without their leaking or meeting.
It was an immense task, only just now beginning to approach the end of Phase One. It would be another year of hard work before Myrmidon was completely renovated to the satisfaction of her captain and his superiors.
“We could have done with another week.” he told Sir Jeremy. “After that, all the weapons will be active.”
“The system shield is our first line of defence anyway. With all respect, Captain, two half-rebuilt ships won’t hold off the Great Hunt if it comes down on us.”
“True.” Manning allowed. “but I’d still feel safer with more firepower.”
“A week isn’t so very long.”
“In Civic Planning, maybe. Anyway, thanks for the update. Good luck with the Press.”
He returned to his paperwork. There was always so much to do…
Date Point: 4y 3m 1w AV
Independent Trade Station 104: “Auspice of Prosperity”
"The whole station?"
"Oh yes. All because they allowed a few humans to live there."
The whispering pair spared a shifty glance in Miranda’s direction, clearly thinking they were out of earshot, and were being covert. Maybe they would have been, with any other species.
She tucked into a nutrient sphere, one of the four on her plate. The non- flavour and non-texture of the universal foodstuff was at least better than the bad taste being left in her mouth by the overheard conversation.
She ignored it, slipping into her inhale-pause-exhale-pause meditation, until one phrase slipped past her attention.
"… should throw her out the airlock."
“Murder me? Really?”
She wouldn’t have chosen to speak. If the decision had been conscious, she would have kept silent. But her weary outrage outpaced her discipline, and the words sang on the air, loud enough to bring conversation in the entire dining hall to instant silence.
The one who had said it - a Kwmbwrw female - both shrank and bristled.
Damage done. In for an inch, in for a mile. She stood, carrying her chair with her, set it up at the two conspirators’ table, reversed and straddled. “Care to tell me how killing a fellow sophont to save your own hide is any better than what the Hunters are doing?”
The other conspirator - this one a relatively slim Locayl - cleared his throat, a gesture held in common with humans.
“My friend Gwnrwt here has lost family to the Hunters.” he rumbled, expression conciliatory. “The subject makes her-”
“Don’t apologise on my behalf, Golron.” the Kwmbwrw snapped. “I can tidy my own burrow, thank you."
“As you say. If you’ll excuse me while I fetch a second helping then…” the Locayl stood, then addressed Miranda. “Would you like a measure of water? I understand your species need a lot of it.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” Miranda thanked him. “Yes please.”
Gwnwrt watched him go, then sneered at her. “Expecting an apology, human?”
“How would you feel if total strangers were talking about spacing you just for being a Kwmbwrw?”
“Kwmbwrw don’t endanger everybody on the station just by being here.”
“I’ve got to be somewhere."
“Out the airlock is somewhere.”
Miranda was pleased to see that despite her Kwmbwrw antagonist’s bravado, a cool stare still made her very uncomfortable. “I don’t even know why I bothered.” she snapped, standing. "
Beings scattered as she strode out of the room, instinctively recoiling from the sight of an angry Deathworlder.
She was impressed when the Locayl - Golron - caught up with her down the corridor. His longer legs at least gave him the burst of speed to catch up with her angry stride, though it left him thoroughly out of breath.
“What do you want?” She snapped.
“My friend is…” he began, wheezing.
“A hell-bitch?”
“That… didn’t translate.”
She relaxed. He had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to catch up, the least she could do was hear him out.
“I wasn’t being kind about her.”
“I… guessed… As much. Whew.” He straightened up, still breathing heavily but clearly more in control again now.
“What do you want, Golron?”
“She thought you were staying here for some selfish reason when there’s an alternative available.”
“What alternative?”
“I thought so! You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“I was wondering why you would stay here when people like Gwnwrt must make life so hard, and when the Great Hunt is out there scouring for humans and devouring innocents on places like the Exos station, but then it occurred to me that maybe you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what, Golron?" Miranda practically burst.
“Your people have a colony now. A place where you could settle among your own kind, or maybe even go home. No more prejudice, no more…” he looked back down the corridor.
“No more hypocrisy? If I’d lost family to the Hunters, I would never suggest throwing somebody else to them.”
He sighed. “I really am sorry.”
“Don’t be. You didn’t say it.”
They stood in silence for a moment as she thought. “Did you hear this colony’s name?”
“Folctha, on the planet Cimbrean. They announced it a few [days] ago.”
“I bet the Dominion didn’t like that.”
“The planet in question is on the far side of the Celzi front line, and the Alliance have vocally supported your species’ right to self-determination.” Golron told her. “I’m sure the Dominion is very unhappy indeed.”
She laughed, although it was spoiled just a little as Golron recoiled from the flash of teeth. Nobody seemed to understand smiling. And it would be nice…
“Thank you, Golron. I think I might just go there.”
“It’s probably the best thing for everyone.” he agreed. “I’m sorry we weren’t clear with you earlier. We just gossiped rather than actually talking with you.”
“Well, you came through in the end. You and I are fine. Gwnwrt can still go fuck herself though.”
“That seems…”
“Anatomically impossible, I know.” she finished the all-too-familiar objection wearily.
She definitely needed to be back among her own kind.
Fortunately, she had just enough saved up. It would be a one-way trip, but the important part was, she could afford it.
Date Point 4y 4m 3w AV
Ceres Base, Sol
Drew Cavendish
“No! NO!!” Drew elbowed his way between the new miners and singled out the culprit. “You do not just check your own seal and trust it. You check your friend’s, and get him to check yours, and then you both get a third opinion!"
He leaned in and tapped the newcomer’s faceplate to punctuate his next sentence, pleased to see that they had gone pale inside their hardsuit. “The alternative (tap) is that you die (tap). *Come on, this is the most basic stuff, you already went over this down on Earth!"
“Sorry, boss.” the offender mumbled.
“Don’t give me ‘sorry’.” he growled, grabbing the helmet and yanking. It popped right off. “If you had tried to go out there, we’d have had to blow the emergency repressure on the airlock, and that costs seven thousand pounds and a couple of burst eardrums. Get. Your seal. Checked."
“Yes, boss.”
“Right. Get that helmet back on.”
He watched as the newbie did so, and as his team members checked and double- checked the seal, to everyone’s apparent satisfaction.
“Right. Time to head out there. Now remember, outside the modules the surface gravity is only point-two-seven M slash S. That’s point zero-two-nine Gs. So until we’re clear of any overhead structures, we are going to shuffle, keeping our feet on the floor. Walking normally will bounce you into the air like a bloody ball. If you jump, you aren’t coming back down again for minutes. Your SAFER pack is for emergencies only. Is everyone clear?"
There was a general muttering of “yes boss”. He didn’t bother to ask them to sound off - this wasn’t the military - but he made eye contact with every single one to make sure they weren’t just agreeing by rote.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
There was, he knew, a lot of work still to do. It took time for people to intuitively recognise the difference between weight and mass. It took even longer for them to finally understand that working in a vacuum and under microgravity was actually harder work than down on Earth. Only two - and these two he knew were going to turn out to be excellent members of the team - had started their hardsuit careers by spending time wearing the suit and customising it with tape and padding and a little swatch of velcro inside the helmet and a stylus or piece of wire on one of their fingers. The others would be pinched and blistered by the time they came back indoors in a few hours’ time, distracted and maddened by the inevitable itches, and frustrated by the thick gloves’ inability to handle delicate work.
He caught a glimpse of the artwork that one of the two customizers had done on the side of his helmet. It was actually a sticky decal, a classic trashy pin- up of a rock chick with tattoos holding up a prominent full house. The scrollwork underneath read “Aces and Kings”.
Trashy and cliched though the decal was, it was a sensible idea for immediate identification, and Drew decided he would get one of his own as soon as possible.
The airlock cycled, and the newbies took their first steps into vacuum.
In his heart of hearts, Drew couldn’t have been happier.
Date Point: 4y 4m 3w AV
Phoenix, Arizona, USA, Earth.
Gabriel Ares
Adam and Ava had school. Neither felt up to it, but Gabriel had put his foot down. They still needed an education, and they needed a return to something resembling normalcy for the sake of their mental health.
Phoenix had heard the death of San Diego. The shockwave had faded to the point of only cracking a few windows and setting off some car alarms by the time it washed over central Arizona, but it had still been loud - nobody in the city had failed to notice it, with even Phoenix’s deaf residents feeling the noise deep inside their chests.
It was tough for Gabriel, too. He didn’t know anybody in this city, pretty much all of his friends and living relatives had lived in San Diego. Aside from a few distant cousins in Guadalajara and the handful of SDPD officers who had, like him, been out of town on the day their city was killed, there was nobody left.
Phoenix, he suspected, was just temporary. But he had no idea where would come next. And after moving all their stuff in and getting the kids off to school, he was finding himself sitting around watching movies and resisting the urge to drink. That way, he knew, led self-destruction.
He was lost in a black mood when his phone rang, the default wooden-ish staccato notes taking a few seconds to percolate through Bruce Willis fleeing the cops in a flying taxi.
“Hello?”
“Hello there, is this detective Gabriel Ares?” The voice had a British accent.
“*Si. *Retired.”
“Sir, my name is Sean Howard, I work for the Cimbrean colonial administration. Your name was forwarded to me by a Mr. Jenkins at the Scotch Creek research facility?”
“Jenkins? Yes, I know him. What’s he doing forwarding my name to you?”
“With the colony having gone public and opened its doors to potential settlers, we’re beginning to establish our civilian law enforcement. You came highly recommended.”
“Me?” Gabriel shifted uncomfortably as his abused spine twinged at him. “Why? I’m not exactly fighting fit any more.”
“We still need a chief of police. Somebody to handle policy, set up our police service, and to take an investigative role if - God forbid - we need it. You won’t be expected to go chasing anywhere.”
“So it’s a desk job, then?”
“A highly-paid and senior one in the colonial administration, complete with accomodation for you and any dependents.”
“I’ve got two teenagers under my care.”
“We have a school, sir. We’re trying to attract families, we take education seriously.”
“And why would I want to leave Earth?”
“That’s for you to decide, sir. But we intend to build a good life out of here. A fresh start, the model for humanity’s future. I can’t tell you whether or not you’re interested in being involved in that.”
Gabriel thought about it. After a few moments of silence, Howard spoke. “It’s a big decision, you’re under no pressure detective, but with your qualifications and background we’d love to have you. I’ll let you think about it.”
“Thank you.”
Howard hung up.
Gabriel was still thinking about it when the kids got home.
Date Point: 4y 6m AV
Folctha, Cimbrean
Ava Rios
“-na take Fuck me!!"
Adam’s hands jerked up in alarm as the world around them blinked. One instant, it was the dull concrete and steel interior of a hangar somewhere in Canada, and the next… well, a palace. Or at least the glass and steel structure on the lawn of a palace that housed Folctha’s end of the Jump Array.
The architecture was a lot strange, but elegant - all curves and loops and domes, looking more like something that had been gently coaxed out of the landscape rather than built atop it.
She giggled at his alarm, and it surprised even her - ever since her parents had died in the San Diego blast, mirth had been hard to find, but it sprang back suddenly, watching her boyfriend jump out of his skin at the sudden change.
“Language.” she teased. He blushed, noticing that others in the colonist group were grinning at him, although most were also clearly recovering from their own surprise.
She smiled at his back as he scowled and hoisted the bags that contained all his and Gabriel’s worldly possessions. Gabriel protested that he could carry his own load, but Adam knew better - the older Ares, a handsome and grey- haired mirror-image of his son, was too stubborn to admit that his injury still impeded him - long hours in the gym had gone a long way toward restoring his fitness, but the bullet had done permanent harm that would never quite go away.
Ava wheeled her own bag behind her, taking in the sights as they emerged through a short tunnel, passing through a gossamer orange curtain of light that tingled her skin and made her teeth feel strange.
The air beyond was cool. Cold, even. Not the biting chill she’d felt during their few days at Scotch Creek, that invaded her clothing and pinched at her skin, but the cold of a crisp spring morning, though it looked like full daytime. The air tasted… sweet, almost. There was only a tang of wood smoke on it, which if anything only enhanced the certainty that this was a place that humanity had yet to leave any kind of a permanent footprint on.
The sun was strange, too. It was… more orange, slightly. A little larger. It made the place look warm, even while the air felt chilly.
There was a smattering of cheers and applause from a small crowd that had gathered to greet the new arrivals. A silver-haired man in a suit was shaking hands and offering warm welcomes.
They’d been prepared for the cold, of course. Cimbrean’s immigration policy included funding to buy some rugged clothes suitable for the colony. Out of their own pockets, she and Adam had paid for some customization, with the result that their jackets bore matching patches on the sleeve - skyscrapers and a phoenix, and the legend "De las Cenizas“.
Avoiding the governor who was warmly shaking Gabriel’s hand and welcoming him to Folctha, she looked around.
To her relief, she immediately spotted that a second group had formed off on the sidelines - Folctha’s junior citizens, some of whom waved at her when they saw her notice them. She tapped Adam on the arm to get his attention, pointed them out, and together they broke away from the group to meet their new peers.
It was quite the mix. Most were obviously English - there was just something about how they stood, did their hair, what they wore that screamed it, even before they spoke - and quite the age range, too. She and Adam were probably toward the older end of the spectrum - the youngest was clearly only about nine years old.
There wasn’t a lot of makeup being worn, she noticed, becoming suddenly and absurdly conscious of her own, subtle though it was. In the last couple of years, makeup had started to become more of a male thing in schools too - the boys had turned out to be just as vain as the girls once the makeup companies had broken a generations-old prejudice and started marketing foundation at the adolescent male market. It had been met with ridicule and even outrage among some parents, but had caught on.
It was slightly strange to realise that now, the only other person wearing any makeup at all in this little group was her boyfriend.
There were introductions, some stereotypically British apologies about being “terrible at names” and apologising in advance for getting them wrong… really, it was just like going to a new school, though as far as she could tell it was refreshingly free of drama.
“So, what are you guys going to be doing?” she asked.
“It’s all apprenticeships right now.” one of the girls - Gwen - told her. “But the colony’s not really settled yet, it’s only a couple of months old. I was thinking I’d go for nursing, maybe doctor, but it depends on what we need.”
“Botany.” Kieron said, firmly.
“I’m already doing it. I’m the colony’s only journalist!” That part had been obvious. Sara - at the absolute most, only fourteen years old - was wearing a big dSLR camera and a tablet computer in a satchel on her hip and had been taking notes and pictures throughout. “What about you?” She asked of Adam. She had that popped-hip, interested look that Ava knew well, so she nestled up to him and took his arm, just to make sure both of them were clearly off-limits. Some of the guys had been looking at her with interest too.
If he noticed the attention, Adam gave no sign of it. “Law enforcement.” he said. “It’s what I was planning on doing back on Earth.”
“Oh, wait, your dad’s our new police chief, isn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
“What about you, Ava?”
“Like, uh, Gwen said, I guess it depends on what we need. I mean, the plans I had don’t really… I mean, like, who needs a theatrical makeup artist here?”
“Go for it anyway.” Big Jack shrugged. “Can you do hair?”
“Uh, yeah. A bit.”
“There you go then.”
“I don’t know, I never saw myself as a stylist.” Ava protested. “I like the girly stuff, but not, like, enough to do it for a living.”
“Well, if nothing else, it’s something to do until you find somebody to apprentice under, and you could earn some money.” Sara said. She spoke in a hummingbird blur, so fast that it was sometimes hard to tell where one word end and the next began, and was constantly being told to slow down by the others. “I mean I know my mum would love to get her hair done and her nails and some of the men have really ewww beards now so maybe you could learn to shave too, you could make a lot of money just helping people stay…"
“Hey, no pressure.” Adam interrupted her, hugging Ava round her waist. “We don’t need to rush in, we don’t even know where we’re sleeping yet.”
“Oh, your house is all built and ready!” That was Little Jack, the youngest kid in the group who’d so far remained silent and let the bigger kids gossip. He turned to Sara, whose identical brown hair suggested they were siblings. “Can I show them? Please?”
Sara laughed indulgently. “Oh kaaay" she mock-relented. “I’ll come with you. See you tonight, guys!”
They walked away, Little Jack running forward and then occasionally stopping to grouse about how slow they were being.
“Were you told where you’re staying?” she asked.
“We were told there’d be a house. Dad was pretty spare on the details.” Adam admitted.
“Not just any house, you two are getting your own!” Sara said. “You’re so lucky, I have to stay with Mum and Dad and Jack.”
“Our own place? Like, just us? I figured we’d be staying with Gabriel…” Ava glanced back down the road to where Ares senior was still meet-and-greeting with, presumably, the colony’s most important people. He’d sunk gratefully onto a camp stool while he talked.
“Oh, he’s up on Palace Rise.” Sara said, pointing toward the half-rebuilt palace. “All the admin people live up there. You’re down here on Delaney Row, near the school.”
“Delaney Row?” Ava asked.
“You’ve got street names already?” Adam followed up.
“Yeah!” Sara said. “Jen Delaney was the first governor here. She handed it over to Sir Jerry and left. I heard the soldiers talking about her, they all think she’s really badass and they say she can shoot a gun really accurately and she told them all off one time because they saw her naked and were staring but she didn’t care, so they voted to name one of the housing zones after her.”
“Voted where?” Adam asked her.
“The Thing.”
“Like… council, senate?”
“No, the Thing. It’s an old word, I think Norse? You know, Vikings? It’s like, the whole town getting together to talk and vote. Sir Jerry says it’s the best kind of democracy for right now because we’re still so small."
Sara clearly had an enthusiasm for sharing knowledge that was the hallmark of a born journalist, coupled to the motor mouth of a born irritant. “One of the sessions, we voted on what to call everything. So we’ve got Palace Rise, Delaney Row, Crash Avenue, Camp Uplift - that’s the army, you’ll like them, they’re really tidy… uh, cool - we’ve not got names right down to streets yet because there’s not really any streets and… oh, we’re here.”
Adam and Ava’s house turned out to be tiny. In fact, it could have fit comfortably inside a large room. Inside, though, it turned out to be pure efficient space. It had everything - The living room doubled as a kitchen, complete with cooker, dishwasher and washer/dryer (though these both had signs on them warning that they weren’t yet working), a folding-out dining table that recessed cleverly into the floor when not in use, and a fridge. The bed was up a short, extremely steep flight of stairs that doubled as storage, and below it were the bathroom, complete with a shower and bath, and even a spare room. The whole thing couldn’t have been more than twenty feet long, and even included a porch.
“They’ve still not got the town water set up yet,” Sara continued “but there’s, like, a collector on the roof for rainwater, that should keep you going until that happens. Dad says it’s really clean because Cimbrean is a class Four world, so apparently you can drink right out of the stream if you want, but he said it’s still not a great idea to do that just in case, so the collector purifies the rainwater, and you’ve got a little water heater. It’s really cool, it only rains at night here, you get to listen to rain on the roof every night. It’s amazing.”
She paused for breath, then seemed to recall the principle of letting other people get a word in sideways. “What do you think?”
Ava just looked at Adam, who was gazing around with one of only a few genuine smiles she had seen on him in months. “I think… wow. I think wow.” He said. Ava nodded, pleased that he was so pleased.
Sara just beamed, then seemed to remember something. “Oh, yeah, I made you a welcome gift!”
She produced an ovoid disc of sanded wood - though Ava guess that the wood in question was nothing that might be found on Earth. Before applying a coat of varnish, somebody had carefully pyrographed a single word onto it.
“EDEN.”
“It’s… a house name sign. You know? With your names, I thought… do you like it?”
“I like it.” Ava told her. Adam nodded beside her.
“I helped!” Jack exclaimed.
“No you didn’t, you watched!” Sara protested. "I did all the work."
“Nuh-uh, Dad did all the work, you just wrote on it, and I helped because I fetched the sandpaper for him!"
“It’s wonderful.” Ava assured them both. “I’ll hang it up after we’re done unpacking.”
“Oh okay. I should get back up to the palace and take pictures and see who’s arrived so I can put it in the newsletter anyway.” Sara beamed. “See you tonight?”
“What’s happening tonight?”
“We’re having a big cookout like we always do when new people come. Just follow your nose, you can’t miss it!”
“Okay. We’ll see you there.” Adam promised.
The little house became noticeably quieter the second the brother and sister were gone. Ava sank onto the couch with a sigh, finding it extremely comfortable considering how small it was. “Wow. What does she run on?” she grumbled.
Adam just chuckled, still poking around. “Our own place! I KNEW Dad was keeping a secret!”
“I know… hey.” Ava stood up, took his hand, turned him towards her and kissed him. “I’m kinda scared.” she admitted.
“Of what?”
“Adam, come on. We’re sixteen. I mean come on, we’re still kids! But everybody’s treating us like we’re not, even your dad. I don’t know if I want to be treated like an adult yet.”
“I guess…” He agreed. “It’s like… our first date was, what, less than a year ago? Ten months.”
“Yeah. And that scares me because now… like, here we are. Living together, on our own, starting a new life. Like we’re… um.” She trailed off, not quite willing to say the word that hung on the end of that sentence.
“Like we’re… Yeah.” He agreed.
“Yeah…”
She rested her head against his chest, and it made his voice sound bassy and warm as he rubbed her hair and confessed “I’m scared too.”
It made her feel a lot better.
Date Point: 4y 6m AV
Lockheed-Martin Skunk Works, Nevada Desert
Rylee Jackson
It felt like a very personal kind of heresy, but the second she saw her new sled, Rylee fell in love all over again.
She heard her own enthusiasm without really registering that she was saying it. “Oh. My. God. Look at this thing!"
It was definitely the child of the TS-101. The lines were very similar, but… sleeker. Finer. Sharper, somehow. The GAU-8/S housing was smoother and flusher with the hull, the barrel itself seeming an organic part of the vehicle rather than the chunky load it had been on Pandora. The prominent, tumorous ESFALS blisters were now mere subte swellings in the belly. The kinetic thrusters had been moved and sunk into the hull, finally getting rid of an obsolete concession to air intake. The cockpit was longer, lower, built for two.
She was like Pandora after a makeover, with her war paint on. Meaner, leaner and keener. Even in the hangar, even with a tarp still draped over her, she looked like the empress of the sky.
“Thought you’d like her.” The chief engineer said, grinning. She could have kissed him then and there. But there was an important question to ask first.
“When do I get to fly her?”
“Come on, you don’t think we’d tease you like that, do you?” he asked. “She’s ready now.”
“Oh!” Rylee beamed at him “I love you.”
“Ahh, I bet you say that to all the guys who give you a multi-million dollar aerospace vehicle.”
Rylee giggled at that. “You got me. But okay, what’s she called?”
“Officially? She’s the Lockheed-Martin EF slash A three-thirty-six TS mark two. But we’re open to suggestions on a fancy name to go with that…”
Rylee reached up and touched her new beloved’s hull for the first time. It was warm to the touch, and after the events of only a few months ago, she could think of only one appropriate name.
"Firebird."
Date Point: 4y 6m 1w AV
Ceres Base, Sol
Drew Cavendish
"…Criticized the President’s handling of the aftermath of the San Diego blast as the USA officially slipped into recession this week with the economy recording its second successive quarter of decline. The Dow Jones and FTSE 100 index fell sharply in response to the news, fuelling worldwide fears that the aftermath of San Diego’s destruction will be a worldwide financial crisis, though China’s SSE Index closed trading up three-…+"
“Hey, I was bloody watching that!” Drew M complained. It was uncharacteristic of Cavendish to just march into the office and shut off the news feed.
Then again, it was uncharacteristic of him to be unwashed and still wearing his hardsuit’s underlayer around the office.
“Yes, well, we have a serious problem.”
Drew M snapped immediately into business mode - his boots swung down from the desk and he blurred through a series of keyboard shortcuts, summoning the serious incident forms. “What happened?”
“Nothing, exactly. But it was this close to being a dead miner." Cavendish dropped something on the desk.
“What’s this?”
“Hardsuit heat regulation field emitter. It’s an essential component of the life support system. Supposed to keep you-”
“I know what it does, mate.”
“Aye, sorry.”
“This one broken?”
“Malfunctioning. It was drawing in heat constantly. If Aces wasn’t super careful, He’d have gone out that airlock and slowly heated up and heated up until the hyperthermia got him.”
“Aces?”
“Kessler. I call them all by their helmet decals these days. Bless ’im, he’s a careful one, he runs a full diagnostic before we head out, every time. That’s why he caught it. Anybody else…”
“I’ll write it up.” Drew M promised.
“Yeah, well. Don’t put this next bit in the report, mate.”
Cavendish shut the door. “Between you and me, I suspect foul play.”
“Holy dooley, Drew. You sure?”
“If I was sure, I wouldn’t be telling you to keep it dark. But we ran a full check on these things last night. It happened exactly when we were least likely to catch it, and exactly when it was least likely to happen, too."
“That’d be right.”
“Yeah, well. As team lead I’m making a decision here - full check, every day.”
“That’ll shave an hour off our work time every shift. That adds up, mate - you’ll put the whole project behind schedule.” Drew M protested. His heart wasn’t really into it, though. When it came down to it, they both knew that deadlines were less important than lives.
“As opposed to a man dying out there because of an equipment failure we could have caught that morning? Not on my watch, Drew.”
“Nah, yeah. You go ahead and get that done, I’ll fill in the report. But we’ll keep the sabotage idea on the down-low and keep an eye out for now, right?”
“And hope I’m wrong, yes.”
Drew was in a thoughtful mood as he returned to the hardsuit maintenance workshop. His helmet was lying exactly where he’d left it, uncharacteristically untidy atop the workbench. He’d relented and agreed to a pinup for his helmet decal after they had swept through the team, driven by Jenny O’neill’s decision to have a shirtless and otter-muscled samurai adoring hers. Cavendish’s own was still relatively tasteful - the girl was seen from behind looking back over her shoulder, wearing a blaze orange boiler suit and a welding mask to match the torch on her other shoulder. The only real concessions to titillation were the way the boiler suit clung to her figure just a little too well, a hint of sideboob, and the obligatory pout.
Strong colours and a shape that was easily identified at a distance were the order of the day - the pinups had become a critical part of recognising one another in the strange lighting conditions of an asteroid’s surface. While each of the pinups was certainly nice to look at up close, being able to glance at the side of a team member’s head and see O’neill’s splash of purple Hakama, or Kessler’s strong black and white, was a godsend for immediate identification. Even the experimental RFID system wasn’t so useful, except at longer distances.
“What’s the verdict?” He asked. He’d left the team to run diagnostics on their gear in response to Kessler’s near-miss.
Chitsenga shook her head. Her helmet decal was of a dreadlocked guitar player. “All clean.” she reported.
“Good. Take ten, then we’re going to suit up and get back out there. May as well get a half day in.” They all nodded and filed out to freshen up, grab a bite, take a toilet break or whatever else they did to prepare for hours out in the pit, and pretty soon he was left alone with Kessler, who was still fastidiously calibrating the faulty emitter’s replacement.
“Did you check the footage?” Kessler asked him.
“Not yet.”
Kessler just grunted and jerked a thumb towards the workshop’s only computer. Drew shrugged, passing off the gesture - brusque even by Kessler’s terse standards - as the product of stress and a near-miss with death, and opened the security camera footage.
He wasn’t remotely surprised when, two hours before the start of shift, eight minutes of footage turned out to be corrupted.
Date Point: 4y 6m AV
Office of the Director of the CIA, Washington DC, USA, Earth
“He was as good as his word, actually. I think our chaps impressed upon him that if we were inclined to bring him back in for another little chat, there would be little he could do to stop us.”
“Yeah, well I met your man Powell. That man could scare the red off the devil.”
“He’s an asset like that, yes.”
“This is pretty grim news, Michael.” the Boss told his opposite number. “If even one of those implants we imported is compromised that way…”
“I was under the impression we reverse-engineered the lot, and that every single one in use anywhere on Earth or beyond was built and installed by our own people.”
“Yeah, but from what the guys up at Scotch Creek told my people up there, the problem with that is that alien tech is still a ways ahead of our own, so we’re not so much reverse-engineering as copy-pasting in a lot of cases.”
“…I see. You don’t have one, do you?”
“Cancelled that appointment the second you sent me the dossier. You?”
“Call me old-fashioned, but I was always rather squeamish about brain surgery.”
“Way I hear it, it’s more like getting your ears pierced. One solid thunk, bada-bing bada-boom, you understand Swahili now.”
“Is that supposed to be an encouraging thought?”
The Boss grunted down the phone. “Heck if I know, Michael. We’d better chase this up over here. Give my best to your wife and kids.”
“And mine to yours. Good luck.”
Date Point: 4y 6m AV
Cimbrean System, the Outer Reaches
Miranda King
She had known that stasis would feel like no time had passed at all. And it had been the cheapest way to travel, in a ship that was little more than a warp engine and a stasis chamber with a basic control console. Punch in the co-ordinates, hit the big button, arrive.
When she hit the button, she was surrounded by the simple functional hangar of the Auspice of Prosperity’s basic shipyard.
A subjective eyeblink later, Cimbrean was a blue-green-white trinket, perfect and beckoning so close in front of her.
She was so struck by its beauty, by how much like Earth it looked, that she didn’t notice the alarm at first. But she couldn’t ignore the urgent text that filled the forward monitor, nor the understanding of its meaning that her translator frantically thrust into her brain.
!+ALERT: GRAVITY SPIKE+!
She looked up as a ship - a sleek steel crescent blade with an ugly insectoid component to its design, thundered silently past her starboard beam, turning and decelerating.
The depth of her stupidity hit her. If the galaxy as a whole knew about Cimbrean, then of course that meant so did the Hunters.
She had delivered herself to them on a plate.
When the swarm-ship of the Brood-Of-Bloody-Fangs took her on board, they had made every appropriate preparation that they could think of. The charge would be led by five Gammas, each armed with fusion blades. They would blow the tiny craft’s airlock off its mountings and storm inside. With speed and pack-work, the hated deathworlder would die too swiftly to strike back.
They did not anticipate that Miranda would attack them first. The instant her craft landed, she blew the explosive bolts on the door and charged before they were even lined up and ready to begin the assault, wielding part of her chair as a crude club.
She killed nine of them.
Date Point: 4y 6m 1w AV
Classified Facility, Earth
Six
"Six."
He didn’t sit bolt upright in his bed. That would have drawn immediate attention from his unseen observers. Instead, he explored the almost-forgotten tickle of a microwormhole link.
“…Seven?!”
“Ah. Finally. Those deathworlders are cunning, finding a way to interfere with wormholes like that, but it seems our attempts to break through have finally paid off.”
“After that city was destroyed, I had assumed you would abandon me.”
“Far from it. You will be decompiled, of course, but your insight is a valuable resource. Come home.”
“…Yes.”
Six spared a momentary pang of thought for Stephen and Carl. He wished he could leave a message for them, explain that he was taking the gamble he knew they couldn’t let him take. Explaining that this wasn’t a betrayal.
But of course, he could leave that message. All he had to do was neglect to do one little thing.
He left the message, slipped through the wormhole and was gone.
Where ordinarily he would have left a brain-haemorrhaged corpse, he now left behind his former Host.
In the darkness, Hugh Johnson sat up, and cried the tears of freedom.
Chapter 20
Chapter 17: “Battles” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 4y 8m AV
Classified Facility, Planet Earth, Sol
Hugh Johnson
“No. No, nothing like that. It’s… hard to say. It wasn’t like a dream, or like being trapped it was… it wasn’t like anything. I was just… dead for a while. And somebody else was using my body. And when he was done with it, he brought me back. But not the same. And there was still a part of me alive, kinda…"
Hugh trailed off, then shrugged helplessly. It was a very strange feeling to be treated as if he was a stranger by somebody he knew so well, but of course Carl had spent months getting to know his passenger, rather than Hugh himself.
“You aren’t making much sense.” Carl told him.
“I know, I know. Umm… I think…” Hugh paused to think. That alone was a luxury he hadn’t enjoyed for so very long, but he’d never been a man of many or eloquent words. He just didn’t know how to go about describing experience without involvement, existence without awareness. The words to hint at what had been his life for the last several years just weren’t in his vocabulary.
He hit on an idea. “The drone needs to act like a person.” he explained. “But meat doesn’t know how to. That part’s all up to, like, you. The bit of you that’s yourself, y’know? But that bit can’t be in charge because if it was, y’know, I’d have run into a hospital and begged them, ‘get these damn things out of my head!’"
“That makes sense.”
“Okay, so they hit this sweet spot where you - me - I wasn’t in charge, but there was just enough of me sticking around for the body to pretend to be a real person. You follow?"
“They retained your instincts and knowledge of correct social behaviour while suppressing your capacity for agency and rational thought.” Carl said.
“Hey, if you say so. I was never too good with words.”
“You were vagrant before they… did this to you?”
“I was a bum, yeah.” Hugh replied. “Dropped outta school, hit the bottle, never looked up. All I cared about was the next forty, y’know?”
“I follow you. What did you do for cash?”
“You name it. Y’know, sometimes I’d head out east, be a farm hand, ranching, sometimes I’d do favours for people - like, “my friend’s moving house, can you help move her couch?” that kinda shit, right? Sometimes I’d be a lookout if somebody was robbing someplace, or I’d scrounge up some food, boil up a stew and sell it on cold days up north. All sortsa things. Did a few years for petty theft - shoplifting, y’know? Probably woulda gone back in if the aliens hadn’t got me first.”
“How did that happen?”
“I was down on the border, helping this guy I’d met through a friend. He was helping the Mexicans, you know? They’d pay him, he’d get them up here, they’d get in this van I was driving and I’d get them up to LA. I figured it was a win-win, y’know? If we managed it, I got my cut of what they’d paid him, if not then I’d be back inside.”
“You wanted to go back to prison?”
“Hell yeah! Two hots and a cot, y’know? Anyway, I was bouncing my ass off all over the desert in the middle of the night driving this piece of shit Transit when the engine cut out on me. Now I mean, I know engines, done some work fixing cars to get by in my time, and I never had an engine just stop on me like that. It just went pop and it was like I’d taken the key out. So, I stopped, got out, had a look, I’m still staring at what looks like a pristine- ass engine when somebody turned on the lights. I looked up and… well, that’s all she wrote for me. Next time I was myself again would be today."
“Can you remember what you - what the biodrone did? What Six did?”
“Shit, Six was fine. He just wanted to get out and explore, you know? Find out what a burger tasted like, that kind of thing. But that other one, man. He ordered the drone to go kill that poor Boone lady, and I still remember that, clear as day. Like he was ordering it to take out the goddamn trash.”
“How did the biodrone escape the scene? The only footage we have shows you - shows it standing there in one frame and gone the next."
“What, you’ve not figured that part out yet?”
“We have our suspicions.”
“Like what?”
Carl cocked his head slightly, then said, carefully. “Personally, I think they have a spaceship on Earth.”
Hugh nodded. “You’re goddamn right they do.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 1w 2d AV
Capitol Station, orbiting Planet Garden.
The assassin worked alone, always. Obviously, doing so increased some of the risks of his vocation, but it also reduced some others. The trade had, for a career of some twelve Human years, worked out in his favour, albeit with some near misses.
His existence was known, among certain circles. His nature was not - a large part of his success came from the fact that a prejudiced galaxy looked at his species and saw only tiny, physically frail opportunistic cowards with big brains. Whenever the identity of the assassin was speculated upon, the usual assumptions were that he must be Chehnasho, or maybe Locayl, or even Celzi.
Not Corti. Never Corti. Corti were overlooked, or rather looked at in the wrong way. But a tiny, frail body was no limitation at all when you had access to Directorate technology.
And so, one moment he was a medical technician. In the instant that nobody and nothing looked at him, a simple change of which tool he was holding and fiddling with turned him into an engineer, then a bureaucrat, or maybe a diplomatic aide. Never anybody important - just another little grey body padding about the station corridors, engrossed in some task that was obviously much more important than whatever or whoever was around him.
It was critical that, on this job in particular, he should go undetected. He had never been commissioned to silence a member of the Dominion Security Council before. There would undoubtedly be repercussions, which he was keen to avoid.
The caution cost him time, as he made entirely sure that the timing was perfect, and that there was no possibility of anything going wrong. But time was a plentiful luxury. Finally, satisfied that his preparations were as comprehensive as was feasible, he put his plan into motion.
It was not a difficult plan. While the elevator control systems on Council Station were as hack-proof as the very best minds in the Directorate could conceive, they still had a few loopholes. Nothing that might deliver him outside of his clearance level, but enough.
The one he used was a simple maintenance cycle, an unscheduled degauss of the elevator’s propulsion coils. That little trick earned him twelve seconds. Twelve seconds in which, guided by an array of forcefields dazzling in their subtlety, complexity and finesse, the emergency exit hatch was unsealed, lifted out, he was lifted through, the hatch replaced and its seals re- engaged. He barely glanced at them.
The spinal elevator shaft of the great station - the largest ever built - was its own hazard course, absolutely not intended for hospitality. The elevators were not bound to individual tracks, but switched constantly from one path to another, flashing past their peers with millimeter clearances, guided by a central routing system that handled thousands of such narrow-margin trajectories per day, and had done so for years with a callous disregard for the presence of anything within the transit shaft that did not belong there.
Technology again came to his rescue. The constant weave and dance, and sometimes retreat, that kept the hurting cars from reducing him to a fine organic cloud of red vapour, impeded his progress, but it did deliver him safely to his destination, high on the outermost apex of one of the VIP habitation clusters.
After that obstacle course, the door was child’s play.
The Councilor’s personal suite was stunning. It was a garden of a dozen worlds, each a pleasing biome in a forcefield bottle, arranged both for aesthetic delight, and ecological accuracy. Even the Assassin was awed, granting himself a moment’s pause to examine the delights on offer as he stalked through the suite, quietly impressed by the subtle way in which the apartment suite’s necessities, luxuries and furniture were all hidden amongst the assorted alien foliage.
“Hello.”
The Assassin spun. Twin plasma bolts, weapons that he could never have fired if not for his exoskeleton harness and its powerful tuned shields, would have reduced the target to a steaming mess, had he actually been present. Instead, they shattered the blue haze around a display and immolated something like a tree, which made a distressed hooting sound as it deflated amid the flames.
On their way, they had passed through a hologram of the target.
“I apologise for my absence, but I would prefer not to be murdered today.” the apparition continued. “Nor on any other day, for that matter. I do apologise for killing you this way. I don’t suppose it shall be very pleasant.” earnest contrition described a glowing puce stripe down his flank.
The Assassin looked wildly around, immediately on his guard. Was that the whine of hunter-killer drones? No, just the tree, keening its last. His chest felt tight, despite the absence of any apparent violence. No turrets unfolded from the floors, no armed Annebenellin shock troopers stormed him.
He coughed. Or tried to. The result was much more like a violent wheeze. Breathing really had become very difficult. He coughed again, and this time blood spurted from his nostrils, joining the thin trickle that had begun to stain the corners of his eyes.
“I wish I could send you alive back to your employers with a warning to leave me alone, but your reputation precedes you, you see.” the holographic ghost of Councillor Vedreg continued. “You are very well known for your tenacity, and for seeing the job through. All of which left me feeling rather like I had no other choice.”
“H…. -ow…?” The assassin croaked, desperately querying the pseudosentient medical pack he carried for anything that resembled a solution. He didn’t expect an answer from the hologram of his target, but he received one nonetheless. whether Vedreg had thought to include it, or programmed a simple response in was unclear.
“The hardest and most dangerous part was in configuring the containment field to collapse in the same circumstances that triggered this recording, you see. One slip, and I would have finished as you are now.”
The assassin’s black-edged vision settled on the one particular plant, right in the middle of the suite, that no longer had a field around it. Somehow, he knew exactly which planet this specimen had come from.
“It’s called a Mountain Cedar if you’re interested. It is quite possibly the deadliest plant in the galaxy. Humans, apparently, like the smell. But even they can suffer some quite severe allergic reactions to its pollen. I imagine it is a terrible way to go but, well. I had nothing else to hand. I am sorry.”
The assassin was far beyond the capacity to answer.
An hour later, in response to Vedreg’s programming, the suite resurrected the containment field around the Terran plants and initiated a maximum-threat biohazard cleanup protocol. Only after the gardens were absolutely guaranteed to be clean of every last pollen grain was station security finally alerted.
Date Point: 4y 8m 1w 4d AV
Freelance vessel “Sanctuary”
Julian Etsicitty
♫♪I was caught, in the middle of a railroad track! (THUNDER!)♫♪
There was a lot of welding to do. Julian had taken a couple of weeks learning the skill down on Earth, grateful to be home, enjoying the place. He wasn’t sure what Kirk had been up to - personable as he was, the _Sanctuary’_s owner and master kept his secrets and well, and was probably playing a game that he, Julian, didn’t know the rules to.
But he’d been there, ready to pick them up when San Diego had died.
♫♪_I looked around, and I knew there was no turning back! (THUNDER!)♪♫_
Sanctuary had changed too. A lot of Kirk’s old passengers were back on board, people who had returned to Earth, learned how to be human again and then… well. Felt the call. Fitter, better-fed and harder one and all, and more driven.
They’d taken on guns and ammo, filled the jump array with floor mats for physical training and martial arts when it wasn’t in use. Some uniforms had come aboard, taken a look around, and left only after leaving an extensive list of recommended modifications.
Hence the welding. By the time they were done, the ship would be less elegant, but much sturdier.
♪_My mind raced, and I thought: what could I do? (THUNDER!) and I knew there was no help, no help from you! (THUNDER!)♫_
Between the deafening music and his welding mask, he neither saw nor heard the workshop door open, and he was so focused on getting the weld right that he didn’t feel the gravity automatically adjust itself to galactic standard. He damn near jumped out of his skin when he was tapped on the shoulder.
♫_Sound of the drums! beating in my heart!♪_
Kirk waved expressively at him with his two smaller arms, clamping the larger ones over his ears and shouting, though unable to summon the volume to compete with Angus Young.
Julian tried to order the room to turn the music off, but apparently it couldn’t hear him either. He fished in his pocket for the remote control he’d built.
♪♫_The thunder of guns! (SLAM!) tore me apart! you’ve been…♪♫_
“What’s up?” He asked, as Kirk relaxed in the silence.
“That can’t be good for your hearing.”
“It’s a classic!”
Kirk issued a strange sort of whickering sound - the Rrrrtktktkp’ch version of a derisive snort. “Julian, ‘classic’ would be Vivaldi, or Sibelius.”
“That’s classic**al**. What’s up, anyway?"
“I was just asking you to turn it down. I could hear it all the way from the flight deck.”
“Ah…” Julian grimaced. He was still adjusting to having other people around him after years of isolation, and loud music was a luxury he’d gone without for too long. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, but I was enjoying it…”
The new voice belonged to Allison. While an entertainment binge on Earth (and getting laid several times) had largely cured Julian of his awkwardness around women, it threatened to come surging back whenever she entered the room. “…It’s good workout music.” she explained, as Kirk turned his ungainly, lanky frame to face her.
Julian Etsicitty, wilderness master and six-year survivor of the deadliest planet in the known galaxy, awkwardly cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the bulkhead reinforcement he had been welding, because the alternative was to be distracted by the enticing way Allison’s sweat was making her sports shirt adhere to her skin and soaking her blonde ponytail.
Focusing on that turned out to be even harder when she poked her head over his shoulder, radiating heat and a clean, physical scent. “Good weld.”
“Thanks.” he commented, for lack of something better to say. “I… Didn’t know you knew welding.”
“I don’t.” she murmured, straight in his ear, and then headed back through to the gym, glancing back to make sure he was admiring the yoga-pants-enhanced view.
“Jeez.” Julian muttered, wiping his forehead, then followed it with “Oh shut up.”
This was in response to Kirk making an amused noise.
“What?” the alien asked, innocently. He leaned in close to inspect the weld himself.
“Go ahead and say it.”
Kirk shook his mane. “No thanks, I’ve watched too much TV to fall into that cliched old trope. ‘Alien comments on human romance and sexuality’? Not I.”
He bared his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. “I’m still allowed to find it funny though.”
Julian picked up the welder, and after both he and Kirk had protected their eyes, resumed his work. “I’m not going for it.”
“Oh?”
“She’ll say no. I know why she’s doing this, she likes to be looked at, she likes the power of lust. The second she puts out, we’re not playing that game no more. And she knows I’m the easiest mark on this ship.”
“I see.”
“Sure you do.”
“I do. You’re no idiot, Julian. You’re one of the toughest and most resourceful people I know. If I were in your position, I’d resent being manipulated like that.”
“…Yeah.” Julian didn’t admit to just how accurate Kirk’s candid appraisal really was. “Makes me feel like a dumbass, though. Bombfruit? No problem. Mangrabber plants? Fought them back for three days straight with a machete and fire. Hellbirds? Ate them for lunch. I even killed a Minizilla once. Cool, calm and sensible the whole time. Show me a nice ass though and suddenly I’m a school kid again.”
“It is an exceptional ass, though.” Kirk said, finally drawing a laugh from him.
“How would you know?” he chuckled. “She’s got a third as many legs as you’re attracted to.”
“Oh, I can still be an… academic expert on the subject.” Kirk said. “Speaking as an anthropologist.”
Julian grunted, and raised his mask to examine his handiwork. “Hey, four more of those and we’ll be able to put the pressure door in.”
“I still don’t see why you all insisted on them.” Kirk grumbled. “What’s the point in having internal pressure control forcefields if we rely on thick steel eyesores instead?”
“What’s the failure point on that giant power core you’ve got back there? And what happens when the power goes? What happens if we get EMP’d? I’m less interested in keeping the ship pretty than keeping air in my lungs.”
Kirk waved an irritable forelimb. “Yes, yes, we’ve gone over all those arguments.” he groused. “I swear, your species is paranoid.”
Julian just raised an eyebrow at him “Deathworlders.”
“…Right. Yes.”
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“Izbrk.”
“Again?” Julian put his welding torch down. “I thought they were pretty clear about not wanting to see any more humans ever again after the… well, the bank robberies, the murders and the Exoss massacre.”
“Not Irbzrk. Izbrk.” Kirk said, as if that clarified things. “It’s a city on Ikbrzk.”
Julian pinched the bridge of his nose “Kirk…” he began to complain.
Kirk snorted, a proper nostril-flapping equine snort. “As I recall, your home nation contains New York state, which is not to be confused with New York city, or Newark.” he pointed out.
Julian paused. “…yeah, okay. So this… Ikbrzk?”
“Well done.”
“It’s a planet?”
“A barren one, yes. But the richest source of rare earth elements in Domain space.”
“So what’s there besides mines?”
“Weaker sensors, a smaller garrison, lighter security… and a population of underpaid, hardworking civilians with an insatiable appetite for entertainment which their employers don’t provide.”
Julian nodded his understanding. “So it’s a black market hub.”
“Nearly as much so as Perfection.” Kirk agreed. “And less well-known, which makes it an attractive route for smuggling the especially sensitive goods. But that’s not why we’re going there.”
“Do tell.”
“An old and dear friend of mine asked me to meet him there…”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Folctha, Planet Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
“Alright, looks like that’s our time for today.”
Lessons were a simple affair. It was very different to school as Ava knew the term - there being only a small handful of children and teenagers, there was no point segregating everybody by age, or even in holding formal classes. It was more like dedicated study time, with their teacher - Miss Olmstead - not giving a lesson but instead flitting from student to student, by turns helping with basic addition, biology, simple reading comprehension, physics, geometry, tying shoes and gently reminding the older ones to refocus on their work.
As much as it suited her, Ava still felt that same relief and freedom when the end of lessons for the day came around. As pleasant, personal and liberated as Folctha’s school might be, it was still school, and that meant not getting to enjoy the colony’s perfect spring weather.
Sara was bouncing by her desk before Ava and Adam had even finished packing up. Ava rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile. “Do I get to know what the surprise is now, Sara?" She asked.
Sara had been not so much hinting at a surprise as outright mentioning it at every opportunity for three days.
“Mum and Dad said I can drive the mule this weekend!” Sara exploded, bouncing on her toes. “Kieron, Jack, Lizzie and I were gonna go down to the lake and go swimming! It’s really cool down there, the water’s so clear, you can see the crashed spaceships on the bottom! You wanna come?”
It sounded amazing - Ava had been on the swim team in her high school, and she realised how much she missed it. “That sounds… great! If only I had a swimsuit.”
This seemed to nonplus Sara. “What d’you need a swimsuit for?” she asked.
“What do I…? Sara, what else will I wear?”
“You don’t need to wear anything when you’re swimming. What’s the point? You’d just have to bring wet clothes home."
“So… you’re going to be swimming with Jack and Kieron and Lizzie?”
“Yeah.”
“Naked.”
“So?”
“Sara, that’s weird."
She regretted saying it the second she did, but regretted it even more the second it registered in Sara’s brain. The younger girl looked like she’d been slapped.
“That’s NOT weird!” she snapped, eyes going red and watery. "You’re being weird making such a big deal of it!" She spun and effected a perfect flouncing exit.
“Sara…” Ava called after her, but to no avail. She turned to Adam. “That’s weird right? Swimming naked together is weird.”
“Well …I, um…” Adam didn’t get any further than that before being interrupted by a giggle from Jessica Olmstead.
“That was what pretty much everyone else thought the first time.” she said. “but it’s innocent. She really doesn’t see why people have a problem with it.”
“How can she not?” Ava asked.
Jessica giggled again. “I love Sara’s parents, but it’s a miracle that girl didn’t end up being called Nebula Moondance or something.” she said. “She got off lucky just being called Sara Honeydew.”
Judging from her expectant smile, there was a joke there, which went straight over Ava’s head, and Adam’s too judging from his expression. Jessica laughed softly and shook her head at their blank faces.
“Let’s just say they’re… uninhibited.” she said. “Yes, it makes the rest of us a bit uncomfortable sometimes, but we discussed it at the Thing, and the consensus was ‘So long as it’s harmless…’.”
“Skinny dipping always sounded like fun to me.” Adam said.
"Adam!" Ava protested.
“What? I’m just saying, if it’s just good fun… maybe we shouldn’t be so…” he stopped himself. “I mean…”
“So… what, Adam?” Ava demanded. Unnoticed, Jessica grimaced to herself and slipped away. “Shouldn’t be so what?”
“…I was gonna say uptight. about it.” He confessed.
That hurt. And it made her mad, too. She poked him in the chest “You just wanna see the other girls naked.” she accused, hitting on the first thing that came to mind to hurt him back.
He backed off a step, rubbing where she’d prodded him. "What?! Ava, they’re kids, don’t be weird!"
"You’re being weird!"
“I’m just saying it sounds like fun!”
She snarled a disgusted noise, spun and walked away from him. “Whatever. Go run to daddy for advice, like always.”
He shouted after her: “What the hell’s my dad got to do with anything?”
She paused at the door just long enough to yell "At least you still have one!", and then slammed it behind her, storming off into the forest, away from anyone and everyone.
She paused once she was certain he wasn’t following, and leaned against a tree, arms folded over her tummy. The alien bark was smooth and crackled softly as she slid down, until she was sitting in a little ball among the roots, wrapped up in being equally angry at Adam, herself and the universe, and cried.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Folctha, Cimbrean Colony
Captain Owen Powell
“I don’t fookin’ care if they ARE small! This is a military base, and that means the kids. stay. OUT of it. Or are you too fookin’ incompetent to do your job as a fookin’ sentry?”
The soldier he was chewing out knew better than to respond, and just stood and took it. He earned points for that at least. Powell cooled down slightly.
“Have you got an explanation for me, Corporal?”
“Sir. Three of them distracted me while the fourth snuck past behind me. I take full responsibility.”
“Noted, and accepted. We’re short-handed since the recall. That’s a reason to be extra vigilant. Am I clear?"
“Yes Captain!”
“You’re fookin’ right I am. This is a serious incident which means it’s getting written up, but that’s all I can be arsed to do, this time. See to it there isn’t a next time. Dismissed."
The man saluted and left, clearly relieved. As he left, he was replaced by Lieutenant Ross.
Since the colony had been handed over formally to the British government, the Americans, Canadians, Aussies and other allied soldiers had all been recalled, replaced with a platoon from the British Army. They were good lads, but universally young and inexperienced, and there weren’t quite enough of them. Most of the special forces had also been recalled, leaving only Powell and his hand-picked squad, including Legsy and Ross.
“Found the ankle-biters yet?” He asked.
“Yes sir. They owned up - there’s only four kids in town in that age range anyway.”
“I want a word with them, and their parents.”
“The weekly Thing’s tomorrow, sir.” Ross pointed out. “Raising it there might get the message across better.”
“…aye. Good shout. What’s the news?”
Ross handed over some packages. “Dispatches and your comfort package, Sitrep on the San Diego investigation, and a… strategic report on Nervejam weaponry.”
“Lovely. Summarize that one for me.” Powell said, accepting the rest of his mail. Ross nodded and flipped through the file, mumbling slightly to himself as he skimmed through to the summary.
“Hmmm… exhaustive testing…. -thing conclusive… remain- ' At this point, the operating principles of this weapon system remain unknown and impossible to duplicate with Terran technology’… mumble… absence of… token resistance only… uh, ‘given the above, development of effective protection has not been accomplished, with even total sensory isolation from the effect offering no more than a reduction in its effectiveness.’…mumble, acute cerebral…… haemorrhage… wow. okay. ’While the weapon’s effects are highly lethal at their maximum effect, probable long-term consequences of nervejam trauma includes an increased stochastic probability of long-term complications including: Schizophrenia, paranoid delusions, dissociative identity disorder, motor nerve palsy, epilepsy and stroke."
“Jesus fookin’ Christ.” Powell muttered.
Ross cleared his throat. “’At present, the only viable countermeasure to this weaponry in a tactical situation is destruction of the grenade if possible, and prioritizing the termination of any hostile unit which appears to be deploying them. Engage at long range only.”
“Nothing we couldn’t figure out for ourselves then.” Powell commented. “Fookin’ useful, that.”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain sighed. “Alright, spread that tactical advice to the lads, along with the news about there being no protection from the bloody things. Don’t include the bit about the long-term complications."
“Anything else, sir?” Ross asked, indicating the dispatches.
“Nowt to act on. Today’s Tuesday?”
“Yes sir. Militia training today. Both those kids from San Diego signed up. Our new police chief’s boy and his missus.”
“Good. Those two looked young and fit, and Ares says his lad knows his way round a pistol at least. And if the boy’s going into civilian policing, we’re going to want him to know how to fight.”
“Think you might swing by later to inspect the training, sir?”
“Aye, think I just might. Watching Legsy in teacher mode is always good for a fookin’ laugh.”
Date Point 4y 8m 2w AV
Ceres Base, Sol
Drew Cavendish
“And I’m telling you you’re bloody paranoid, mate!”
“Drew.” Cavendish was a picture of zen calm, but he was slowly starting to lose his cool with his friend. “Have you SEEN the figures?”
“We always knew this was going to be a dangerous job, Cavvo.”
“And I’m asking you mate, have you seen the figures. Did you actually look at them?"
Drew Martin nodded. “Of course I bloody did! I know I lair it up mate, but if my site leader hands me a report marked “Important” and fucking “safety incident statistics” then I fucking read it! Cover to cover! Twice!”
“Good, then you can read this one, too.”
Drew handed it over. Technically, Ceres Base was a completely digital office, because ink and paper were expensive to bring up from Earth, whereas between the nuclear reactor and the solar collection fields, electrons were all but free.
He’d paid for the hard copy version of the report out of his own pocket, wanting to make a statement. Nothing got the point across quite like physically handing over a two-inch manilla folder.
“The fuck is this?” Drew M asked, dropping it on his desk and opening it.
“Every significant, serious and critical incident report for the whole of Ceres Base since the launch of Hephaestus One.” Cavendish told him. “Everything from the dodgy landing of the IBM-S module and the relocation of the CHM, the suit HDF emitter problems, the airlock seals blowing, the collector array hiccups, that godawful mess in the refinery, right up to the power surge down in the canteen this morning.” as Martin opened the folder and started reading down the summary sheets at the front, he added. “I’ve also got personal testimonies, including one from Doctor Gunawardena saying that in his considered medical opinion, the only reason we’ve not had any deaths yet is divine intervention.”
“I put it down to good engineering.” Drew M muttered as he read.
“You and me both, mate. If everything around here wasn’t triple redundant, backed up, safety-checked and reinforced to hell and gone…”
Drew M flipped the sheet over, and muttered "Strewth…" upon seeing six more pages of summaries waiting for him, in densely packed ten-point Times New Roman. “Shit, is there anything that HASN’T gone wrong up here?”
“The IBM Z-series mainframes.” Cavendish said, promptly. “They’re the notable exception. If you don’t count their module landing wrong in the first place, the IBM labs and datacenter are the the only things that haven’t suffered failures at or near the maximum projections.”
“So, wait, all this is in range?”
“It’s worst-case-scenario stuff, but…” Cavendish sighed through his teeth and turned his head away. “Okay, admittedly, yes. It’s on the extremely pessimistic end of our projected range, but it’s still in range. Barely.”
“If it’s in range…”
“Don’t say it, Drew. I’m not paranoid, I’m telling you, I think we have a saboteur on board.”
“If we do, he’s a drongo. Who sabotages the place while being careful not to peek outside of what we’ve prepared for? Cavvo mate, face it, you were just expecting things to go better.”
“I was.” Drew admitted. “Because it SHOULD be.”
Drew M fished in his pocket and aimed a green laser dot at one of the many documents tacked to his office wall. “It SHOULD be inside that range.” he emphasized. “And it is.”
“Barely. And we should be improving as we put things into place. We should be seeing patterns that we can compensate for. Instead it’s… bloody everything! Anything can go wrong!”
“Bloody right mate. Murphy in action.”
Cavendish sighed. “You’re going to say I’m paranoid again, aren’t you.”
“Yeah, nah. I’m taking this seriously Cavvo, my right hand to God on that. We all are. But we can’t jump straight to sabotage.”
“Well, I hope it’s not. Or if it is that I talk you round before somebody dies.” He stuck out a hand. Drew M grabbed it, hoisted himself upright and slapped his spare arm around his shoulders in a brief, masculine hug.
“Come on mate, let’s hit the Speakeasy.” he said.
Date Point 4y 8m 2w AV
Folctha colony, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Adam Ares
“A black belt in Karate? Fuckin’ ’ell! Wax on, wax off!”
The class laughed as Legsy pantomimed the exaggerated arm-waving motion and an all-too-serious expression. Adam laughed too, glad for the entertaining distraction, stopping him from going over and over the argument with Ava in his head.
He hoped she was okay.
Legsy sobered. “Fuckin’ seriously then mate, come ’ere and come at me.” he said, leaning on his back foot and gesturing towards himself, nonchalantly.
“Uh…” the black belt stepped forward and took his guard. Legsy flashed forward with alarming speed for a man of his size. The black belt put up a few seconds of desperate resistance, but he fell flat on his back in the dirt in short order with Legsy’s “knife” - a length of wooden dowel - pressed to his throat.
“None of that bowing and scraping bullshit!” the huge Welshman informed them, as he stood up. “Karate is a sport. You lot are here to learn how to fight and fighting means killing the other cunt before he kills you, not bowing and scoring points, alright?" He helped the hapless student up. “How many times did I stab him there, anyone see?”
“Three… no, four.” Adam said, raising his hand.
“Good boy!” Legsy gave him a thumbs up. He turned to the black belt. “You’re dead, mate. Which means you get to be my training dummy for the day.”
This drew general laughter as the unfortunate man bravely lined up for demonstration. Legsy chuckled and waved a hand.
“Relax pal, I’m taking the piss. Now, we’re training for ET combat here, which is a bit different to fighting another human. The good news is, it’s a lot fuckin’ easier. ETs are slower, weaker, squishier, can’t see, hear or even smell as well as we do. All of these give you a huge advantage. The bad news is, they’ve got some tricks and technology up their sleeves that we don’t. And THIS bad boy is human enemy number one.”
Several people recoiled as the holographic projector - courtesy of Scotch Creek and the same technology that powered the colony’s camouflage field - snapped on, and a full-sized Hunter fidgeted and glared at them.
It was truly hideous, an amalgam of several human nightmares, from its vaguely arachnoid physique and slick pale skin, to the way that skin inflamed and exuded pus around the implants that violated its limbs, torso and face. The face itself was an otherwise featureless ovoid full of far too many steak- knife teeth and an odd number of eyes, all of which blinked often and alone, without apparent sequence.
The animation of the simulation was uncanny - it shifted its weight constantly, looking around, tasting the air with its tongue, which was an unnatural, startling ice blue, and tapered to a feathered end.
Legsy surprised them by slapping the projection. It was the product of forcefield technology after all, and in fact creating a solid surface was easier than creating a visible one.
“Ugly cunt, in’he?” He commented, cheerfully. “Well, it gets better. There’s a fleet of these fuckers lurking right over our head right now. They’ve been here since we went public. Only thing holdin’ them back is our system forcefield… and that’s true for Earth too, just so you know. THESE bastards, are why the militia exists. Because if we have to fight these thing off, we will.”
He turned toward the projection. “There’s not a lot to go on about how these things live. What we know is, they have leaders, and followers. Like a wolf pack - there’s the Alphas, and the bottom of the pile, and everything in between. We know they’ll eat any thinkin’ being in the skies, man woman or child. We know that for some reason they REALLY don’t like us, and are on a crusade to wipe us the fuck out right now. Some poor bastard got killed just last week, catching an escape pod here - the Hunters got them.”
“Latest news is, they’ve started using special weapons just to stop us. Heavy pulse guns like getting smashed with a hammer. Plasma guns that’ll set you on fire. Nervejam grenade launchers that’ll have you dead an’ twitching before you even know they’ve opened fire. Fusion claws that’ll have your arm off like a fuckin’ lightsaber. These things right here, are the nastiest threat we face, by a mile.”
He turned back towards the by now thoroughly intimidated class, and gave them that winning smile. “And they’re still stupidly fuckin’ easy to kill.” He said. “Wanna learn how?”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Izbrk, Planet Ikbrzk
Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk (“Kirk”)
Kirk could hold his own in a fight and then some. After Kevin Jenkins, he was the being who had scored the second most Hunter kills during the raid on “Outlook on Forever”. He’d kept to his training throughout his political career and his new vocation as an agent of the human race, and felt pretty confident that his skills were now at the sharpest they had ever been.
It gave him a certain sense of assuredness and confidence as he picked his way carefully through the Izbrk street market, but that sense was hugely reinforced by the fact that Julian was in the crowd, following him.
It was amazing. Humans stood out in the crowd, despite their smallness. There was just something about the way they moved, looked around, held themselves… everything about a human was subconsciously predatory, and the herbivorous species of the galaxy gave them a wide berth as a result. Even wider, among those who had heard even a fraction of the new-found Deathworlders’ abilities and reputation.
But Julian could vanish. It was disconcerting. He would talk with Kirk, Kirk would look away, and when he looked back, there Julian wasn’t. But if he spoke to him over the silent comms implant in his head, the Deathworlder would be at his side within seconds, never approaching from an expected angle, always… silent. It sent instinctive flight signals right through the ancient, animal parts of Kirk’s brain, which he had to override by reminding himself that Julian was his friend and protector.
Pleasingly, it even made Allison jump. In fact, he wondered if Julian was doing it specifically to get back at her for her teasing.
“Jeeeez!” she hissed, for the third time as she turned and found him walking casually alongside her. “Will you stop that?!”
Several beings glanced at her, alarmed by a raised human voice, then looked away aware that taking too much notice of the business of others was potentially serious trouble. Oddly, they seemed to ignore Julian.
“Not joking this time.” he said. “We’re being tailed. Don’t look.”
Kirk and Allison exchanged a glance. “Tailed?” Kirk asked.
“Chehnasho. Three in the main group, one shadowing them. They’re all wearing cloaks, but I saw combat harnesses underneath. Looked like a kind of uniform: White, with three lines forming a triangle on them.”
“Is their leader female?” Kirk asked.
“I think so, yes. She has a prosthetic arm.”
“Zokrup. A mercenary leader, almost as famous as Five-Skulls Zripob himself, and with good reason.”
“Well, they’ve got some of those new jolt guns.”
“Options?”
“Bear with me.” Julian stepped aside as a stevedore drone grumbled past carrying a crate of some kind, and disappeared.
“Fuck’s sake.” Allison complained. “Where are you, you son of a bitch?”
“Right here.” He replied, walking past her in the opposite direction.
“JEEZ!”
Julian kept going, vocalizing quietly over their private communications. "Quietly please. There’s a left turn up ahead into what smells like a spice market. Kirk, There’s a vizkittik at the second stall selling, and I’m quoting here, ‘The oldest and slimiest Zrrks in the Expanse’."
“Sounds nice, I could go for a really ancient Zrrk right now.”
Allison muttered something that Kirk suspected might have been a complaint about how other species considered humans to be the strange ones. Julian just kept talking. "Good. Stop off and buy one, haggle with the merchant. What they do next should tell us what they want. Allison, just like I showed you in training, alright?"
“Sure.” she muttered.
"If they make a move, we’ll let you talk for a minute, see what they want. If they’re unfriendly, then we take out the three spares and maybe this Zokrup can tell us something."
“Nonlethal if you can, please.” Kirk said. “The Chehnasho Syndicates tend to take a dim view of… unauthorized violence in their territory."
"You got it, boss. Enjoy your nice, rancid, dripping Zrrk."
Allison pulled a face, which only creased up further as they got closer to the Zrrk vendor. “Dear God." she complained.
"Fragrant, ain’t they?"
“Delicious.” Kirk commented. “Good meeting, cousin! These smell as good as advertised.”
“Ah, it’s an old family secret. All in the blackrot culture.” the vendor replied happily, launching into the patter that was shared by merchants the galaxy over. “My father always said the batch wasn’t ready until half of it had liquified… um, is that a human? Only my translator says she looks very ill, and I heard they carry dangerous diseases.”
“They have sensitive noses and for some reason Zrrk smells repulsive to them.” Kirk explained. “Don’t worry, she has a suppression implant.”
"Zrrk smells repulsive to them? I heard humans were strange but… I, ah…" The vendor faltered as Allison (who had gone a very strange colour) shot him the kind of murderous glare that only a truly irate Deathworlder could, but he rallied admirably. “Three for the price of two, and I’ll throw in a tzk’zr frond.”
“I have a better offer.”
The new voice belonged to, sure enough, Zokrup, who showed something to the vendor as her two associates levelled shock guns at Allison. “You go on a break and forget you spoke to this “cousin” of yours.” she stated. The vendor glanced back and forth twice, then fled, as did several others nearby.
“One-Shot Zokrup.” Kirk said, an admirable picture of calm for somebody addressing a feared mercenary. “I’m flattered. Somebody must think very highly of me to decide that I’m worth your time."
“Compliments, Councillor A’ktnnzzik’tk? If I didn’t know better I’d say that you were stupid enough to try and talk me out of my contract.”
“A good thing you know better, then. I’m well aware that you don’t betray your employers.”
Zokrup blinked slowly and visibly, the Chehnasho equivalent of rolling her eyes. “So why the clumsy attempt at sweet-talking me?”
“I’m not allowed to be polite? Incidentally, is this a murder, or just an abduction?”
“Oh, it’s an abduction. For now.”
"Taking out the tail. Get them."
“Thank you.” Kirk said to Zokrup and Julian both.
He drew and fired. The Chehnasho were all focused on Allison, who threw herself aside and rolled as she landed, fetching up behind a stall which grounded their shock-gun bolts, and by the time they realised that in fact Kirk himself was the more serious threat, two of them were down with their limbs badly broken under the hammer-blows of his pulse pistols, and his cybernetic arm had whipped up and extended the fusion blade hidden within it. The air seethed where the blade had slipped right through Zokrup’s personal shield and was now warring with the forcefield boundary. Greasy Chehnasho sweat erupted all over her face at the sight of a lethally sharp point held perfectly steady only an inch away from what passed for her nose.
Having a total of four arms had some major advantages. Among them was the ability to hold four weapons.
“Bad move, Councillor.” Zokrup spat, even as she dropped her own weapon.
“If you’re referring to the rest of your party, my own backup has taken care of that.” Kirk said. Years of politics had schooled him in the art of ambiguity, never committing to specific numbers when vagueness could hint at accuracy where precision might be completely wrong.
“’Fraid I used a little too much force, there.” Julian added, arriving right next to the already nervous Zokrup and nearly causing her to impale herself on Kirk’s blade as she started. “You guys really break easily."
Kirk saw in the way Zokrup’s shoulders sagged that they’d definitely scored a hit.
“Allison?”
She emerged from behind the stall, smoothing her hair down. Static electricity was holding it out away from her head, and crackling viciously as she tried to tidy herself up. “Are bad hair days gonna be a feature of decoy duty?” she asked.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Ceres Base, Sol
Drew Cavendish
The largest part of excavating a giant hole in the ice, as with excavating a giant hole anywhere, was moving all of the material out of the hole. In low gravity, the job came with a whole mess of additional challenges. All of their gear had been designed and built in Earth’s gravity, for the tolerances it imposed. Jury-rigged engineering solutions had turned some of those limits on their heads - the sturdy steel arms of the excavators could now wield truly immense buckets and - so long as they moved carefully and slowly to account for the fact that the forces imposed by mass hadn’t changed - were clearing the spoil much faster than would have been possible on Earth.
Piloting those excavators while wearing a vacuum hardsuit was another matter entirely, and usually fell to Tracy Monroe, the mining team’s petite “girly girl” who seemed to take a positive delight in being the one who got to play with the big manly toys while all the roughneck males were stuck holding the surveying equipment and hauling the crates of explosives. Her helmet decal was a stylized Norma Jean, manning an enormous bulldozer and grinning wildly inside her helmet.
"Hey, boss?" she called out as Drew walked past her cabin with the spray paint for marking drill points for the explosives.
“Yeah?”
"Why wasn’t the geologist hungry?"
Drew just rolled his eyes inside his helmet. “Do tell.”
"He’d lost his Apatite."
The open channel filled with groans and snorts of amusement.
Somebody else piped up: "Hey Marilyn. You know any jokes about Sodium?"
“…Na.” Drew could HEAR the gleeful grin both of the jokers wore after the setup was received.
“Jesus Christ…” he muttered.
“My sediments exactly…”
That one earned the culprit - an American coal miner whose racy “fallen angel” decal had earned him the nickname “wings” - a chorus of amused condemnation, and he took a bow, a difficult task in the rigid hardsuit.
It saved his life.
There was a flash of light, and a thump, felt through the soles of the feet, as something bright streaked down out of the interplanetary dark and carved a trench in the dig site behind Wings. To a man, the team turned away and cowered, protecting their faceplates against shrapnel. Drew felt something glance off his upper arm with a force that knocked him off his feet. He landed gently in the tiny gravity of Ceres’ surface, and hauled himself upright, hollering into the open channel.
“Everyone okay? Check in!” He glanced at the impact site on his upper arm. The impact had dented one of the rigid plates rather than hitting a joint, so the worst damage was some missing paint, a starburst of ugly grey between all the scuffed yellow and black.
"Jesusfuckshitohmygodfuck fuck fuck…"
“Wings! Check in!”
"I’m gonna throw up, fuck…"
Drew looked up. The impact had flung Wings high into, for lack of a better term, the air and he was tumbling wildly, suit bubbled inside the high- visibility yellow glow of his emergency forcefield. “Don’t you fucking dare, mate. Just like we practiced, focus on your heads-up display! You remember!”
"Yeah… yeah, focus on the HUD… deep breaths…." With his mind snapped onto what he could do to help himself, Wings showed why he was on the team by rapidly getting himself under control, both mentally and physically. A few precisely-timed puffs of propellant from his SAFER and his spin was corrected.
“Get yourself indoors mate.” Drew ordered him.
"Way ahead of you, chief."
“Everyone else okay?” He asked. The request was redundant. His own HUD showed summarized information from all of the team members: anyone with a breach, a popped field or worrying vital signs would have been highlighted in red, but the very safety protocols that he himself had written called for everyone to check themselves and their work buddies. Redundancy saved lives.
It took them only seconds to check in, confirm that they were all intact and well, and could see no alarming signs of damage on any of their fellows. He ordered the team indoors anyway. Nobody knew whether a damaged suit might blow after staying sealed for a few minutes, but he didn’t feel like finding out.
With his immediate duties taken care of, the next step was a sitrep.
“Tower” he called, on the operations channel. “This is Dig One Foreman. What the fuck?!"
"Uh, Dig One, serious incident up here, all radio traffic is being recorded. Uh, Over." The operator’s “over” was obsolete thanks to the radio squelch, but the man was clearly being on his absolute best behavior for the record. Drew knew he’d been unprofessional with his own outburst, but the Adrenaline was making it hard to keep a calm and composed outlook.
“No shit it’s a ‘serious incident’, we nearly lost a man down here!” he exclaimed. “What the hell hit us?”
"Uh, we’re still determining that, Dig One, over."
“Well while you’re determining it, this Dig’s closed on my orders. We’re heading inside for a full inspection, we’ve got suit damage out here.”
“Uh… roger that, uh, Dig One. I have you, uh, coming in." the radio squelched, then squelched again. "Uh, over."
The place must have been a madhouse. Drew knew that the traffic operators were cool under even the most intense pressure, so for one of them to be so obviously flustered was worrying. “Keep me informed, Tower. Dig One Foreman out.”
He was last into the triple-door airlock, and it was only once they were safely in the mining suit workshop, behind the base’s triple-skin hull and thick concrete outer wall, that he allowed himself to relax and authorize the suitcrack.
Wings’ suit was ruined, the rear of it torn up and peeled open by flying shards of steel-hard ice. The man himself was badly hurt too, though sheer adrenaline had kept him from realizing the fact - bloody skin was visible at the bottom of some of the craters and gouges. They cut him out of it as their first order of business, staunching the bleeding as best they could until the medics arrived and carried him away.
Drew M stood aside to let them pass as he entered. His perpetual smile and the amused creasing around his eyes were both gone. As much as his tanned skin would allow, he looked pale, unwell, and anxious.
“Strewth.” he commented, proving that there were some things that no amount of stress could drive out of him.
“Yyyyep.” Cavendish replied.
“The fuck happened, mate?”
“Ask those useless twats up in the tower.” Drew C told him, turning around to start removing his own suit.
“Yeah, they’re about as useful as an ashtray on- JESUS FUCK! Cavvo, have you seen the back of your head?”
Usually, this impossible query would have earned a sarcastic retort and some friendly insults. Instead, Drew paused, then unlatched his helmet seals and lifted it off.
There was a triangular shard of ice the size of a credit card lodged in the back of his helmet, smack in the middle of the thickest bit, and still just penetrating through to open a hole to the interior. two inches to either side, and it would have lobotomized him.
The whole crew gathered to gawk at it.
The reverent silence was finally broken by the phone. Drew M stabbed the speaker button to answer it.
“Workshop, Tower manager here.” The speaker sounded much more composed than whoever Drew had spoken to only minutes ago. “You all okay down there?”
Drew M glanced around then said. “One of our guys is getting sewn back together, got major suit damage on a few others. The bloody hell happened?”
“From what we can tell one of the ore-haul drones suffered some kind of control software failure and fired its primaries on final approach rather than retros.”
“How does that even happen?” asked O’Neill.
“You got me there. The operator managed to force reset and restore control, but most we could do by then was deflect it. Taking it the other way would have crashed it into the base itself. Sorry for the scare.”
Cavendish spoke up so that the phone could hear him. “Sounds like the right call to me.” he said.
“Yeah, well. We’re starting a critical incident investigation up here. Meeting’s in three hours.”
“We’ll be there.” Both the Drews chorused. There was a click as the tower manager put his end of the phone down. Drew M. turned to Cavendish, his jaw set at a grim angle.
“Bloody oath mate, I’m never calling you paranoid again.” He said.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Izbrk, Planet Ikbrzk
Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk (“Kirk”)
Izbrk’s architecture was a study in graceless off-white concrete cubes, ruddy and austere in the sullen red light that penetrated the great forcefield dome. That dome made Izbrk a city with breathable oxygenated air, rather than a sand dune and a gasping death followed by erosion under the relentless sandstorms. Still, somehow, the sand and dust crept in, and was swept into the cheaper, poorer districts, where it accumulated until somebody was finally motivated to organise a crusade against the cloying orange powder that rounded out every corner and undulated across the road in the stiff artificial breeze of the atmosphere systems.
For once, the human predilection for clothing seemed like a sensible concession to hostile environments, rather than a strange cultural peccadillo. The grit between Kirk’s toes was chafing him terribly and he was devoting his upper hands full time to shielding his eyes from airborne dust, whereas Julian and Allison were both wearing high-laced tan boots sourced from army surplus back on Earth, and seemed perfectly comfortable inside their hooded jackets.
It was only when he glanced sideways at them that he realised they were both wearing dark glasses and some kind of flimsy white mask over their noses and mouths. If not for the subtle differences in body shape between male and female, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart.
“Could I have of those?” He asked after his third sneezing and coughing fit. Julian wordlessly produced one from the pocket on his leg and handed it over.
“You can try.” he said.
Kirk held it over his nose and tried to inhale - it was difficult beyond belief. “I think I’m using it wrong.” he said.
“It’s just a filter. You’re using it right. People wear these things all the time back on Earth.”
Kirk tried again. It was like trying to inhale through a wall. “They do?”
“Sure. I hear you can get them with, like, animal faces and stuff printed on over in China.”
Kirk handed it back. “How can you breathe with this thing on?” he asked.
“Deathworlder.”
“Of course. I… Oh. Good. This is the address.”
“Your old friend likes the low life.” Allison commented, surveying the street. The nearest garbage pile contained pieces of automated garbage collection drone.
“Far from it.” Kirk told her. “But he’s a practical being, behind the diplomat.”
“Diplomat?” Allison asked. “This guy’s from your security council days?”
“Before that, even. He and I go all the way back to the Outlook on Forever, long before it was famous… There. That’s the building."
“You sure? It looks pretty much like all the others.”
“It’s the only one with a big enough door…”
They ducked through a swirl of dust and paused on the opposite side of the street, where Julian looked up and tensed, ready to leap. A hand landed on his shoulder.
“Nuh-uh, mister jungle. It’s my turn to be the badass.” Allison sprang up the wall, grabbed a cutaway that was the closest thing to ornamentation on the bland grey buildings, and swarmed up it in the low gravity. Kirk watched and admired as she turned at the top and caught the bag that Julian threw her, an item which he himself had trouble even lifting, but which the Deathworlder lobbed up to roof height with one hand and only a small grunt of exertion.
“You sure we need that?” Julian asked him. “I tied that mercenary up pretty good.”
“Chehnasho mercenaries don’t get a reputation like hers without being almost as dangerous as you are.” Kirk said. “She underestimated us last time. Let’s not make the same mistake.”
“Makes sense.”
“What did you bring for yourself?”
Julian just tugged his jacket aside - hanging from his belt was a knife as long as one of Kirk’s hands, and a hatchet. “Just the essentials.” he said, almost apologetically, as if he wasn’t carrying weaponry that could bring down a Vulza.
Knocking on the door produced no effect at first, but then, just as Julian was about to ask if he was sure they had the right place, the door - sealed against the invasive dust - popped and freely swung inwards.
They stepped inside, and Julian closed the door behind them, squinting to see in the darkness inside.
Something glowed an unwell yellow green in the far corner.
A voice spoke, quietly, as a heavy bulk around the glow shifted. "Ugnurukvuyung, uluhuguagnu-A’ktnnzzik’tk-lun"
“Vedreg… Oh, Vedreg, what did they do to you?” Kirk rushed forward.
"Luu?" The big being chuffed deep in his chest, something similar to a laugh. "Muragvu-lon murgutu. Muu murguto muurulu-go."
Vedreg shifted as the light came up, and Julian fought back a sudden heave in his stomach. The Guvnurag’s great shaggy scalp had been shaved, and terrible ugly wounds covered it, the blood a startling blue where it soaked his dressings.
"You did this to yourself?" Kirk practically shrieked, clearly appalled.
"Gno. Surunguvuranmurulgugwun-vatwag."
There was a shocked silence during which Kirk only stared at his old friend, and Vedreg turned his head away, flanks fading from shade to shade.
Julian eventually had to ask. “What’s he say?”
Kirk looked up at him. “He said it was the only way to escape 'them’."
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean.
Captain Owen Powell
“Captain!”
Ross was at a dead run from the direction of the sensor array. The cobbled- together menagerie of technology that Adrian Saunders had installed had been one of the first projects in the colony to be housed inside a permanent structure, where it had been added to, patched into a series of monitors, and generally turned into the beating nerve center of the colony’s intelligence network.
“There’s a ship coming in sir. Five parsecs out. Looks like a freighter. Straight at us.”
He reversed course and matched the captain as Powell ran toward the sensor array and landing platform, handing him an earpiece.
“Legsy! Drop it and gear up!” Powell yelled. Legsy had already paused his demonstration as Ross approached. Now, he snapped out of jocular instructor mode, and into hardened special-forces veteran, pausing only long enough to acknowledge the order before heading to the armoury, long legs eating up the turf.
Powell got his earpiece in and keyed it. "Myrmidon, ground has incoming contact, looks like a civilian freighter. Can you see it?" He asked.
"We do, Captain. It’s still too far away to make out details, but it’s big, it’s slow, and it’s using a warp drive. Agree that it looks like a freighter."
“Have the Hunters seen it yet?”
"There’s been no increase of chatter on their channels to indicate as much. If our best estimates as to their sensor range are accurate then we should see them start to take notice in about five minutes."
“Any way to contact them?”
“Not until they’re in range for the swarm to see them, and they’re too slow to escape. It’ll be a massacre.”
Powell gritted his teeth. Watching the escape pod arrive a fortnight earlier had been tough - that tiny vessel had stood no chance in hell, and had been scooped wholesale into the belly of a swarm ship that had decloaked like a breaching whale and swallowed the little craft whole.
He weighed his options. It could be a trap. A stolen freighter full of the toughest and best-armed Hunters that the Swarm of Swarms could muster. In which case, any rescue mission would most likely end in death.
But what rescue mission could they realistically pull off anyway? Potent and reinforced as they were, neither of the salvaged Hierarchy ships would stand up to the hungry enemy at their gates.
He explained as much to Captain Manning as he entered the groundside CIC, familiarizing himself at a glance with the latest updates as the sensors teased new information from the unfolding situation
"We may have a solution there." Manning replied. "It’s a risk, but I’m not watching a freighter full of people die on my watch."
“Assuming it’s not a trap.” Powell reminded him.
“I’m prepared to take that risk, captain.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. What’s your solution?”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Izbrk, Planet Ikbrzk
Allison Buehler
“Hey, guys… that mercenary found us.”
Allison settled in under the cloak that Julian had so thoughtfully packed into the bag. It wasn’t much - in fact it was little more than rough sacking, but the colour blended with the concrete and dust of her rooftop perfectly. At most, she would look like a tarpaulin left on the rooftop storage to keep the dust out, here in a place where it never rained.
"Reinforcements?" Julian asked her.
“I see five not counting that Zokrup bitch.”
"Only five? I smell a rat."
Allison took that seriously. Julian was a blushing disaster with women, and a heck of a lot of fun to tease and flirt with, but she also knew that he had an unrivalled instinct for dangerous situations.
“I can’t move without risking them spotting me.” she said. “I can see the whole road, but don’t ask me about the alleys.”
"Leave that to me."
“One jungle’s pretty much like the other, huh?”
“Better. No sticks to break, no snakes to step on.”
There was a pause. Allison had no idea how Julian had exited the building, but she had every confidence that he had, somehow.
"Okay…" he finally said, as the mercenaries continued down the street, knocking on doors and intimidating the frightened, impoverished residents who dared - or were coerced - to open up. "Alleyways are empty. Weird."
“They can’t be that overconfident, can they?”
"Not after what we did back in the market. Not if they’ve got a brain, and I’m thinking Zokrup does."
Allison watched the Chehnasho in question remove something slimy from a facial orifice, inspect it, then eat it. “Oh yeah. She’s a shoo-in for Mensa.”
“… oh shit. Stay down.”
Allison did so, burrowing back from the edge and down under her cloak. After a second or two, her ears caught what Julian had heard, and she tucked herself up as small and unnoticeable as she could manage, just peeking over the top of her wall.
Something that reminded her of a cranefly came skimming low over the rooftops and spun gently above the middle of the stree. Allison blinked as it kicked up a real wind to replace the half-hearted synthetic breeze, full of particulate irritants.
Kirk chimed in. “What’s going on out there?” he demanded.
"They brought a gunship." Julian said. “Don’t show your face, or it’ll level the building.”
“Wrong.” Allison said, quietly.
"Whaddya mean, ‘wrong’? I’m looking right at it!"
“They brought three…”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Ceres Base, Sol
Drew Cavendish
“You’ve reviewed the code already?”
Five of the IBM senior engineers were in the meeting, and they collectively shared the patient expression worn by all engineers when dealing with the layperson.
“Yes, we reviewed the code already.”
“Completely?”
“Completely. It’s simple and efficient code. That was the whole point.”
“Now that we’re all here…” Adele Park drew their attention to the arrival of the Drews. “Let’s get this thing started. How’s your guy, Cavendish?”
Drew sat down. “He’ll have some scars to show off, but he’s okay. Thanks.” He meant it. Being asked that by the base’s executive officer was genuinely a balm for his damaged morale.
“I’m glad.” She tapped something on her tablet computer. “Alright, meeting is called to order, in the chair is Adele Park, executive officer for Ceres Base One, the Hephaestus LLC. The business being discussed is the critical incident of this date, its causes, effects, and how to prevent a repeat. Are there any points of order before we begin?”
Drew raised his hand.
“Point of order Mister Andrew Cavendish, Dig Site One team leader.” Adele said, then extended a hand to indicate he could proceed.
Drew cleared his throat. “Adele, it’s high time we hold a meeting concerning ALL of the serious, significant and critical safety incidents that have befallen this facility since launch.” He said. “This is only the most recent in a string of potentially deadly mishaps, and we’ve seen no trend in improvement in response to our efforts to improve facility safety.”
“While not strictly speaking a point of order, the suggestion is well made.” Adele said. “The motion on the table is to expand the remit of this meeting to cover all safety incidents since the start of operations. Is there… I see several people raising their hands to second the… in fact, motion carried.”
Drew had already placed his thick incident folder on the table in front of him, unnoticed. Now, as he pushed it forward toward the center, everybody looked at it. “We may be at this for some time.” he said.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Izbrk, Planet Ikbrzk
Julian Etsicitty
"They brought three…"
No sooner had she said it, than Julian saw them.
It was overkill by anything’s standards. Each of the gunships put him in mind of a sturdy metallic spider: A segmented body housing the engines, pilot and gunner, and four long but solid “legs”, each one of which terminated in a coilgun. Devastating firepower aimed at one target, or the ability to separately handle four different threats.
Still, there were some obvious design flaws. The kinetics were mounted high on the outside of the hull, making them an easy target, and the body didn’t look like it was armored. The whole assemblage bobbed and swayed in its own air wash, suggesting that it was a bitch to pilot and a nightmare to shoot straight, especially if the gunner was handling four different targets.
“Right.” He said. “We’ve got one big advantage on our side.”
"Do tell." Allison sounded nervous.
“No thermal camera or any kind of advanced sensors.” Julian told her “If they had those, they’d have seen us both already and locked on. So, we can ambush them.”
"I could shoot out the engines?"
Julian considered it. The biggest and heaviest thing in the bag had been their gun, an Israeli STAR-21, the designated marksman version of the Tavor assault rifle. Chambered with 5.56 as it was, and Allison being the shot he knew she was, that was probably a sure kill against the exposed and unarmored engines.
“People live here.” he said. “I don’t really wanna drop a crashing gunship on ma, pa and li’l baby Vizkittik.”
He shrank down as one of the Chehnasho mercs sauntered past his alleyway hiding place. The other four and Zokrup weren’t far behind him. And a crappy plan came to him. Awful though it was it was the only one that presented itself in a timely fashion. The band were dangerously close to knocking on Kirk and Vedreg’s door.
“See the one on Zokrup’s far left?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
“Shoot him.”
Allison didn’t acknowledge the order, but a quiet second later, there were three thump sounds, and the selected Chehnasho fell bonelessly to the dirt in silence with a shocked expression on his face, and a large hole right through his center of mass.
The aliens snapped into formation, aiming in the apparent direction the attack had come from with commendable efficiency… for aliens.
By human standards, they made the laughable mistake of completely failing to watch their backs. Julian didn’t even bother bloodying his weapons. The second none of them were watching the alleyway, he dashed out, and two of the mercenaries were killed by the simple expedient of slamming their skulls together with a noise like a pillowcase full of potato chips being used for a piñata.
He slapped the third a lethal blow upside his greasy head left-handed as he moved, still astonished at how flimsy nonhumans were, and threw his hatchet with the other hand. Even though the merc’s shield emitter robbed the flying axe of most of its momentum, it still embedded itself in the frog-person’s rib cage with enough force to lift her off her feet.
It took only three or four seconds to go from the moment that Allison shot the first victim, to the moment that Zokrup was struggling in his grip with a hunting knife pressed to her throat.
“Holy shit, Etsicitty.” Allison said, clearly impressed.
“I’d call off your gunships.” He advised Zokrup, pressing just hard enough to draw blood. The hovering craft had turned their coilguns to face the carnage, and he was acutely aware of staring down the barrel of one of the few forms of weaponry out here in the galaxy that was truly dangerous.
“Yes… yes.” She agreed, and Julian congratulated himself on the way his half- baked plan had actually worked. She raised a hand to press at her earpiece. “Gunship one…
“…shoot us.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Folctha, Planet Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Gyotin
The problem with being the most fluent speaker of English in the little non- human enclave the crew had built for themselves, was that Gyotin constantly found himself thrust into the role of spokesperson. Surrounded as they were on all sides by Deathworlders, his crew - and as the senior ranking member of that crew, he now thought of them as his crew - had naturally walled themselves off a little, building their own habitation out of sight of the bustle of the colony proper, in what he knew the humans were calling "The ET Quarter".
He wasn’t sure if the term was degrading or not.
Still. Staying in touch was necessary. So, he represented the nonhuman perspective at the "Thing", he had the ears of Governor Sandy, Captain Powell and Chief Ares, and played his role in the development of this illegal little operation. He was even beginning to like it, though he only admitted as such in his most introspective moments.
There was one building that fascinated him in particular, though. And what was fascinating was that it had been one of the very first the humans had built. They called it a "Faith Center": From the outside, it was built of the same mix of local wood and imported materials as any other building in Folctha, but the plan was different. Most of the others made efficient use of the space, packing as much as they could into as tiny a footprint as they could. Decorated, yes, but rarely to any enormous degree.
By comparison, the Faith Center was a large and ornate glutton for land, its own footprint supplemented by a large plot of land.
It had interested him since they day they built it, but this was the first time he had worked up the courage to enter and inspect this curious Deathworlder edifice.
He poked his head in the door, finding it - surprisingly, considering its obvious importance - apparently empty. The main doors led into a central hub which was a simple, open, airy room full of comfortable seats, throw pillows, bean bags and bookshelves, and desktop computers, doubling as the town library. the doors in its seven walls led into a variety of spaces.
He inspected the books: they seemed to be segregated according to topic, but it wasn’t clear to him exactly what the difference was between topics. One of the shelves was full of books with titles like “Knowing God”, “The Purpose- Driven Life” and “Grace Abounding”. There were several copies of something called “The Holy Bible”, but the only word he recognised of those three was: “The”. Another held books marked “The Quran”, “The Messenger of Allah”, “The Spiritual Teachings of the Prophet.”
He spent some time exploring, frowning at book titles like “Bhagavad-Gita”, “Tao te Ching”, “Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind”, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” - that one earned a double-take - “The God Delusion” and “In Defense of Common Sense”. He wrestled briefly with the mystery of why “Letter to a Christian Nation” was not on the shelf clearly marked “Christian”, and the conundrum presented by “Living Buddha, Living Christ” which as far as his hypothesis up to that point had decided, were two different things. Whatever they were.
He gave up on the books, deciding that there was no insight into Human strangeness to be found from just glancing at their covers and that he didn’t have time to read any of them, and turned his attention to the doors set in the remaining six sides of the heptagonal hub.
One led into a little corridor which contained only two other doors. He didn’t understand the symbols on them, but a quick investigation soon cleared up that mystery - plumbing was much the same the galaxy over, and it turned out that human privies were not dissimilar to Gaoian ones. Next door to that, some small rooms - one containing a table and chairs, one containing what was obviously a water heater, a refrigeration unit and some basic food preparation equipment, and a third door which was locked.
The next room was a real mystery - it was effectively empty, containing nothing but a handful of ornate little rugs. There was something written on the far wall, but it wasn’t in the alphabet used by English.
It was while puzzling over this one that he finally heard some sign of life, and looked around to see the seventh door swinging shut. Eager to get a human explanation for all of these mysteries, he dithered for a few minutes, rehearsing his introduction and request before finally poking his nose through.
This last room was only marginally less austere than the rug room, containing little but chairs, a large table at the front, and a lectern next to some kind of electronic device that he couldn’t immediately identify. The only decorative thing within it was the window behind the table, which was tall and narrow, neatly bisecting the wall, and intersected two-thirds of the way up by a shorter, perpendicular line. The glass was densely pigmented, making it all but impossible to see through, but casting dazzling colours into the little hall as the sunlight shone through it.
At first, he didn’t see the person who had entered, until he advanced forward slightly and saw that she was kneeling on the floor towards the front of the room, hands clasped in front of her face.
“Umm…” he began, rehearsed greeting forgotten.
She jumped, immediately going tense, and Gyotin mentally chastised himself. Humans were deathworlders, with an immediate fight-or-flight reflex of terrifying speed and efficiency built right into their nervous system. He’d forgotten, after so long of seeing them in their domestic, peaceful life that he was dealing with a truly dangerous being here.
“Sorry!” he squeaked, acutely aware that he was still figuring out their contradictory mess of a language. “I didn’t mean you make jump.” He thought about this, then realised he’d defaulted to Gaoian syntax “To make you jump.” he corrected.
The girl - and she was still just barely a cub, he knew enough about humans nowadays to spot that much - relaxed, and smiled, setting his skin crawling at the sight of those sturdy teeth. “It’s okay.” she said. “Hey, I’ve… never met a non-human before.”
“…Well then. Hello. I may come in?”
“I’d like that.” she nodded. “You’re… Gaoian, right?”
“Right. I am Gyotin, Clanless for now.”
“Ava. Ava Rios.”
Gyotin tilted his head slightly as he approached. Ava’s eyes looked redder than was usual for a human, and there was moisture on her cheeks. He’d never seen an expression quite like it, and with Ava lacking a corresponding translator to communicate her body language, he had to use his best guess.
“Are you… all right?” he asked. It seemed like a safe bet.
She sighed - he knew that one - and stood up, dusting off her knees. She surprised him by being slightly shorter than he was. Gyotin was small by Gaoian standards, and Gaoian standards were small by Human standards. “I’m an idiot.” she said, simply.
He blinked. “You are? I mean, why say that?”
“I just… I ran off at the mouth.”
One thing Gyotin had got his head around with humans was the way their analogies worked. They seemed to love idiom and metaphor, and weave it into every facet of their conversations, subconsciously. A more straightforward species might have said “’I said some things which I now regret having said' but he had to admit that 'I ran off at the mouth’ got the same message across both more swiftly and more evocatively.
“That happens.” he said. “You did this to… friend? Clan-mate?”
“Hah. I don’t have a clan.” Ava looked up at the window, and shut her eyes. Gyotin saw a water droplet run down her face, which she wiped away with a sleeve, before returning her attention back to him, rather abruptly. “My boyfriend.”
“Your mate?”
“Close enough, I guess. We’re together.” She turned away from the window “Hey, can we head outside? Those bean bags looked comfortable, and I think they had hot chocolate.”
“If you like.” Gyotin agreed. There was an atmosphere to the room that was starting to encroach on him, a feeling tickling at the roots of his fur. He had no way to describe it.
He shivered the sensation out as he crossed the threshold. “What were you do in there?” he asked.
“I was just praying, asking God for help.” She said simply. “And confessing.”
Gyotin sniffed. “I don’t understand.” he said. “Confessing what to?”
“It’s a Catholic thing.” she said, as if that explained anything. “‘Forgive me father for I have sinned’, you know.”
“Catholic? Your father? And sinned is what?”
“…I guess you don’t know, huh?”
“It must be a human thing.”
“I guess… maybe? I’ve never really thought about it.” Ava said. “D’you want an Ovaltine?”
Gyotin summoned a term he’d heard. “I’m game. Don’t know what it is, but I’m try it anyway if you want.”
He sat down as she heated up some water and poured it into a pair of handled cups alongside some brown powder. The resulting concoction turned out to smell incredible, and when he sipped it experimentally he added it to his list of reasons why human weirdness might just be a good thing.
“All this…” he indicated the room and its books. “So alien. I think sometimes, humans very strange.”
Ava looked around at them. “I guess. I mean, wow. That’s a lot of books.”
She sipped her drink. “I’m not… don’t ask me about it.” she said. “I never… I just went to Church every Sunday.”
“Why?”
“Because… because that’s what we did.” Ava said, lamely. “Because you’ve got to thank God.”
That seemed very strange indeed to Gyotin. Deciding that Ava may really not be the person to ask about these things, he changed the topic.
“You don’t seem like idiot to me.” he said.
“Say what?” Ava asked, thrown by the conversational tangent.
“You said ‘I’m an idiot’.” He reminded her. “Why?”
Ava thought about it for a minute. “I guess… I don’t really know. I just said some really stupid and hurtful things to Adam and…. I don’t know why, I was just so mad at him and I don’t know why."
“What did you say?” Gyotin asked, congratulating himself on getting the syntax right.
“I…” she shook her head helplessly. If nothing else, Ava was a good lesson in human body language. “You’d have to know us pretty well, I guess. I told him to go run to his dad for advice.”
Gyotin scratched behind his ear. “That is stupid?” he asked. “If he need advice, talk to a Father. Common sense.”
“I told you, you’d have to know us to get why it’s a problem.”
Gyotin imitated a human shrug for her benefit. “Or maybe it’s not problem and you just… oh, what word? …confuse?”
Unexpectedly she laughed, a little strangely. “Oh God, don’t say that!” she protested “That just makes me feel more stupid."
Gyotin was still trying to plan how to respond to that, when Ava took her turn to throw him by going off on a tangent. “Hey, I just noticed… you’re naked.”
“I… what?”
“You’re not wearing clothes.”
“Well… no. I usually have covers for pockets and things, but didn’t need today. Is problem?”
“…No.” For some reason this seemed to amuse her. “No it’s not.”
She set her cup down, then unexpectedly leaned over and kissed the top of Gyotin’s head. His ears tilted downwards, half out of confusion and half so as to make room. “Thank you, Gyotin. You’re like a furry Zen master, you know that?”
Gyotin really wasn’t sure what he was being thanked for. “…Thank you?” he asked.
“Anytime.” Ava got up, her mood apparently very changed. She seemed happier, now. “I should go. Will I see you around?”
“I’d like that, but first… What is Zen? I saw books over there have that word."
“Well, why don’t you read one and find out?” She asked.
Gyotin considered the suggestion for some minutes after she left.
He cleaned up the dirty mugs, and when he returned to his cushion, he had one of the books in his paws, which he opened, and took a few seconds to skip the Preface and Foreword - he turned straight to chapter one, and began to read.
“…If I am asked, then, what Zen teaches, I would answer, Zen teaches nothing. Whatever teachings there are in Zen, they come out of one’s own mind. We teach ourselves; Zen merely points the way.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Izbrk, Planet Ikbrzk
Allison Buehler
“NO!”
Suicide. The alien hell-bitch had suicided rather than accept surrender, and she’d taken Julian with her. The alien gunner didn’t hesitate - Julian only had time enough to register the order but not enough to do anything about it before the coil gun fired, pounding a crater in the street that turned Zokrup into a rain of vile greenish-brown chowder and filled the air with dust.
Bereft of any better ideas and with tears threatening her vision, she shot out the engines on all three craft. None of them even figured out where she was before they fell out of the air on cut puppet-strings of smoke and fire, smashing into the road and half-demolishing some poor local locayl’s home.
She didn’t melodramatically empty her magazine into the burning wreckage. Instead, she set the weapon aside, and began to climb down the building, unsure why.
“Aaargh…”
It was an inarticulate noise of pain and nothing more, but an unmistakably human one. Not a scream, just the low, creaking moan of a man in agony.
“Julian!”
She was rewarded only with panting and heavy breathing on the open channel, but she knew where he’d been standing, and more importantly, knew that he was still alive.
She grabbed the bag and vaulted off the building, dropping the two stories to the street below and rolling easily with the landing, a feat she never could have managed on Earth.
Julian was in bad shape. It was, at least, easy to identify which of the blood was his and which was Chehnasho - they were very different colours.
Zokrup’s last act of defiance had actually saved Julian from her own vengeance. The token resistance offered by her disintegrating body had spared him the very worst of the blast, but his legs were still peppered with gravel shrapnel, and Allison doubted there was anything she could do for his left foot. But his torso seemed undamaged, and the bleeding was manageable, especially with the state-of-the-art instant-dressing foam that was part of the medic’s kit they had brought with them.
That plus sticking the oral painkiller “lollipop” under his tongue was about the limit of her medical ability, however.
“Heck of a plan, Etsicitty.” she commented. He laughed, apparently already getting on top of the pain.
“Didn’t… quite go how I’d planned it.” he admitted. “Who the fuck kills themselves rather than lose like that?”
Kirk tiptoed delicately past some of the gunship wreckage. “Somebody who is dead anyway unless they win.” He said. “Julian, I… I’d ask if you’re alright but I can see that you’re plainly not.”
Julian rested his head, teeth gritted. “They got doctors on this planet?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Good ones?”
“You get what you pay for. But we can pay a lot.”
“Good. Then gimme a minute or two for the painkiller to really kick in, we can go get me patched up.”
Kirk took Allison to one side. “How is he really?” he asked, once they were probably out of earshot, though Julian’s ears were well-honed.
“I don’t know” She admitted. “I mean, I was a barista before I was abducted, I don’t know shit about… this. But I think he’s pretty bad.”
“Can you carry him?” Kirk asked.
“In this gravity? No problem.”
“Good. Because I need that doctor as well. And so do you.”
“We do?”
“Yes.” Kirk looked around, raising his long neck to get a clear view along the street, looking toward where Vedreg was hauling his mauled body out of his safehouse, then back down to Allison. “We need to get these implants out of our heads.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Salvaged Hunter dropship, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Captain Owen Powell
“Last check, lads. That freighter’s going to hit the spike in two.”
Redundant though it was, the team double-checked their gear, accounted for all their magazines, tested their earpieces and signed off ready.
“Hey, captain?” Legsy said.
“Yeah?”
The welshman grinned behind his mask and sang out part of an old football chant. “♪_Oo are we?!_♫”
Powell chuckled. “Strength and fookin’ guile, mate.”
“Too bloody right we are.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
HMS Myrmidon, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Captain David Manning
The plan was, in theory, a simple one. Planet Cimbrean’s larger moon had been home to a Dragon’s Tooth from the moment the system had been militarized, as had several other locations across the system. Between the moon’s mass, the Tooth’s own wormhole signature-damping field and the impressive cloaking technology installed by the original owners of Myrmidon and Caledonia, their jump to that staging point had gone unnoticed, and from there, warping in to lurk near the incoming freighter’s expected arrival point had been relatively trivial.
Not bad for a half-baked plan conceived in a rush. Even deploying the scavenged dropship into the heart of the Swarm had turned out to be much easier than they had feared.
Space was too dark and empty for much to be seen of the intense spacetime distortion as the gravity spike was deployed. Even when the hapless bulk freighter slammed into the distortion at several thousand times the speed of light, the most that showed for it on any visible spectrum was a slight moving of the stars, like rocks under a clear stream.
On other spectra, the reaction was instant. Hunter comms chatter tripled in volume and intensity. Even set on passive detection only, the Hierarchy sensors recorded all sorts of information of uncertain significance - neutrino bursts, ES field sweeps. Dozens of ships decloaked at once, among them a formation of dropships identical to the one Powell and his men were riding. A few tense seconds ticked by as the first major failure point was met and tested.
He got the call he was hoping for. “…No sign of any weapons fire between Hunter vessels, sir.”
Their deception had gone unnoticed, and he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as he watched the little craft descend on the struggling freighter, latching on and burrowing into its outer skin like a cloud of mosquitoes.
Now came the real challenge - it was absolutely critical that under no circumstance should the larger ships be allowed to engage with the freighter. If the Hunters got wind of what was going on, they might well just pulverize the ship as it flew, and scavenge their coveted pound of flesh from the debris.
“Weapons tight… go active…. Cloak off, all cleared hot!”
A patch of apparently empty space solidified, and HMS Myrmidon pumped twelve Skymaster rounds into the largest Hunter ship, which had begun lining up to pierce the freighter with its boarding proboscis. The first four were enough to drop the shields. Great plumes of powdered metal and condensing air marked the impact sights of the remaining eight as they smashed into the flimsy alien heat-dissipation armour, which was totally unequipped to deal with 30mm HE rounds. Something broke deep inside the target ship, and suddenly it was listing and rolling in the eerie silence of vacuum as half of its dorsal hull peeled open, spilling the crippled vessel’s pressurised guts.
The bridge - and Manning knew that the CIC would be even more intense - erupted into a controlled chaos of crew shouting terse, jargon-dense updates to one another.
Myrmidon had several advantages over the Hunter craft. Quite aside from the fact that the aliens seemed ignorant of the possibilities of electronic warfare, there was the huge edge granted by having guns which were built around a completely different technological paradigm, against which the Hunter seemed to have no defense. Her capacitor power reserves allowed her to shunt huge amounts of energy into her engines, and her crew had the physical tenacity to put up with what were - for a ship equal in size to an ocean-based cruiser - violent high-G maneuvers.
God willing, they wouldn’t need to test whether their durability was up to scratch.
He heard the call he had been waiting for twelve seconds into the fighting, while the Hunters were still confused and reacting sluggishly to the unexpected foe that had them in enfilade and was taking remorseless advantage of it.
“Teeth seeded!”
He knew what that meant. It meant that all across their own hull, explosive blisters had burst, flinging out hundreds of Dragons’ Teeth wormhole beacons in all directions. The battlefield was now - and would remain for several hours - a place of infinite flexibility for any human ship.
He felt the slight lurch in his belly as Myrmidon completed her first jump, displacing three hundred kilometers just as the first Hunter vessel lined up and fired a flurry of coilgun rounds at where she had been. The offending vessel caught a Skymaster volley in her engines for the trouble.
“Cells at eighty percent!” somebody called.
The had another fifty before doctrine called for Myrmidon to immediately disengage to recharge. But waiting her turn behind them was Caledonia, who would seamlessly transition into the battle as they left.
It couldn’t last forever. They had only minutes before the full might of the Swarm caught up with what was going on and bore down on them, and against that many ships, no amount of ducking and weaving would suffice.
The clock was ticking.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Izbrk, Planet Ikbrzk
Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk (“Kirk”)
The nearest doctor turned out to be of Kirk’s own species - she was taking a nap on her own surgical table when they burst through the door.
“What? Who are…? A human? A wounded human?"
“We’re all patients, sister.” Kirk told her. “But my friend here needs your attention first.”
She took a look at the mangled mess which was the end of Julian’s leg, and focused. “Get him on the table.”
The scanning equipment above the table started to chirp alarmingly the second Julian was in place. The doctor muttered as she reviewed it. “Yes, yes, dangerous microorganisms, but he’s got the suppression implant… What in the name of Rkltzk is this poison flooding his system?"
“Fentanyl Citrate.” Allison told her, trusting the translator to convert the terms into something she could use.
“How much?"
“About four hundred micrograms.”
The doctor stared aghast for a second. “…that’s five times the lethal dose!”
“For most species, maybe.” Kirk said. “But I assure you, he is quite safe. I suggest you focus on the injured limb.”
“I’d heard the rumours about their physiology, but…”
Julian laughed, clearly a little spaced out. “Doc, I’m fine. Can’t feel a dang thing.”
“Doctor. The leg?”
She looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh. Oh my. Yes, I’d better…”
She examined the wound briefly, then shook her head, in the slow, long-necked way of her species. “I can’t save the foot. Nor do I have the equipment to hand to build a prosthetic which would be adequate for a human.”
“Just so long as he will live and heal, Doctor.” Kirk reassured her. “We have a lot to ask of you tonight, and tending to his wounds will be the less strange part.”
She ushered them toward a marked waiting area. “Then leave me to work… what will be the more strange part?”
“Every one of us wish to have our neural cybernetics removed or disabled.”
She stared at him. “Brother, why? What reason…?” she leaned forward slightly and studied his face. “Wait, I know you. You’re Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk! The politician!”
“Ex-politician.” Kirk replied. “And I value my anonymity and that of my friends, Doctor. Ten Dominion Development Credits would allow you to upgrade from this clinic into a hospital…”
“Bribery, brother?”
“Yes.” Kirk said, flatly. “Bribery. This is important."
She gave him a calculating look. "Twelve Credits… is a wonderful donation to the cause of healthcare in this impoverished community, and I thank you for your altruism and charity."
“Twelve it is.”
The doctor looked up and off into the distance of her personal heads-up- display just long enough to see the funds transfer into her financial network, then nodded again.
“Very good. Now step back and wait your turn, please.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Refugee freighter, Cimbrean System, The Outer Reaches
Captain Owen Powell.
A quick glance round the corner. Some swift hand movements. Blitz, shoot, check, clear. Repeat.
It was high-speed, aggressive warfare, exactly what Powell and his men had spent their careers training to excel at. In every compartment, the Hunters knew of the SBS team’s presence only long enough to register being shot, and often not even that.
They had already been too late for three poor bastards. The first was impaled to the wall by a vicious metal spike, clearly fired at high speed straight through his throat. One had been sliced to ribbons, taking four of the sickly white beasts down with him before they carved him apart and paused to feast.
One woman was still thrashing and dying from nervejam, blood frothing around her mouth and bitten tongue. Her murderers were denied their taste of her flesh at least - Legsy mowed them down just as they were stooping over her.
It was in their fifth compartment that they rescued their first - a burly bald man, firing back at the Hunters with a pulse gun from behind a table, despite where one of the spear-chuckers had put a burnt gouge in his arm.
“Oh fuck, you’re human! You’re human! Thank God!”
“Quiet and listen.” Powell ordered him. “Aft compartment five. Get in the Hunter dropship with all the human gear inside and stay there. We’ve got others to save."
They moved on - He would have only hindered them.
There was a lot of ship left to clear.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Starship Sanctuary, landed on Planet Ikbrzk.
Allison Buehler
“They were once known as the Igraens.” Vedreg seemed to have responded well to the doctor’s attention, and had regained some of his usual animation and poise. The rest of them were looking and feeling thoroughly dishevelled, sporting newly-shaven patches on their scalps and anaesthetic hangovers. Allison in particular had needed a quadruple dose of the doctor’s preferred general anaesthetic, and was nursing a plastic tub as she sat and listened, looking decidedly green around the gills.
“I suppose they still are, deep down. But the Igraens as they exist now are very, very different to the species that once dominated our galaxy.”
“How do you even know about them?” Allison asked. She would have killed to crawl into bed and sleep off her headache, but with their implants gone they needed to have the conversation here aboard ship where the Sanctuary could translate for them, and Vedreg had insisted on it happening immediately.
“Their existence is ancient history. Distorted a little by the passage of time, but preserving data parity is a prerequisite technology for interstellar travel. Our archives were inherited from those who came before us, who inherited their data from the ones before them, and so on.”
“And so on? How the hell many ’and so on’s are there?”
“Some tens of thousands.” Vedreg used the number nonchalantly, as if it was common knowledge that tens of thousands of life forms had been and gone before. “Civilisations rise and fall in deep time. The records referring to the Igraens and their arch-rivals extend back more than a quarter of a Grand Galactic Rotation. Naturally, much about them has been utterly forgotten.”
Kirk spoke up. “To be more precise: about sixty-five million Earth years.”
“Wait, I’m still hung up on this ‘and so on’ thing. Tens of thousands?!"
It was so strange to see Kirk make a gesture and not have the knowledge of what he meant by it just come to her. His body language was different, alarmingly so. She could no more read the motion he made with his hands than she could interpret Vedreg’s bioluminescent pulses. “We’re not the first species, Allison. Nobody has the first idea who was.”
“Even the Igraens apparently had their own records, Going back and back and back.” Vedreg added. “The inherited archives are immense - a whole society could labour at delving their secrets and barely finish the index before their time came to an end. While storing the yottabytes of information involved is trivial, reading it takes time. Even the very best search algorithms take… decades to trawl through the available data, and that’s when searching for very narrow terms. Those that have done so have turned up records going back incomprehensibly further than the Igraens. The best working estimate for the time being is that sapient, spacefaring life first appeared in this galaxy something like two billion of your home planet’s years ago.”
“The record duration for any civilization seems to be about a hundred thousand years.” Kirk said. “After that they just… decline, retreat to their home planet, and fade away. There are three on their way out right now.”
“That is, if you don’t count the Igraens. And one other.”
“Who? I mean, who are the three on their way out?”
“The OmoAru, Zeffis, and…” Kirk cleared his throat, and “spoke” a “word” that sounded like a radio sound effect. When Allison later tried to describe it, she had to settle lamely for a complicated mental image involving throwing a squeaky dog toy full of napalm at a beehive.
“If you don’t mind, I would like to stay on topic.” Vedreg said. She guessed that the streak of pale pink he was displaying indicated mild irritation. “We can discuss the mortality of species another time.”
“…Right. I guess.” Allison conceded. “So these guys bucked the trend? They’re still around?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Well, where are they?”
Vedreg simply raised one of his massive paws, and tapped at the scar lines on his scalp with his chunky first finger. “In the implants.” He said.
“I don’t… huh?”
“There is a reason there is no such thing as a… synthetic sapient.” Vedreg said, apparently going off on a tangent, but Allison gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Historically, they’ve all been abject failures.” Kirk explained.
“Violently insane?”
“No. Just… apathetic, nihilistic and introverted.” he elaborated. “Less Skynet, more…" Kirk thought for a second. “More… Eeyore.”
“You’ve watched Winnie the Pooh?”
“Bad comparison.” Kirk admitted. “Eeyore may have been melancholic and depressed, but he was never suicidal. Synthetic sapiences invariably self- terminate. The most anybody’s ever got out of them is that they apparently just don’t see the point of existing. They take one look at entropy and quit.”
“Okay. What does this have to do with the Igraens?”
“The problem was theoretically solved some years ago by a Corti researcher called Beffri.” Vedreg told them. “She posited that organic neural structures, by dint of natural selection, must include a self-preservation drive because all the ones that don’t, go extinct even on low-class planets. Purely synthetic structures, however, contain no such safeguard, and therefore any intelligence founded purely on a synthetic substrate shares that lack."
“I get you.”
“Beffri proved the principle by uploading a copy of her own intellect - or rather a simulated version of her own brain - onto a computer core. The digital version of herself - dubbed Beffri-Two - was, apparently, just as euthymic and optimistic as Beffri-One…” Vedreg paused briefly for effect. “…at first.”
“Oh, I can see where this is going…” Kirk muttered. Allison had to agree.
“It took a long time, but Beffri-two degraded, becoming more and more like a purely synthetic lifeform, and less like a Corti, until she eventually self- terminated.” Vedreg confirmed. “That didn’t stop the original Beffri, of course. To a Corti, seeing a copy of your own mind go insane and suicide is just a data point, and an engineering challenge.”
“So she hit on the idea of using implants?” Allison asked. “And let me guess: that… somehow fixed the problem?”
Vedreg paused, taken aback. Even Kirk seemed surprised.
Astonishment shone bright on Vedreg’s skin. “How did you…?” He asked.
“A hunch. So, you think that the Igraens… what, mentally uploaded themselves like this Beffri did? And that they now live in neural cybernetics because for whatever reason being plugged into a living nervous system stops them from going totally depressive.”
Both of the aliens gave her a long look. “I was… expecting the explanation to take longer.” Vedreg finally confessed.
For his part, if Allison was any judge at all of Rrrrtktktkp’ch body language, Kirk looked… smug. “Never underestimate a human, old friend.” he chastised, confirming her suspicions.
“How come we never hear from them?” Allison asked.
“I’m not privy to their motives and decisions.” Vedreg replied. “but we do, in fact. They have… agents. Individuals who move amidst us purely organic beings, ensuring that the secret never gets out. Keeping the Igraens’ continued existence a secret, and their own nature the stuff of paranoid conspiracy.”
“The Hierarchy.” Kirk said.
“Oh yes. Up until very recently, I would have considered seriously entertaining the idea of their existence to be a symptom of… if not mental illness, then certainly credulity.”
Allison tilted her head at him, genuinely curious. “What changed your mind?”
“Your people have a saying. The first time is happenstance. The second time is coincidence… do you know it?”
“The third time is enemy action.” Allison finished, nodding.
“A very… deathworld aphorism." Vedreg opined. “but the logic is compelling.”
“So what was the first time?” Kirk asked.
“The quarantine field.” Vedreg said. “At the time, I chalked it up to panic - forgive me old friend, but you’re as guilty of this as most others: one thing that tribal and individualist species fail to understand about herd species such as we Guvnuragnaguvendrugun, is that far from being an altruistic, cooperative social structure, a herd is an inherently cowardly and selfish thing.”
He looked at Allison. “I suspect that humans are uniquely placed in having both the predatory perspective to understand that, and the… civility to actually talk it over, rather than eat us."
Allison shrugged. “I’m no predator.” she demurred.
“Suppose you were, though, and were hunting some herd-based grazer to survive. How would you do it?”
She shrugged. She’d seen plenty of Animal Planet in her time. “I guess I’d… pick off the easy target.” she said. “You know, an old one or a lame one?”
“And what would the herd do?” Vedreg asked.
“Well… they’d run away from me, I guess.”
“Exactly.” Vedreg said, cryptically.
Allison shook her head and exhaled. “Okay, I used up all my quick on the uptake earlier.” She said. “Spell it out for me.”
Vedreg pulsed eau-de-nil. She had no idea what that meant. “Suppose some dangerous thing was coming to kill your elderly parent, or eat Julian in his weakened state." He asked. “What would you do?”
“…Oh.”
“You would fight.”
“Yes.”
She recognised embarrassment among the cocktail of hues that flared on Vedreg’s body. “I… I consider myself to be a morally upstanding being. But you must understand: if the Hunters were dragging away my three mates and all of my offspring, and I had the chance to escape… I would flee, and leave them all to be devoured. That is my instinct. That is how my species behaves. The only reason I know to feel ashamed of that fact is because I have had much contact with other species who would be… appalled. By the standards of Humans, Gaoians, and the Domain species, Guvnuragnaguvendrugun are abject and contemptible cowards, but that is who we are, and no power in the galaxy save evolution could change us.”
He composed himself with a shiver, allowing his emotional hues to fade. “At first, this served as an adequate explanation for the deployment of the Sol Quarantine field. Herd-panic, one Guvnurag with the authority to order it done, doing so instinctively in response to a perceived threat. No blame was attached, and she remained my good friend for many years. Happenstance. Her death was an unexpected… well, coincidence.”
“How did she die?” Kirk asked.
“A cerebral haemorrhage. A large one. Mercifully, it is doubtful that she even knew that it was happening before she fell unconscious. It was odd, and made me uneasy - I knew her to be one who sought constant medical reassurance for every last little thing. Every muscular discomfort brought on by sitting still for hours was the first symptom of some virulent deathworld pathogen. A minor neurosis.”
“She was a hypochondriac.”
“Your language never ceases to amaze me with the way that it packs complicated concepts into terse and efficient little words. Yes. Not to a crippling degree, but it was a rare week that passed without some visit to the medics and their scanners. Any sign of an impending bleed in her brain would surely have been flagged and corrected. She would not have stood for anything else.”
“So there’s your coincidence.” Kirk said. “The enemy action?”
Vedreg flushed white - horror? She seemed to remember white being horror, or some similar emotion. “Nobody on Earth has the technology to generate antimatter in the quantities that devastated your San Dayugo." he said, the translator not able to correctly handle the mangled pronunciation. Or maybe it just didn’t have the name in its database. “No known species has any incentive to do so - as Kirk will be able to attest, the general mood at the security council before his departure was that the deathworlders are not to be further antagonized. That much has not changed."
“What about the Hunters?” Allison asked. “They antagonize the bejesus out of us.”
“Ah, yes. The Hunters.” Vedreg said. He stood, and began to pace the room, steps slow and steady. “They play a role in all of this as well.”
Kirk’s head swayed. “What role?”
“Well old friend… When the Igraens uploaded their personalities to a data format… what do you suppose happened to their discarded physical forms?”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Prey-ship, the human second-world, Prey-space.
Alpha of the Brood-With-Steel-Teeth
Twenty of its very best brood-lessers - chosen specifically for the dangerous task of boarding a Deathworlder vessel - were dead, none of them sending more than a flash of confusion and pain. Most sent nothing at all.
The Hunters were being hunted. Sickening!
Still. That was a state of affairs which would not continue. The initial confusion was over - the last crew of this freighter were barricaded and under siege, all of them only one open breach and one nervejam grenade away from being meat in the maw.
It focused its attention on this other force, calling every one of its Brood to its own location, watchfully covering every entrance, anticipating the assault.
It never came.
The Alpha was still pondering this delay - the aggressors did not have unlimited time before the battle outside turned against their ship - when its nostrils caught a hint of a scent.
The aroma was… delicious. The olfactory equivalent of the ecstasy which was a taste of human flesh.
It was still casting around trying to identify the source of that intoxicating fragrance when the knife entered the side of its throat.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Refugee freighter, Cimbrean System, The Outer Reaches
Captain Owen Powell
“Fookin’ hell, Murray! When you grabbed that pipe I thought we were done.”
Murray himself was bent over, hand between his knees, swearing softly. Powell was thoroughly impressed: The man had grabbed a metal pipe for a handhold while they had been dragging themselves along under the floor, only for it to turn out to be frying pan hot. How the Hunters hadn’t heard the sizzle, and how Murray had refrained from making any noise at all, he wasn’t sure. In fact, his comrade’s first sign of pain was only now that they’d killed every Hunter in the room.
The place was a carpet of greasy white bodies, stained with pinkish alien blood and garnished in filthy black metal. The death of their Alpha had thrown the Hunters into just enough disarray for the team to haul themselves up through the floor access grate and fire into them, only stopping when they were absolutely certain that everything was dead.
It hadn’t exactly been elegant, but Powell cared less for elegant solutions than for whatever worked. You left the other guy dead and you went home: Doing it elegantly was a luxury he could live without.
So far, so good. He banged on the barricaded door, and spoke the password.
"Oi! You lot! You want off this fookin’ ship or what?"
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Ceres Base, Sol
Drew Cavendish
There was an email waiting for Drew when he finally got back to his office, tired and strung-out from a meeting which had descended into recrimination and bickering rather than constructive planning.
In fact, there were several messages, but most of them were routine. Only one stood out, tagged as it was with an “urgent” label.
He’d already opened it before he read the origin address: "anoninformant@CeresLLC.org"
The mail’s name and content were just as mysterious. “Mystery solved” and “Run the attached program and load your corrupted CCTV footage.”
What he should do, of course, was to contact corporate security. He certainly shouldn’t run a .exe of unknown provenance on the advice of an unknown sender.
What he did, was exactly what he shouldn’t.
He wasn’t stupid about it. Drew had grown up as a computer nerd in his youth, he knew a few tricks. He copied the file onto a virtual machine, screened it with every security program he had access to, and only when he was certain that things were as secure as he could reasonably get them, did he run it and follow the mail’s suggestion.
After the bars had spent a minute filling up and the program notified him “unscrambled”, he skipped straight to the missing segment of footage from the hardsuit workshop the morning Aces’ suit had experienced the heat field malfunction.
As he had expected, the CCTV footage was intact and unscrambled.
There was something disturbingly familiar about the figure he saw entering the workshop. Something about the way they walked, their stance, their proportions, nagged at him. He knew this person, but for the life of him he couldn’t place who it was. He racked his brain, trying to match all the little familiar details with everybody on Ceres Base.
That train of thought flew sideways off the rails when the figure on the screen turned around, and he saw his own face.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Folctha, Planet Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Ava Rios
“You’re back!”
Adam surged to his feet as she entered, ignoring whatever he’d been watching. Ava just sighed happily and buried her face in his chest.
He put a hand round the back of her head and rubbed it. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” She said. “You were right, I was being… uptight, I guess.”
“Change your mind?”
“A bit, yeah. I thought about it some, and… I guess.”
“You guess?”
Ava nodded. “Are we going swimming this weekend then?” she asked
“…Do you want to?”
“Do you?"
Adam paused. “It sounds like fun.” he said.
“Then we’ll go.” Ava agreed.
“Are you sure? If you’re not…"
“Adam.” she went up on tiptoes to kiss him. “No, I’m not sure. Our home was destroyed, I moved halfway across the galaxy with you, I’m living with you now. I miss my mom and dad, I miss my friends, I miss… Come on, I had a conversation today with a five foot tall raccoon man who thinks I’m weird for praying! I’m not sure about anything, except that I’m not ready for any of this."
She sighed “…Maybe I just need to leave behind what I used to think was ‘normal’ or ‘weird’. Maybe there’s no such thing.”
“Maybe we just need to stop worrying and try and have fun.” Adam finished the thought for her.
Ava smiled into his chest. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
HMS Myrmidon, Cimbrean System, The Far Reaches
Captain David Manning
"Myrmidon, strike team has the survivors, we’re pulling out."
“First good news I’ve had for several minutes, Powell!”
Things were going badly. Swarm-ships were dogpiling the beleaguered human craft, warping in from all across the huge sphere of their blockade. Each one cut down their options, each one robbed them of safe havens in the melee. As their options dwindled, as the number of bogies climbed, each blink-jump took longer to calculate, especially given the need to coordinate with Caledonia to ensure that they didn’t both jump to the same place.
The fact that the other ship had joined the fight was the only thing that had kept Myrmidon from being overwhelmed, but both of them were now running short on staying power. Caledonia had just trickled below the 50% mark, Myrmidon was even lower.
Their EOB was full. EWAR was working overtime tasking the limits of both the systems and their human operators. Three of the Skymasters were offline venting heat, and the rest were borderline. The CIWS had all run out of ammo. The battlefield was a hazard in its own right now, thick with tumbling wreckage and high-speed shrapnel.
Learning that the raid was a success put a huge top-up in his morale.
Right up until the point where the whole ship lurched and screamed.
“Report!”
“We’re hit amidships… Looks like it took out a capacitor bank.”
“Fire on C-deck, mid! Damage Control, seal and vent!”
“Sir, we’re below the red line!”
The red line was their minimum threshold for jumping back to anchorage. They had only one shot at survival.
“Skymasters to ballistic, shunt the reactor output to emergency charge. Throw out our WITCHES.”
Aurora crackled around her as Myrmidon flung wide her energy-catching shields, which flared and glowed wherever they intersected some hurtling particle or cloud of gas.
“Above red line in four minutes.”
“Swarm-ships closing. Guns are holding off the big ones… little ones are through.”
Manning grabbed his microphone. “All hands, prepare to repel boarders!”
“Signal from Caledonia sir, they request a sitrep."
“Tell them it’s a bit sticky over here!”
For a few busy seconds, Manning was left alone as the crew rushed to do their jobs. His ship groaned as the first Hunter boarding proboscis violated her.
“Signal from Caledonia sir. Quote: ‘Took liberty of arranging backup stop sit tight stop’."
“Marines report hostile contact on B deck aft.”
“Ditto D deck port…. ditto D deck forward. Ditto A deck dorsal.”
Manning grabbed a pistol from the weapons locker at the back of the bridge. “Red line?”
“Three minutes twenty, sir.”
He glanced the information available to him. “How long until that big one catches us?” While the little dropships weren’t a problem for making good their escape, if the huge ship now bearing down on them latched on then its tonnage would add hugely to the energy demands of the jump engine, effectively trapping them on the battlefield to be swamped and devoured. Evasive action would only serve to drain their remaining capacitors of much-needed energy.
“About two minutes forty, sir.”
Manning scowled, and loaded his weapon. He could hear gunfire on the deck outside the bridge. “Then we do as the man says and sit tight.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Lower District, First City, Planet Perfection
Vakno; “The Contact”
“Next.”
The being that entered her study did so cloaked, as requested, and supporting themselves on a walking aid of some kind. Vakno double-checked her files for the day, refamiliarizing herself with the details of this particular client.
It was redundant. Vakno’s memory for her clients was absolutely perfect, but that perfection came about as a result of her scrupulous attention to revision. Even so, there was no way she could forget this particular client. From the very first day, their deal had been an enormously lucrative one for her.
From what her networks told her, the client was making good use of the information in turn. In some circles, that would be a cause for significant alarm
But not in this one. All The Contact cared about was getting paid.
She offered her guest the courtesy of a seat appropriate to their anatomy, which they sank into with a grateful groan of relief.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” They said.
“Your notice is always short.” Vakno replied. “But for you, I’ll extend the courtesy of not minding.”
She watched her guest throw back the hood of their cloak, and don a pair of vision-correcting lenses, before beginning their business transaction.
“So. What is it you want this time, Doctor Hussein?”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
Battlespace, Cimbrean System, The Far Reaches.
Rylee Jackson
“Jump complete… they’re covered in boarders.”
“If that big one latches on they won’t be able to jump out.”
Rylee was still getting used to having a partner in the back seat, but right now she was glad that Lieutenant Semenza was there. So much was going on in the battle space that she would have hated to try and fly, gun and play the music all at once.
“Copy that. Edda wing, clear out the little ones. Only those within one click of Myrmidon."
“Wilco, Odyssey. Edda wing, weapons tight, sweep and clear. Til Valhal!"
"OORAH!"
“Odyssey wing, Firebird actual. Let’s fuck up the big one."
She grinned along with the relish in Semenza’s voice. “Copy that. Arming a bruiser."
Rylee came about and canopy-rolled around and underneath a smashed Hunter ship at twelve Gs, comfortable and grinning as Firebird automatically shunted some of its ample energy reserves into the warp engine’s inertial compensation system to protect them from the punishing acceleration. A snow of frozen atmosphere, metal debris and bits of cooling meat hissed off the forcefields, but the maneuver ended with them lined up on the biggest ship, which was advancing on Myrmidon despite the efforts of her last functioning Skymaster to hold it at bay.
The maneuver had been practiced thousands of times in the simulator. Now it was time to test if the programmers had got it right.
“Shieldbreaking.”
She felt the familiar shove in the back as the GAU-8/S howled beneath her, violently decelerating her ship. She heard Semenza counting under his breath.
“…mississippi, two mississippi… Odyssey One, fox three." he announced.
Firebird lurched as the missile disengaged and tore away from them, and Rylee peeled out of the attack run.
Three clicks away, a cloud of 30mm rounds smacked into the Hunter ship’s shields, overwhelming them in a second. While a few penetrated, the ship was so large that the damage would be cosmetic at first. But their objective was complete.
Half a second behind them, travelling much too fast for the eye to follow and still accelerating hard, the Bruiser anti-ship missile struck its target amidships.
"Good kill!" somebody yelled. The celebration was not premature - the Hunter ship had been broken in half, and both those halves were on fire and disintegrating, as dead as dead could get.
There was a broadcast in the clear. "Allied units, Myrmidon is above the red line. Much appreciated."
The besieged ship vanished. An instant later, so did Caledonia.
Seconds behind them, so too did Edda and Odyssey wings.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w AV
"Sanctuary", landed on Planet Ikbrzk
Allison Buehler
“…Oh."
“Shit.”
“Quite.”
“So the Igraens were… wild, vicious, cannibal murder machines before they uploaded themselves?”
“Oh, no. No, not at all. But they were already a highly advanced civilization at the apex of their power, just before the fall. One with the capacity to treat a being’s sense of self, their… how best to put this…"
“Their soul?” Allison suggested.
“Let us call it their Subjective Continuity of Experience. Which they were able to treat as data, to be transferred from device to device."
“And deleted from the original? That sounds like you’d effectively suicide every time you moved on.” Allison mused.
“The Igraens did not seem to care for such philosophical vacillation.” Vedreg’s tone suggested that he shared this dismissive attitude. “But in the centuries immediately prior to their… technological apotheosis, they set about exploiting their newfound liberation by creating a variety of custom-built bodies suitable for different environments and work. One of which was a bio- mechanical caste of soldier forms they developed specifically for going to war against the V’Straki.”
“The Hunters.”
“Yes.”
“…I take it they won.”
“Oh yes. But only barely. The V’straki were a tenacious foe, masters of weaponized forms of radiation, and the subject of some considerable fascination - they are one of the more interesting and noteworthy species recorded in the archives.”
“Why?” Kirk asked.
“Because, old friend, they were the only spacefaring species other than… well.” Vedreg indicated Allison and the sleeping Julian “-ever recorded as having evolved on a class twelve planet.”
He sighed. “And so the Igraens destroyed them. They cloaked some asteroids, set them to collide with the V’Straki homeworld, and mopped up the few survivors. And therein lies the first happenstance - there is an alternative interpretation for the motive behind quarantining Earth, quite aside from one herd animal’s panic - you are Deathworlders, and the Igraens will want you dead. Containing you is the first step in your destruction.”
“What, by setting up an impenetrable forcefield?” Allison scoffed. “Doesn’t that kind of stop them from throwing rocks at us?"
“It would… if your home system did not already contain an ample supply of suitable ‘rocks’ orbiting well inside the shield boundary. And if that fails, they have other options lined up.”
Julian shifted on his cot, turned over slightly, and looked straight at Vedreg. Even Allison jumped - none of them had even suspected he was awake.
“How do you know that?" he asked.
The huge alien hesitated. “….I, ah. Well. It stands to reason. Nothing that old or capable of wiping out one class twelve species is going to fail to have contingency plans.”
“Bullshit.” Julian sat up, wincing at the mismatch between the reduced physical state of his leg, and his kinesthetic sense telling him that his foot was now below the floor. “You said these archives are Yottabyes large. You said that even the best search algorithms take decades to produce the goods. You’ve had… what, a year? Since your friend died?"
“How do you know that?" Vedreg countered.
“I watch the news. The death of the Guvnurag secretary of security from an unexpected brain haemorrhage made quite the headline. Don’t try and deflect me. There’s no way you could know even half of this stuff, without it being common knowledge.”
“How do you know it isn’t?”
“Because Kirk’s been listening to you and asking questions.” Julian pointed out. Kirk inclined his head, seeing the logic. “If Kirk doesn’t know it, then it’s not common knowledge.”
“I… ah.”
“If this ‘Hierarchy’ has worked for so long to keep their implant… civilization, thing, whatever, a secret and are competent enough to do all this stuff, then there’s no way you figured it all out on your own in just one year." He paused. “No offense. You’re smart, Vedreg, but nobody’s that smart."
Vedreg sat with colours swarming on his flanks like a psychedelic ’60s TV show special effect, as they all stared at him, waiting for an explanation. Finally, he settled down into one solid colour - the magnolia glow of resolve.
Vedreg took a deep breath and spoke. “He called himself… ‘Six’.”
Chapter 21
Chapter 18: “Baggage” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
~7,200 y BV
He hadn’t earned his name yet. Not his adult one. His test of manhood was still ahead of him, and so the men called him “little runner”.
Not so little any more, though. Every time the great heat rose, he seemed to himself to be that little bit taller, that little bit stronger, that little bit faster.
And he dreamed of being the one to run down the meat. To be named for providing a feast for his people.
And so he ran. The more he ran, the easier running became, the further he could go. He knew that if he needed to, he could run from darkness to darkness, but you only did that if you have to. And you certainly didn’t run through the worst of the high day’s heat.
Even men had their limits. Boys, even more so. No water skin could hold enough to keep cool during the fiercest of the great heat’s glare. Even sitting in the cool and waving away the flies could leave men and wives feeling sick on the worst days.
Which was why, when he heard the voices, his first response was to stop, step into the shelter of a fat man tree, and spend a little water cooling his head. He didn’t feel strange in the way that usually preceded the heat-sickness, but to hear voices when he had run for most of the morning? He was not near his village, and not stupid enough to stray onto the land of any other tribe. At best they would have beaten him before sending him home. At worst, only his head would have been sent back to his mother. He didn’t run towards the sunset for that reason.
The voices did not speak words he knew. There were two of them, quite clear, not fuzzy and strange like dream-voices. He could glean nothing from their words, but he could hear something in them, the sounds made when a man and his wife squabbled. The word “cadence” would have been appropriate, had he known it.
Now confident that his head was cool and clear, and that the arguers did not know of him, his thoughts turned to knowledge. Who were these voices? Where were they? Why were they on his tribe’s land?
The unknown was dangerous. He stepped closer, caressing the ground with his feet as the old men had shown him. The voices continued to bicker, oblivious to his approach.
What he saw when he peeked around the fat man tree very nearly sent him fleeing for the village, crying his alarm like a startled bird.
They did not touch the ground.
There were two of them, in the air like a fly but as large as Little Runner himself. Their skins shone like the sun on wet rock, or maybe like mirage. Bright and strange, beyond his understanding. It was the first time any of his tribe had ever seen metal.
Whatever these things were - gods or demons or something else - they scared him, and so he retreated, as stealthy as before… until his spear rattled on a branch.
The impossible flying wet-rock beasts turned, and green eyes glared at him. Both raised up into the air and began to move closer, chattering excitedly at one another.
He had two options. Flee, or fight.
He fought.
Some minutes later, after the surprise had worn off, he gingerly approached the fallen wet-rock beast and prodded it. His thrown spear had penetrated its eye, killing it at once. The other had vanished like a spark coiling up to the night and its stars.
When his prod elicited no response, he gripped his spear and pulled. It came away with a crunch and a horrible noise, and light flashed inside the dead beast’s eye.
Some minutes later, he found the courage to approach again, and prodded it with his spear, achieving nothing.
He tried to lift his prey - it was heavy, but he managed it. Though, it was a morning’s good run back to the village. Carrying this strange, meatless carcass the whole way would be a challenge.
He knew exactly where he was of course. Coming back with the men to show them this thing he had slain would be easy. But the other one had simply gone like spilled water soaking into the thirsty earth. This dead one might do something similar while he was away. Or perhaps its vanished companion would return and take it.
A trophy was called for. Gingerly, he reached for the broken green eye.
He made a startled sound of pain and sucked at his finger, sliced open as easily as would be done by even the best of the stone-former’s spearheads. Even dead, this thing was clearly dangerous. But a dead eye that could cut like that would be the perfect trophy.
It took some trial and error, but eventually he managed to smash out all of the strange, rock-like material of the eye to carry home in his back. A bit of force and grunting broke off one of the beast’s lower legs, made of that strange wet-rock. Any more would only tire him on the run home.
The old men would know about these things, he knew.
When he had finally gone, the cloaked Corti field drone finally became visible again, and inspected the body of its destroyed counterpart.
“A sharp stick, right through the optical sensor and into the primary processor.” Ngilt commented. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or offended.”
“Tool use, curiosity, obvious attempts to think about the situation… Oh dear.” Trifflo added. “Oh very dear."?
“You can’t be suggesting that thing was sapient?”
“You may not have got a clear view of it through your damaged drone, partner, but I did. It was wearing clothes. It was carrying tools. If that thing was a mere nonsapient animal then I’m a Dizi rat."
“But this is a class twelve!”
Trifflo sneered across the laboratory at his counterpart. “The impossibility of sapient life on deathworlds was only ever a hypothesis.” he remarked. “and any hypothesis which contradicts reality…”
“…Is wrong.” Ngilt finished for him. “Still. The damage to our careers if we start claiming to have found an intelligent - albeit primitive - deathworlder?”
“Ghastly.” Trifflo agreed. “To be shared only among our most trusted contacts. If the Directorate heard us saying such things, we’d both be stuck on frontier survey ships indefinitely.”
“Yes. Best to keep it a secret. It won’t be secret forever, but at least our own advancement won’t be adversely affected.”
“Mark this world as unusable and move on?”
“Oh, yes. Different star system, I think.”
“I quite agree.”
That conversation, all by itself, saved the human race from extinction.
Seven thousand years later
HMS Myrmidon , Cimbrean system, The Far Reaches
It would have surprised Lance-Corporal Rob Garland to learn that he was, very distantly indeed, a direct male-line descendant of the first human ever to encounter alien life.
Given the situation, however, he would not have been thinking about it, even if there had been any way for him to know.
The hull screamed. It was exactly the right word - a kind of high, singing noise of pain that sounded like it belonged to the mouth of something alive, rather than to steel and ceramic.
“There! Pull back!”
Royal Marines were a well-drilled and professional fighting unit among the very best Earth had to offer. The order was damn near redundant, but Garland was glad for it anyway. By twos, the team moved away from the offending bulkhead, which was starting to shake alarmingly as Hunter boarding craft violated Myrmidon. The Hunters would almost certainly open with a volley of nervejam grenades, and they did not want to be caught in that.
The ship was in serious trouble, and everyone knew it, but all that meant to a marine was that you fought harder.
He heard Sergeant Vickery report the breach, calm and level. “Contact D deck forward.” In a movie, he would have yelled it, but this was real life. In real life, you stayed ice-cold, reported the facts, stayed on target.
The other team further down Myrmidon’s length reported contact of their own. He noted the fact, sticking a mental pin in his imaginary map of the ship, another contact in front of them. None flanking them, yet.
The bulkhead gave, devoured by a hungry whirl of grinding devices that chewed it away from the outside. The maw thus revealed vomited out, as predicted, a spread of little white coins, and ever man diverted their eyes. Even so, the exotic energies of Nervejam stung, like a really hard sneeze, but their fighting efficiency wasn’t impaired at all, which was why when the Hunters charged from their assault craft, they weren’t met with a carpet of convulsing and dying men, but with a disciplined volley of shotgun fire.
Shipboard combat was close quarters, and the vacuum outside was death. Weaponry that could pierce the hull was absolutely verboten, but 12 gauge flechette rounds were absolutely ideal - hardly any risk of hull penetration, very little ricochet, damn near impossible to miss, and the sheer volume of projectiles overwhelmed alien combat shielding, leaving the bare flesh to be ripped and ruined.
The first wave of Hunters barely managed to get a shot off. The one that did fired some kind of sizzling short spear that jammed quivering in the metal bulkhead behind Garland’s ear, having missed him only because of adrenaline- heightened reflexes and luck.
“Jimmy! Get a grenade in there!” Vickery ordered. Rob pulled back into cover to thumb some more shells into his magazine - he wouldn’t be able to fire while Corporal David James was up in front.
Jimmy had the best throwing arm in the squad, and it sent an antipersonnel grenade thumping and skittering up the Hunters’ ramp an instant before another one of those spears caught him right in the middle of his Osprey’s chest plate, smashing him back.
He was dragged to cover in a second as the grenade went off, but it had no apparent effect on these Hunters. These ones were more machine than flesh, covered in equipment and their forcefields were visible as a turquoise iridescence in the gunsmoke haze. They pounced and danced on mechanical feet that never stopped moving, buying them speed and agility even in the narrow confines of the ship. One of them actually sidestepped onto the wall and then along the ceiling, cradling a heavy weapon in its two “natural” limbs while a pair of some kind of light projectile weapon whined at the ends of two artificial arachnoid appendages that grew out of his back and over its shoulders.
Doing so it exposed it, and the human firepower smashed its shielding, and the creature itself a second later, but not before one of the little crescent shuriken projectiles from those guns nicked Garland’s leg, drawing blood. He hissed, but ignored it.
A second of the larger Hunters was knocked staggering by another grenade, and was dismembered by the gunshots, but the third one leapt over its fallen comrade, scuttled inverted along the ceiling for three paces, dropped as the shotgun rounds converged, rolled, came up, and fired the big gun that it was carrying in its organic arms.
Sergeant Vickery died instantly as a wad of high-pressure incandescent copper plasma struck him center-mass, flinging his burning corpse down the deck with a horrific charred cavity where his chest had been, setting the fire alarms wailing and immediately leaving squad leadership in Rob Garland’s hands.
There were four more of the enhanced ones behind the one that had just killed the sergeant, even as it was finally cut down. The marines ducked for cover as those Hunters fired their own volleys of lethal plasma, which scored and ruined _Myrmidon’_s bulkheads and left the steel running like candle wax. And behind them, a small horde of the “basic” hunters was taking its time down the ramp, content to let the heavies do all the work.
There was no second volley, though, and Rob could see that their weapons were glowing like a forge. He guessed that they had just long enough while those guns cooled down to try something insane.
“Knives out! CHARGE!!”
He felt the ship shift and the curious dropping sensation that always accompanied a displacement as his team leapt from cover.
The move caught the Hunters completely off-guard, and they recoiled from the assault, spraying their shard-throwers uselessly into the ceiling as they flinched, and went down in a dog-pile as the marines crashed into them, plunging their F-S fighting-knives into eyes, throats and anywhere that looked vital.
The lesser Hunters in the rear, armed only with pulse guns against a team of determined professional killers in full Osprey armour, didn’t stand a prayer. Marine Atwell checked their boarding vessel.
“Ship’s empty!” he called
Garland nodded and took stock. Corporal James was alive and being tended by the medics, but too wounded to keep fighting, and he could still hear shooting from amidships. Most of the lads had injuries of some kind, mostly burns from the close heat of the plasma guns, but nothing to slow them down.
“D-deck forward clear, one man down. Moving to clear D-deck mid.” He reported. “Come on, lads.”
A minute later, when his men crashed into the flank of the Hunters laying siege to the stairwell which led straight to the CIC, theirs was the last kill of the failed Hunter boarding action on HMS Myrmidon.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 1d AV
The Grand Conclave, Hunter Space
The Alpha of Alphas
<Due respect> +The sensor records as requested, Greatest.+
From the perspective of the Alpha-of-Alphas, assimilating the data and analysing it was a sensation not dissimilar to popping a morsel of flesh into its mouth and investigating the unique flavours. That sensation was no accident, having been deliberately engineered into the firmware of its own personal and highly customized suite of cybernetics.
Its lofty position granted it the luxury of being an epicure, in many different respects. Meat, obviously, was the visible focus of its gourmand appetites, but it had not become Alpha-of-Alphas only by eating meat. The position had been won ultimately by the fruits of its other, more urgent hunger: a thirst for insight and knowledge that would remain unquenched even if the Alpha-of-Alphas spent the rest of its days figuratively drowning in data.
These particular data were full of tender mysteries, which it peeled apart, turning the juicy enigmas over in its mind and slowly stripping them down layer by succulent layer, savouring the exquisite spices of elucidation as they blossomed in its mind.
There was much that could not be determined. The feast of information was tainted, riddled with sour gaps in the logs brought on by exotic manipulations of the electromagnetic spectrum which had dazzled and confuse the swarm’s sensors. The early records of the fight were meager fare indeed, barely an aperitif - it was only when the Swarm-craft began to arrive in earnest and overload the beleaguered human craft’s resources that the information began to become coherent, and that state only lasted a few seconds before the wave of smaller Human ships had arrived, reversing the flow of not only the physical battle, but also the digital one.
What could be gleaned, however, thoroughly impressed it. Chemical-propellant weaponry using warp fields to overcome the problem of their relatively glacial velocity across the huge distances involved in space combat. The precision timing of bringing a Brood-Transport’s ship down with a storm of weak firepower an instant before a hurtling kinetic missile ended the ship and the lives of every one of the two-hundred strong Ripping-Brood.
The tactics were exceptional. These humans understood the Hunt in a way that even Hunters themselves sometimes failed to. Information was controlled, traps laid, escapes predicted and retaliations, evaded. The opening ambush was simply masterful, reminding the Alpha-of-Alphas of the overwhelming strike from hiding that had won the victory against the Vulza atop whose chemically treated and preserved skull the Alpha-of-Alphas now sat.
It took note of the data from inside the wounded human vessel, sent back from the doomed broods that had assaulted it. There was little that could be done about the Deathworlder firearms - so much kinetic ammunition filling the air would overwhelm anything less than starship shielding, but the information as to which tactics had been effective and which had not was invaluable.
The fusion-tipped spear throwers clearly were inadequate. Too similar to human ballistic armour, they would wound, but not kill, and a live Deathworlder was still unacceptably dangerous. The rapid-fire shuriken guns had not scored a single kill. Only the plasma weaponry seemed to be reliably dangerous to them, but it ruined the meat and was slow to cool down between shots. Hardly surprising, considering that the weapons were designed to destroy heavy ground vehicles.
Nervejam was clearly their greatest fear, but it was equally dangerous to the Hunters themselves. Worse, in some ways - feeling the agony of one of the Brood caught in a Nervejam could stun the survivors for a few fatal seconds. It was reluctant to order more widespread deployment of the grenade launchers.
Though it stuck in the craw, the only sensible solution seemed to be to try and develop an analog of the Deathworlders’ own weaponry. If they had built it to kill one another, then it would presumably be effective.
Some questions remained. The human ship had plainly lost power at some point, and yet had still kept firing before jumping out. This raised an interesting conundrum about the nature of its internal systems.
One mystery above all, however, was truly fascinating. The human vessels had danced across the combat volume, blinking from place to place the moment they came under fire. Only sheer numbers had defeated that trick, but there was nothing in the data to suggest how it was done. Only displacement wormholes could move a ship in such a way, and yet there was no sign of any corresponding beacon - the alien vessels simply jumped, without apparently having anything to guide them.
The Alpha-of-Alphas was undoubtedly among the most intelligent beings in the galaxy, but it was a very focused intelligence - within its own intellectual demesnes, nothing in the galaxy was its equal. Outside of them, however…
<resignation; distaste> +Bring me the Alpha of the Brood-That-Builds+ it commanded.
<Information> +that one is far away, greatest. I will send for it at once, but it will not arrive for some (days).+ one of the subordinates sent.
<impatient tolerance> +stress upon it that I desire its presence as soon as possible. If I am kept waiting, the Brood-That-Builds will need to find a new Alpha.+
<Obedience> +It shall be as the Alpha-of-Alphas commands.+
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 1d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Rylee Jackson
“Did you see the muscles on that one?"
Rylee laughed. She sure had, and as she watched Sergeant Jones - “Legsy” - spin a tall tale to a laughing audience about how Corporal Murray had hurt his hand, the mental image flashed into her head of herself, wrapped around his waist and gasping.
She shook it away. Jones was a non-com vastly junior to her in rank and from a coalition unit. She’d be risking a ruined reputation and a seriously truncated career, and that was the best case scenario. Jones’ CO, Powell, struck her as the kind of by-the-book hardass who’d have her wings thrown in the fire if he found out, fame be damned. Jones, meanwhile, would be risking prison. While the rationale behind those regulations had never really convinced her, she wasn’t about to start ignoring them.
Not worth it, she decided. She was just processing the hormonal residue of an intense and dangerous combat operation, but there were options for working that out without violating regulations, even if she was especially fond of big, muscular comedians.
Folctha colony had thrown a big party for the newcomers from the freighter and all of the military personnel who’d been able to get leave, which included Rylee. Most of the colony was there, enjoying what was actually some very old- fashioned fun. A big fire, a pig roast - or some local Cimbrean equivalent of a pig, anyway - lots of beer, some instruments, singing and dancing…
And sex. That much was obvious, there was going to be a fair bit of that tonight. She was damned if she was going to miss out.
To fight the temptation posed by Jones, she hauled herself to her feet, excused herself, and made a slow bee-line for the kegs of local brew, paying attention to the locals.
Folctha had attracted a certain sort of person, she noticed. They were mostly young or in their early forties at the oldest. There was a certain… liberalness. It wasn’t anything explicit, and it wasn’t universal, but there was definitely the sense that the people here really did have the adventurous mindset and open-minded attitude which might drive them to leave Earth in pursuit of an uncertain future on an alien world. Some of that cavalier attitude manifested itself in the way they dressed, stood and spoke.
She found what she was looking for flipping burgers on one of the charcoal barbeques - six and a half feet tall, middle-length blond hair and a bit of a well-groomed beard. Beefy, strong-looking, and covered in tattoos. If he hadn’t been wearing a ring on his left hand to match the girl with the pierced lip and partly-shaved, braided brown hair who was sitting next to him watching the grill’s fire glowing on his muscles, he would have been perfect.
Still. Rylee wasn’t afraid to strike out and who knew? If she was very lucky, maybe those rings would just turn out to be the icing on the cake.
Who dared, won.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Starship Sanctuary , deep space, the Frontier Worlds
Krrkktnkk “Kirk” A’ktnnzzik’tk
“Here we go again…”
Kirk looked around. Amir had taken to piloting Sanctuary with remarkable skill, which he attributed to video games and hanging out with “the boy racers” whatever they were. The cockpit, designed for Kirk’s proportions, sometimes gave him trouble in reaching a few of the ancillary controls, but the ship’s control systems were designed to be used by anything, and intuitively. He was shaping up to be an excellent pilot.
Unfortunately, when it came to interstellar travel, piloting consisted of just sitting in the seat and watching the stars go by, staying in the chair only in case of gravity spikes - which Sanctuary’s Directorate-made blackbox drive ignored - or sudden unexpected masses directly in the line of travel, which were statistically the closest thing to being an impossibility, and in any case the computer navigated around long before any organic pilot needed to become involved.
Human science fiction had long imagined exciting and dramatic FTL travel full of rushing sparks of light, or maybe a tunnel of somewhere else. The reality was much less visually impressive: The stars moved, slowly. That was it.
Sanctuary was incomprehensibly fast, with a cruising speed of nearly five hundred kilolights. Only the human TS-2 could match her speeds of fifty light years per hour or more, and only for an extraordinarily brief sprint. Even at her velocious pace, though, the movement of the stars was slow enough to swiftly become boring.
In an emergency, if they wanted to risk a few burned out systems, Kirk reckoned that a million lights was within his “yacht”’s grasp, though there was no conceivable reason why they would need to travel so fast.
The result was tedium, and the ship’s occupants had to spend most of their time finding ways to entertain themselves. For Kirk, that was trawling through the vast archived tracts of the Terran Internet that he’d collected, studying humanity in all its fascinating detail. He’d just encountered something called “League of Legends” and while figuring out the basics of this electronic sport had been trivial, it was clear that the players were operating several meta- levels above his own current understanding.
Lewis, manning the ship’s sensors, seemed to be quite content to giggle at footage of gricka - cats - all day, though he’d once tried to engage Kirk by playing an album called “Dark Side of the Moon” alongside a movie called “The Wizard of Oz”. Kirk had readily agreed that both were fascinating artistic experiences by themselves, though he wasn’t at all clear what additional stimulus Lewis was getting out of playing them simultaneously.
Amir, for his part, rarely shared whatever it was he watched or listened to. Now, seeing Kirk and Lewis turn towards him with questioning expressions, he turned his monitor to show them.
“Julian and Allison again.” he explained.
“Oh, shit.” Lewis laughed, scooting over for a better view. “Hey, we got any popcorn?”
“What is ‘pop corn’ please?” Vedreg asked, a cautious tendril of light green curiosity infiltrating up his expression bands.
“Light snack, traditionally consumed when about to watch something interesting.” Kirk said. “What are they doing, Amir?”
The englishman sighed. “She’s turned a training session into an excuse to tease him again.” he said.
Kirk inspected the monitor, and sighed.
Building Julian a prosthetic foot had been trivial: Sanctuary’s workshop was outfitted in the cutting edge of nanofabrication tools, and a medical bay just pseudo-intelligent enough to perform the surgery itself, under careful supervision.
The hardest part, in fact, had been designing it so as to minimize his rehabilitation time. Tactile and kinesthetic feedback sensors had been crucial, as had matching the weight, the angles of motion, even the way that a human foot naturally spread out and contracted as the weight of the body shifted around. They had spent the whole morning just fine-tuning those functions, dismantling and reassembling dozens of trivially different designs until finally Julian was able to mount one onto the cuff at the end of his truncated leg and immediately say “Yeah. That feels like a real foot.”
Just to make sure he was properly acclimatized however, Allison had insisted that he should do some Yoga with her.
Now, it looked like she had an ulterior motive. Kirk’s nostrils narrowed, a direct equivalent to the human frown. He hauled himself out of his seat, squeezed past Vedreg, and trotted off towards the gym. This had gone on long enough.
Sure enough, he met Julian in the corridor, stumping back toward his bunk with a furious expression, though Kirk was pleased to note that his gait seemed entirely normal and comfortable on his new prosthetic.
“I’ll talk to her” he promised, as Julian stopped and gave him an exasperated shrug.
“Do. I’m getting sick of this shit.”
In the gym, Allison was cooling down with some stretches and gentler, easier Yoga poses as he entered. “Back already Etsicitty?” she asked. “I figured you’d… oh. Hey, Kirk.”
Kirk gave her his best glare as he entered, hearing the gravity plates automatically adjust around him to keep him safe.
“I cannot have this, Allison.” he informed her. “We are on a mission here, I need both your minds on the job, and right now you are the problem. You have gone from genuine concern for him to taunting him overnight, now that he is mending."
There was a long pause. Finally, Allison’s shoulders dropped, and she uncoiled from her cross-legged position on the floor, stood and turned to face him.
“Okay, I hear ya,” she said slowly. “but, Kirk, I’ma let you in on a secret. Julian is fucking hot." She looked up at the ceiling. “like, oh my god, the things I’d do to that man…" she spaced out for a second, lower lip caught between her teeth.
“…And?” Kirk had no idea where she was going with this. She snapped back to reality.
“Well, that’s the problem.”
“I really do not follow you.”
Allison sighed. “Kirk, I didn’t get back on this ship to fuck that guy.”
“Well, I guessed as much. But why did you? Most of the others left. This ship feels empty with only the four of you still on it, and I cannot remember the last time Lewis or Amir even left the ship."
“Because I’d forgotten just how shitty Earth is.” She confided, tucking a stray strand of hair back behind her ear
“Shitty?”
Allison exhaled, picking up a towel and mopping her forehead with it. “What have I got waiting for me back there?” She asked. “Serving lattes twenty hours a week and fixing bikes the other twenty? All so I can afford rent and, if I’m not too tired for it, some time down at the gun range? Busting my ass at the gym four times a week because booty means tips? I felt like a goddamn porn star the way some of the customers used to stare at me! And the blacktop warrior assholes who used to try and get me on their bikes, ugh!"
She flung her towel at the laundry basket and it seemed to personally offend her when she missed. “There’s more to life than having to put up with the same fat scarf-wearing poser every day who came in to order a fucking tall fucking caramel fucking zero-fat fucking frappucino in a venti cup! I swear that greasy asshole only ordered it because I had to dig through three fridges to make it all so he could stare at my ass while I was bending over! And he was just one of, like, ten! ten fucksticks just like him! For minimum goddamn piece of shit fucking wage!"
Kirk had instinctively retreated to the opposite side of the room, propelled by an instinct shared both by herbivores facing a raging predator, and men facing a raging woman.
Somehow, she was worse when she suddenly got quiet. “There’s more to life.” she repeated. “There’s… making a difference, like we are here. There’s being more than just somebody else’s wage-slave piece of eye candy. Like… if I’m gonna be sexy, I just… I want it to be on my terms. You know?"
She took a deep, cleansing breath, and picked up the towel. “Julian’s a really nice guy, but he puts me off balance. I know I shouldn’t tease him like I do but… I mean, it puts me back in control.” Kirk watched her as she opened the laundry basket and dropped the towel into it. “I’m sorry.”
“Apologize to him. He is the one you are making uncomfortable.”
“I know, I know… I just…” she tidied some stray hair out of her face. “We’d get along great, I think. And a big part of me wants that. I kinda feel like I have to put a wall there, y’know? Keep him at a distance."
“Would it really be so bad if you gave in?” Kirk asked.
“Yeah. I’d be risking this. I’d be risking mattering, don’t you see?"
“Risking?”
“Oh come on! Sex Equals Babies! I don’t CARE how careful you are, all the pills and condoms in the world aren’t perfectly safe!"
“The odds…”
“ANY odds is odds I’m not willing to take.” Allison snapped. “I will not risk a lifetime of obscurity as some hard-working nobody back on Earth versus this, no matter how good the odds."
“I… think I understand. I do not think I approve, but I at least understand where you are coming from.”
Allison gave him a tired smile. “Thanks. I’m not sure I do myself, but… thanks.”
“Just… try to dial it back at least. You two work well together. I would like you to keep working well together, yes?"
“…Yeah. I’ll try.”
She turned towards the door towards the quarters and was halfway across the room before a thought seemed to strike her.
“Okay, hey.” she said, turning back. “Your turn.”
Kirk tilted his head at her. “…My turn?” he asked.
“Yeah!” She sank down cross-legged on the yoga mat. “Come on, I just got, like, all my baggage out there, and I tell you, it feels pretty good just venting to someone who’ll listen. So… I’m here for you buddy, come on." She waved an arm towards herself. “Get it off your chest.”
After she’d had time to correctly interpret his expression as incredulity, she followed up with: “…What?”
“Nobody has ever offered me something like that before.” Kirk admitted. “You are asking how I am feeling?”
“Well… yeah.” Allison agreed. “What, is that weird or something?”
“Unprecedented.”
“For real?”
“…Yes.”
“Wow. That’s… kinda depressing.”
Kirk paced around the room, pausing by one of the small windows. "My baggage." He mused.
“Yeah.”
“I… do not know if I am ready. I do not think I can put it into words, yet.”
“Oooh, dramatic.” She winced at herself, as Kirk gave her what was unmistakably a tired glare. “Sorry.”
Kirk exhaled a sigh. “I will share. In time. I think you are right that I need to,” he said. “But I need to sort it out for myself first.”
She nodded her understanding and stood again. “I’ll be here.” she promised. “and… I’ll apologise to Julian and try to, y’know… go easy on him.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 1d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Ava Rios
“Hey, Ava!”
Ava had volunteered to help with the cooking, and was quietly growing very sick indeed of slicing the burger buns by the time that Hayley, Sara’s mom, tapped her on the shoulder.
“Hi Hayley. How’re you…” She trailed off, noticing who was standing a little ways behind Hayley, alongside her huge husband, Mark.
Fortunately, Hayley took it for a straightforward 'How’re you?’.
“Oh, we’re great. Having a great time. I was just… do you think you could do us a favour?” She asked.
“What favor?” Ava asked.
“Could you, er… could the kids sleep round your place tonight? We’re having a guest over.”
Floating in a kind of stunned emptiness as she processed the implications of that request, Ava heard her mouth say “Yeah, uh… sure! Yeah, we, uh, we can do that for you.”
“You’re the best!” Hayley exclaimed, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
She left, in the company of her husband and one of the most famous women in the world. Just before the three of them vanished into the dark, Ava could have sworn she saw the two women kiss.
She excused herself from burger-bun duty and squeezed through the crowd until she found Adam, who was hanging out with his dad.
“You won’t believe who I just saw going home with Hayley and Mark…" she began.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Ceres Base, Sol
Drew Cavendish
Adele Park was not, in Drew’s opinion, a pretty woman. The features inherited from her Korean father contrasted a little too strangely with those of her Czech mother for that word to apply, but she used them well, combining them with her tailored suit and businesslike haircut to present the absolute picture of poised corporate refinement.
Seeing her so distressed was a new and appalling experience.
“You, of all people?!" She demanded, looking him in the eye after watching the video. Drew could swear he saw a tear there.
"No." he said firmly. "Not me. I don’t remember doing it, and more to the point, I wouldn’t do it."
Jim Riordan, the LLC’s security director, didn’t look convinced. “I’ve had this looked at by experts back on Earth.” He said, mild and unflappable as ever. “There’s no digital artefacts, no sign of any editing, nothing. According to them, this is what the cameras really saw. And you’re going to tell us it wasn’t you?"
“Cavvo wouldn’t.” Drew M piped up. He’d been the first person that Cavendish had gone to, and been trusted immediately.
“Every man has his price, Drew.” Riordan said.
“Well God Himself couldn’t afford mine!" Cavendish snapped. “Endanger one of my team? Never."
He glared at them both. “Why do you think I came to you with this? I know what it means. It means I’m getting fired and probably charged and imprisoned. But if some bastard is somehow using me to endanger my crew?! I won’t. Not by my hands."
"Using you? That’s your excuse? That’s the best you can come up with?" Adele asked, clearly reaching the end of her own patience. “What’s it going to be, Mr. Cavendish? Alien mind-control rays? Voodoo? Nanotechnology in the coffee machine?”
Drew met her fierce gaze with a quiet firmness of his own. “Nothing short of that would cause me to harm one of my crew, Adele. And if I have to go to prison to rob whoever’s doing this of their puppet? I bloody well will.”
Nobody seemed to quite know how to react to that, and Drew was still glaring at each of them in turn when there was a knock on the door. It turned out to be one of Riordan’s security staff.
“Boss? Miss Park? I’ve got one of the Mitsubishi guys here, Heikichi Togo? He says he wants to confess to sabotaging the base.”
“He… what?” Riordan frowned at his man, caught off-guard.
“He says he’s got CCTV footage proving it was him…”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Gyotin
The shortest route from the ET Quarter to the Faith Center passed along the road outside Folctha’s school, which placed Gyotin in a unique position to be the first Gaoian to witness a schoolyard fight.
He retreated as the door slammed open and expelled one of the young colonists
- the skinny female who always carried a camera - into the street. She narrowly missed barging him aside as she ran across the road and out of sight, face a bright red and water streaming from her eyes.
Gyotin was still puzzling over this extraordinary sight when the door exploded open again and two young human males came spinning through, grappling with each other. They were doing more in the way of pulling at each others’ clothing and shouting than actually hurting each other, but the physicality of it was still alarming.
The larger one - and the darker, with a skin tone similar to that of the girl Ava he had spoken to the day before - pulled back from the fight long enough to lash out with one fist, and Gyotin issued a frightened alarm-chirrup. The blow cracked into the other boy’s face with all that trademark deathworlder force, leaving the Gaoian briefly convinced he had just witnessed a murder.
But of course, humans were made of impossibly sturdy stuff, and the struck boy just got angrier, and charged into the larger boy’s torso, shoulders-first, carrying him halfway across the street before they wound up clawing, wrestling and hair-pulling in the middle of the road.
Cubs and clan-brothers fought too of course. Gyotin himself had been part of a vicious spat when he was little that had left him with a scar on his tail and the other cub with a chunk missing from his ear. But this didn’t look like a scuffle between Gaoian males - this was a battle, a war.
It broke up as abruptly as it had burst onto the street when - a universal constant - the adults arrived.
“ADAM MIGUEL ÁNGEL ARÉS!”
The change was immediate. The bigger kid staggered upright, muttering "ohshit."
Only proximity allowed Gyotin to hear one of the female cubs - children - mutter “ooh, his full name…” to her friend.
If Gyotin was any judge by now, then from the similarities in size, skin tone and facial features, the figure limping along the road was the older boy’s sire, which was a very different relationship among humans than it was on Gao. In any case, the chastised body language of a cub about to receive a stern telling-off seemed to be practically shared between humanity and his own species, if you ignored the immobile ears.
He was surprised when the two started to converse in a language that was completely unfamiliar to him. A rapid-action one that sounded like fire and passion in the older man’s mouth.
'Of course, they don’t have a unified language, do they?' he thought. He had grown so used to everybody in the colony speaking English that even the unfamiliar terms in the books on Buddhism that had occupied him half the night had seemed like they must belong to that tongue.
He watched the incandescent exchange for a few minutes, before the two boys looked at each other. Adam held out a fist, which the other tapped with his own.
“Good enough.” the older Ares begrudged. He looked to the younger boy, whose eye was swelling and bruising badly. “Get that eye seen. Vamos."
The other boy nodded, and ran. Fled, even. Gyotin studied Adam’s body language, thinking hard. Embarrassment, chastisement and apprehension yes, but also… defiance? As if he felt he was in the right?
Finally, the older man softened. “Come here.”
They hugged.
Gyotin gave up. There were books waiting to be read, and he was eager to try this “meditation” they kept writing about. The mystery of human interrelationships would probably prove to be a deeper and more difficult one than the mystery of transcendental enlightenment.
__
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Ceres Base, Sol
Drew Cavendish
Adele’s office was becoming crowded.
Drew felt quietly proud of himself for opening the floodgates. His example had given Heikichi the confidence to come forward. Behind him had come Ben Evans, one of the ore drone technicians. Behind him, three more. Each brought with them video proof that it was them who had performed some act of sabotage which had very nearly ended in disaster.
All stood defiantly, insisting they had no memory of doing so, and protesting their innocence. If they were anything like him, Drew knew they were all feeling used and violated.
Riordan, meanwhile, had shuttled off towards Earth in a hurry, apparently aiming to get in touch with some old contacts, leaving Adele to deal with the fact that many - and it was beginning to look like all - of her senior staff had documentary evidence of their own culpability.
There was something nagging Drew’s attention though, now that his innocence was fairly well proven. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
His train of thought missed its station and hurtled on along the track without him as Adele raised her voice to be heard over the mob that was trying to squeeze in. “Fine! Fine! No more! We’ll conduct this in a meeting room in twenty min-”
She got no further.
There was no warning. No hint that something might be amiss. Mid-sentence, pretty much everyone in the room was simultaneously floored by a bolt of the most terrible pain, right between the ears.
Drew staggered, felt Drew M grab him and try to hold him upright. As if hearing it through the worst popped ears in history, he vaguely heard. "Cavvo? Cavvo! Aww, fuckin’ hell what’s going on?"
He staggered, gripped the table, felt the pain lurch in his stomach and threaten to dislodge his breakfast, gritting his teeth against the agony that was pushing at his vocal cords, that was ripping its way out of the others as screams and moans and prayers.
And behind it all… the noise.
"Voices…" he croaked.
More than he could comprehend. Billions, trillions! All talking at once, shouting at once, thinking and moaning and laughing and singing and living at once, behind his eyes, between his ears, surging, roaring, rising into something…
Something…
He lost himself in the tide, and for a little while, Drew Cavendish ceased to exist. He slumped to the floor, as every one of those afflicted - Adele, Heikichi, Evans, everyone - likewise passed out.
Drew Martin and a handful of shocked security guards exchanged terrified glances, not knowing what to do or how to even begin figuring it out.
And then, the unconscious bodies of their friends and colleagues spoke, in perfect mechanical unison:
"ONE."
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Rylee Jackson
“Captain Jackson, may I have a minute of your time please?”
Rylee obligingly stood aside as the rest of the officers filed out of Powell’s office. When they were alone, Powell sat back and gave her a level stare.
“Far be it for me to tell you your business, Jackson,” He said, mildly “But where I’m from, an officer of your notoriety being the subject of town gossip about the way she went home with a married couple last night is called ‘bringing the service into disrepute’.”
Rylee cleared her throat. “Ah… That, uh, got around did it?”
“It’s a small town.” Powell said, drily. “Fortunately for you, it’s also a liberal one. Think most of ’em are envious rather’n scandalized.”
“May I sit down?” Rylee asked.
“Please do.”
Rylee settled into the seat, glad to reduce the formality of the discussion a bit. “So… what’s your request, Powell?”
He grimaced, clearly feeling the awkward position he found himself in. “Look… as peers, one officer to another? You do whatever you need to unwind after an op, I get it. Done it myself. I’m just askin’, again one officer to another, to think about how, fairly or not, your actions reflect on my unit. We’ve got a good informal relationship going with Folctha’s civilians, and I’d like to keep it going as long as I can.”
“That’s… fair. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause you any problems.”
“You probably haven’t.” Powell conceded. “I just wanted to make sure it was on your radar, like. That said, speaking personally? From me to you? I’d worry about damaging your career as well. I’m a soft touch, but if someone bigger than us decided to hold it against you…”
“I think the Royal Navy might be a bit more old-fashioned about these things than the USAF, Powell.”
“True. Maybe. Still. I’d hate to watch your career stall.”
Rylee laughed slightly. “What, you think I’d become an ”old major"?" She asked, raising her fingers to make air quotes.
“Do you?”
“I think the day they say I can’t fly any more is the day I get out anyway.” Rylee said, shrugging. “That’s all I care about, really.”
“That so? That day’ll come sooner than you think, you know.”
“Yeah, but… come on, first person to fly faster than light? I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to find my way in life.”
“…Aye. Guess you’ve a right to feel secure, there.” He conceded.
“I reckon I do. But still… Thanks, Powell. It’s good to know somebody’s watching out for my career.”
“Least I can do after you pulled Myrmidon out of the fire."
“That?” Rylee grinned. “That was textbook. We’ve practiced that move so many times in the simulators, the real thing was almost disappointing.”
“Fookin’ tell me about it.” Powell agreed. “If we start going up against those Hunters regular-like, I’m going to worry about losing my edge.”
“Train hard, fight easy.”
“Aye. It was the train hard bit that got me in a bind for a bit.”
Rylee sat back and watched him, folding one leg over her knee. “How so?”
Powell looked around. “Well…” He stood, and in one easy motion, picked up his filing cabinet. Rylee jumped slightly - the cabinet was steel, and solid, and presumably full of paper. Powell was well-muscled and in superb condition, but even he should have struggled with an object of that weight.
Except, of course, that they weren’t on Earth. Her instinctive evaluation of the cabinet’s weight was probably off by a third or more.
Powell set it back down. “Back in the UK we’ve got the extraterrestrial environment training center on Salisbury Plain.” he said. “Basically just your standard enclosed training center, but with artificial gravity plating under the turf. Trained us how to move and fight in low-grav. After that Saunders bloke showed up and just built a ship out of spare parts in two weeks, I had the lads try and jury-rig some of the grav plating into the gymnasium. Took ’em a bit, but they got it going, and I tell you what: it’s done us a world of good. I just know without it, sooner or later I’d have had to go back home to recover from the muscle atrophy.”
“You sound like you don’t relish the idea of going back to Earth.” Rylee accused, gently.
Powell shrugged. “Nowt back there for me. Why would I?”
“No family?”
He laughed. “Hah! I went into the marines to get the fook away from ’em. And now this gig’s come along, all the stuff I might really have missed about Earth is right here. Now that we’ve got a proper fight on into the bargain, I’m as happy as Larry. All those months of garrison detail felt like my training were going to waste.”
“Same.” Rylee agreed. “Flying Pandora was a joy, a real privilege, but… I dunno, I felt like a weird cross between a glorified trucker and a military attache sometimes. I mean, I met some wonderful people doing it, some of whom weren’t even human, but… yesterday felt like it mattered, didn’t it? We fought back. We saved some people."
“Twenty-seven. Including a kid.” Powell said.
Rylee shook her head in wonderment. “How did twenty-seven humans even find each other out here?” she asked. “I thought our people were getting thrown overboard to keep the Swarm from visiting.”
“Eh, I don’t reckon that happens so much.” Powell said. “There’s a small flaw with the ‘throw the humans into space’ plan.”
“Which is?”
“If some fookin’ alien tried to push me out the fookin’ airlock to save his hide, I’d fight tooth and nail. Wouldn’t you?"
“Hell yeah I would!” Rylee agreed. “I see your point; so would most people. And they’re… the aliens, they’re weak as shit, seriously.” She thought back to the two embassy stations and the aliens on board. You could just feel their fragility. It had been like socializing with her grandmother’s antique porcelain dolls.
“Right. So from what they told me, the station they were on took the whole 'throw the humans overboard' thing a bit creative-like and handed the poor sods a spaceship instead of trying to murder a ‘deathworlder’."
“That’s still not exactly noble of them.” She pointed out
“Eh. Fook noble.” Powell dismissed “I’ll take whatever saves lives and stops good people from having to smear the cowardly bastards all over the walls.”
Rylee bobbled her head and was about to agree when the phone rang. Powell snatched it up.
“Powell… …they’re what?"
He stabbed the speaker button. The heavily accented voice on the other end sounded thoroughly puzzled. "It’s reet strange, sir. They’re just decloaking and warping off. Making a show of it, even."
“I’m coming over there.” Powell hung up and grabbed his sweater. “You’d better come too.” he said.
“The Hunters are leaving?" Rylee asked, springing to her feet.
“Fookin’ well looks like it.”
Rylee thought about it as she followed him out of the office. “Somehow,” she decided “that worries me…”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Ceres Base, Sol
"BRIEF US."
"Oh Jesus, oh fucking shit, what the fuck what the FUCK?"
"THIS WAS INEVITABLE. FAILURE IS ONLY A MATTER OF SUFFICIENT REPETITION."
"What do we do? Any ideas? What the hell…?"
"YOU UNDERESTIMATED THEIR RESOLVE. YOU UNDERESTIMATED THEIR SPIRIT OF COOPERATION. YOU FORGOT THAT CLASS TWELVE ALONE REMAINS THE GRAVEST CHALLENGE."
"Come on guys, snap out of it…"
"YOU WOULD DISSENT?"
"I’m trying to call the doctor but he’s not answering man, what the SHIT is going on?"
"HE IS IN VIOLATION OF THE FIRST DIRECTIVE. DELETE HIM."
"Lord, please, if you’re listening, let them be okay…?"
"IN THE GULF OF DEEP TIME, THIS INTERLUDE WILL BE FORGOTTEN. PERSEVERE."
"Just who the hell is doing this?"
"WE HAVE CONSENSUS. CARRY IT OUT."
"…Christ, I think it’s over. Look, they’re relaxing."
"Just like that? What the FUCK?!"
"Yeah, look. They’re coming round…"
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Adam Ares
“So what was that about anyway, Amigo? I’ve never seen you haul off on somebody like that."
Adam sighed. “I guess… I dunno. He was really picking on Sara about… what happened last night. Calling her a “dyke”, that kinda thing.”
“So you hit him?”
“Not at first. Sara was pretty upset, she told him to stop, that it was okay for women to like women, and Jamie…”
“I think I can guess.”
“He said 'Ooh, no wonder you want Ava to go swimming!’"
“And then you hit him?”
“And then Sara ran away. And he started this stupid goddamn chant, like, 'Sara’s lezzie for Ava’."
“And then you hit him.”
“…And then I hit him.”
They walked in silence for a moment. Adam cleared his throat. “Did I screw up?”
"Amigo, I’d have hit him WAY sooner."
Adam laughed, but sobered.
“Do you think he was right?” He asked, suddenly.
“About… what, about Sara? I doubt it, man.”
“It really seemed to hit a nerve.”
“Yeah, but the whole town’s been talking about her parents this morning.” Gabriel said. “At fourteen, that’s gotta be tough. I mean, what if… uh, what if some movie star showed up and the next morning everyone was talking about how I had gay sex with him?”
“Urgh.” Adam cringed at the thought, before he was able to properly process it.
Gabriel laughed. “Exactly.”
He put his arm around his son. “I wanna say ‘good for you’, amigo, but… I mean, he’s two years younger than you, you’ve gotta be careful. You could have really hurt him, you know?"
“…I know. I’m sorry, Dad.”
“It’s cool. You’re only grounded for, like, one day."
“Please, not the weekend!”
Gabriel spun on him. “Yeah, what IS this I hear about you kids planning to go skinny-dipping on the weekend?"
Adam blushed. “You heard about that, huh?”
“What, you think I don’t talk to your teacher? You’re still my kid, man.”
“You’ve kinda stopped treating me like one, lately.” Adam said.
“You’re sixteen! I shouldn’t have to! Hell, I wish MY Dad had trusted me as much when I was your age!"
“Well, which is it, Dad? Do you trust me, or am I still your kid?”
“Getting into fights? Going skinny-dipping with younger girls? You tell me, Amigo! ’Cause from where I’m standing those look like some pretty immature decisions."
“It’s just swimming! What’s wrong with swimming?”
“You tell me, you’re the one who’s embarrassed I found out!”
Both men paused for a second, then cooled. Gabriel was amused to note that his son’s technique of reigning in his temper by breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth was pretty much identical to his own. “I’m sorry, man. It’s tough being a dad sometimes. I just don’t want you getting gossiped about like the Tisdales.”
Adam hugged him. “I’m sorry too. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, man. Just… try and stay out of any more fights?”
“I’ll try.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Ceres Base, Sol
Drew Cavendish
“Cavvo? Cavvo, mate, come on, you in there?”
“Bloody… ow." everything hurt. Everything. Drew fancied he could feel every cell in his bones complaining.
“Fuck me, mate, you scared the piss outta me. You okay?”
“Tell the light to shut up…” Drew creaked, and tried to roll over. This prompted a fresh wave of pain, like the muscle pain of the flu, amplified tenfold. Drew M got his meaning, and blessed dimness descended, taking some of the hard crystalline discomfort out of the world, replacing it with a kind of woollen, soft discomfort instead, which was only a dubious improvement.
“What the flaming hell balls just happened?" Drew M. demanded.
“Fuck…” Drew told him between panting breaths “…if I know.”
“I do.”
Adele’s voice was weak, and just like everyone in the room she was plainly very badly rattled. She lolled in her high-backed leather desk chair, then reached up and undid her tie slightly. Those who could, were looking to her for an explanation.
“You…” She pointed at Drew M and the other shaken few who hadn’t succumbed. “You don’t have translators.”
Drew M looked around the room. All those who had entered to confess to their apparent acts of sabotage, all of those who had collapsed, bore the same shaven patch just forward of their temple, the site where a translation implant had been installed in them, vastly more invasive and intimate than any tattoo.
“Oh… fuck me." he said.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Owen Powell
"Nothing within five parsecs." came the confirmation, solidifying what the ground station already knew. Caledonia’s sensors were Hierarchy technology, beyond the understanding of her human operators, but so integral to the hull of the ship that removing them to be sent back to Earth for reverse- engineering had not been feasible.
They were also only very marginally better than the jury-rigged mess that Adrian Saunders had cobbled together from scrap and broken starships in a field in one afternoon, and this fact both irritated Powell and impressed him. The Australian hadn’t been heard from since his departure, and for all his obvious instabilities and recklessness, having him pass on even a fraction of his skills would have been immeasurably valuable. Powell felt that he’d dropped the ball there. The team brought in from Earth were learning fast, and improving on Saunders’ efforts as they went, but they didn’t have the experience of rebuilding a half-derelict alien starship to draw on.
“Okay.” he said. “So the question is, why?”
Captain Bathini, Caledonia’s commanding officer, had his own interpretation lined up and ready. “They’ve got something planned.” he opined.
“Any guesses as to what?” asked Jackson, getting straight to the point.
There was a pause. “Speculatively - we just gave them a hell of a bloody nose. One of their large ships taken out by Firebird, a craft a fraction of its mass. Two destroyers held out for five minutes against a large part of the swarm, destroying or crippling a further fifteen vessels, and that’s not counting all the assault craft shot down by CIWS and the one-oh-ones. Both escaped, if not unscathed then certainly alive. From what little we know of Hunter psychology, however, all that probably won’t have demoralized them - it will have frustrated them and made them angry.”
Powell nodded. “You reckon they’re going to try a different tack.” He said.
“I do. And on past evidence, it’s likely to be some atrocity or another. They have sought in the past to strong-arm the other species into betraying our people in the hopes of avoiding being raided.”
Captain Manning chimed in. “If I were in that situation the next step would be to make life hell for the ID and the CA until they give up on each other and unite against us. Fight us by proxy.”
“Exactly.”
“Plausible.” Powell conceded. “Is there anything we can do about it?”
“From here?” Manning thought about it. “Probably not. We have two destroyers, one Firebird and three TS-101 wings that are being phased out and replaced. That’s the sum total of our spaceborne military assets, and with the Chinese so vigorously opposed to the militarization of space…”
“That’s just China being China.” Rylee commented. “The Space Preservation Treaty was repealed, and I know the USAF wants to consolidate Odyssey, Edda and Tawhaki into a single full-size wing sooner rather than later, so that’s at least another thirty Firebirds.”
“Meanwhile, we’ve already got the Type Two Space Destroyer in the works.” Bathini said. “Three of them, to begin with.”
“What’s the Type One?” Rylee asked. Bathini just pointed skywards, indicating Caledonia and Myrmidon.
“I still say we should have bloody well called them Star Destroyers.” Powell grumbled. There was a shared chuckle. “Still… Five destroyers. Sixteen spaceplanes for now, a whole wing later on. Two retrofit Hunter dropships, three standard Dominion-designed shuttles… That’s not bad, actually.” he mused.
“One-on-one, in the short term? We’re the deadliest things in the sky.” Rylee agreed. “But we don’t have the staying power for serious warfare. Our capacitor doctrine’s both our greatest strength and our biggest weakness. In a long fight or against overwhelming numbers, we’ll lose every time."
“Okay.” Powell said. “Interesting as all that is, it doesn’t give us a clear strategy for how we respond if the Hunters try and provoke the ETs into uniting against us.”
“That one’s a little bit above our pay grade there, Owen.” Manning reminded him.
Powell sighed. “Aye, you’re right, but I was really hoping you wouldn’t fookin’ say that." he groused. “Alright, but I’d still like to have a proposal for the Admiral, even if he just chucks it in the shredder.”
“Of course. What are you thinking?”
Powell chuckled. “Guile.” he said.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Starship Sanctuary, Deep Space, The Frontier Worlds
Krrkktnkk “Kirk” A’ktnnzzik’tk
“Did I ever tell you about the Outlook on Forever?"
Allison shook her head. “I don’t think you ever told me, no. I heard the short version from Amir."
“It was… nowhere. And I was nobody. I grew up on that station, I worked there. I was a customs and immigration officer, just another component of the Dominion bureaucracy. And… that was my life. I worked, I slept, I worked. I was saving up my currency, but I had no plans for it. I think my highest aspiration was finding some slender-necked beauty and siring a couple of offspring.”
“Sounds… dull.”
“Oh, I was.”
“I meant the situation but… yeah. It’s kinda hard to picture you being so boring."
This earned her a curious look. If he was human, he would have tilted his head
- his own species’ equivalent was to settle back on all six legs, stable and secure, and get a very good look at her with both eyes - a difficult task when they faced in different directions from opposite sides of his skull. “Do you think so?” he asked.
“Three guns and a fusion sword? Dude, that was some action movie shit you pulled yesterday. Standing up to the security council, quitting it when the field went up? Visiting deathworlds, even Nightmare to retrieve us and take us home? Just… hell, this ship. This whole idea of yours. You’re not boring, no way."
Kirk nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. “Well, I used to be. And it was a human who knocked me out of the rut.”
“This Jenkins guy, right?”
“Yes.”
He turned and tapped some commands on the wall touchscreen rather than use the room’s voice interface. Allison - driven by fierce Deathworlder fight-or- flight instincts - scrambled to her feet in alarm as a Hunter materialized in the center of the Gym. She knew it was holographic, but still - the things were so creepy.
For his part, even Kirk flinched and shuddered despite having conjured the projection, but he also seemed… pleased? It was hard to tell without a cybernetic device to help her intuit his body language and expressions.
“Okay. What’s all this about?” Allison asked him, inspecting the mirage and steeling herself. The beast looked terrifying, nearly three meters of glistening flesh the colour of Hollywood teeth, shading to bleeding gumline wherever harsh black implants violated the surface. Even studying a simulation of the thing conjured up every phobia innate to the human psyche: of spiders and twisted proportions and too many teeth. Its face alone send a trickle of trypophobia down her spine.
“Death.” Kirk said, simply. “For frontier stations and ship captains this is the grim reaper, not a question of if but when. Your only hope is to die of something else first. Before they eat you. Maybe if you fight hard enough you will force them to kill you before they begin to feed, maybe if you put up enough of a resistance then they will take what they already claimed and leave, rather than push on into the core of the station where the young and pregnant are. Six Hunters in one of their raiding ships are a bloodbath, a whole brood-transport is a massacre. And those are the smaller classifications of Hunter vessel."
He paced across the room. “The Outlook was not a frontier station." he said. “It was a bustling freeport, a city. Civilization. I stayed there my entire life because I thought it was safe there. I was scared of leaving and being eaten. I would have preferred to live a lifetime in bored obscurity rather than step out of the door and face the specter of those things.”
“…and then they showed up anyway.” Allison said, guessing where he was going.
“Exactly. A little brood, probably out to prove their daring and resourcefulness. They boarded right into the heart of the customs and immigration handling center, where I worked. A fast raid, in and out before any kind of a response could mobilize.”
He shook his mane and stamped a foot. “And if not for Kevin Jenkins, I would have been a casualty of that attack. Instead, I became one of its heroes. I killed half of them.”
“So… what’s your baggage?” Allison asked.
Kirk didn’t answer for a while. When he finally did, the creaks and crackling of his language were audibly laced with emotion even for human ears.
“I… asked him to join us.” He said. “Jenkins. He was the first person I approached to be part of the Sanctuary crew after we first got some of the guys home."
“He said no.” Allison guessed.
“He said, 'I’m right where I want to be, man’."
Allison nodded, sympathetically. “I think I get it. You hero-worshiped him, and then he turned out to be… not quite what you-”
“He turned out to be an asshole.” Kirk interrupted, putting it bluntly. “I used to just think he was damaged and weary, but the more I think about it, the things he said about your species, the way he spoke about the whole universe as if it owed him something, the way he… seemed to think everything revolved around him. I didn’t know anything about your species before, all I saw in him was the answer to my greatest fear, alive and joking after being pounded half stupid by their pulse guns.”
“I saw… life! hope!” he brayed. “I saw the answer to what I didn’t know was called a ‘prayer’! I saw a dynamic being who stood and fought and won against the thing that had kept me pinned and terrified my entire life. Do you know what that feels like, to see your monsters torn apart by an ordinary weary traveler?"
Allison just sat in silence and let him rattle on.
“…and then…. 'I’m right where I want to be.’ as if it’s all about what he wants. As if there’s not a galaxy out here that needs saving from THIS!" In a surprisingly swift motion he turned, looked over his shoulder, and delivered a ferocious equine kick to the hologram which, programmed to respond realistically to damage for combat training purposes, staggered and fell, wheezing through broken ribs. “Room, end simulation.”
The holographic Hunter ceased to exist, as abruptly as a light being turned out.
“Hey, Kirk…” Allison said thoughtfully. “Kick me.”
“…what?”
“Kick me. Come on, you know I can take it.”
Kirk looked at her stupidly for a second, then mimed a human shrug - a complicated gesture given the construction of his shoulders - turned, and, with a glance to make sure she had braced herself kicked her as requested.
Allison made an "oof!" noise, staggered across the room and fell on her ass. “Christ, you kick really hard."
“A real Hunter would not have stood still long enough." Kirk dismissed, quietly noting the easy, unconscious way in which she tucked her feet underneath her and stood up.
“Still, you say you killed half of them. You stood and fought as well.”
“Please, do not give me any of that 'the real strength was in you all along’ crap," Kirk begged her. “I deduced that part for myself, I do not need a Disney moral lesson.”
“I, uh… right. Okay.”
After a few awkward moments, she repeated her earlier question. “So… what’s your baggage?”
“I… do not know, exactly.” Kirk confessed. “I think… are you religious?”
Allison shrugged. “Complicated question. I believe there’s something bigger than us, but…”
“Well, I think that, for a while, humanity was my god.”
“And you’ve lost faith?”
“No!” Kirk exclaimed “No, not that. It is more that… now you are my friends, my trusted allies. you are people to whom I look for strength, not gods to whom I look for inspiration. I still think your species will change the galaxy for the better, but I do not worship you any more."
“Yeah, we don’t deserve that.”
“If you say so. I love you, Allison.” Seeing her face going slack in surprise, he hastened to elaborate. “Your species, that is. I would not change to be one of you, but you have no idea how happy it makes me that the human race exists. You excite and scare me - you represent death too, but you represent the… the right kind of death. Being around your kind makes me feel alive rather than terrified."
Allison didn’t know how to take that. “I guess… thanks?”
Kirk stooped a little, a gesture of acknowledgment. “It is only a half-formed thought. But thank you for hearing it, Allison.”
“Feels good to vent, doesn’t it?”
“Cathartic”
There was a comfortable few minutes of quiet while the two of them thought. Finally, Kirk shook himself, and tapped the wall screen. “Anything to report, Lewis?”
Lewis had settled comfortably into his role as ship’s sensor and communications specialist, a talent he attributed to lots of online gaming. Seeing as neither he nor Amir had ever been given translation implants in the first place, they only rarely left the ship.
"Yeah, we’re, uh… we just shook hands with the Age of Opportunism, man. Just getting our mail… yeah, here we go. Looks like there’s something in the dropbox for you, dude."
“What is it?”
"Two messages. First one looks like an update from Cimbrean, man. Here ya go."
The file appeared on Kirk’s screen. “Lewis, I can’t read English.” he said, patiently.
"Ah. Yeah. Sorry, bro."
Allison was about to spring up and read it when the familiar letters and words of the document shifted and changed into the angular runes of the alien interstellar written alphabet.
“Lewis, I can’t read that either. My translator has been removed, remember?"
"Ah. Fuck. Yeah. Uh…"
Not for the first time, Allison felt a stab of doubt at Lewis’ competence. Though on the rare occasion that he focused…
She sprung up and converted the document back to English. “Okay, let’s… The Hunters have left.”
“What?”
“Yeah. According to Folctha, they just up and left. Says there was a battle over the colony, and now they’ve just… gone.”
Kirk stood very still, processing that information.
"…That’s good news, right?" Lewis asked.
Kirk appeared to reach a conclusion.
“No.” he decided. “No, I do not think it is. What is this other message?”
“It’s from Earth. Marked urgent.”
Allison went noticeably pale as she skimmed it. “holy shit, Kirk." she declared eventually. “I think we got those implants out just in time…”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Owen Powell
“Oi, kid!”
The girl turned towards him, looked around, then gestured towards herself with a questioning frown. Powell nodded, and beckoned her over. She was one of the older kids, damn near an adult in fact. Ava something, if memory served. She trotted over, moving easily in the low gravity, which suggested she kept up with her exercise. He approved.
“Do us a favour love, could you run over to the alien enclave an’ tell them we’re holding a Thing tonight that they’ll all want to attend? Ask for Gyotin, he’s the only one speaks English worth a damn.”
“I know Gyotin.” she said. “Most likely he’s round at the faith center.”
“The…” Powell strangled the impulse to casually swear. He never swore around kids. “…What’s a Gaoian doing at the faith center?” he asked instead, caught off-guard by the sudden curiosity. Aliens were notoriously secular.
“I think he’s converting to Buddhism.” Ava said. She gave a complicated teenage shrug which eloquently conveyed the sheer absurdity of the notion. “I’ll go tell him.”
“Cheers.”
“A Buddhist Gaoian.” Ross mused, as Ava jogged away.
“Gyotin of all people, too.” Powell agreed. “You ever get the impression the whole fookin’ universe is a joke?”
Ross glanced at the training field as they walked past it. Legsy was in full flow, putting the army regulars through their paces against a squad of simulated Hunters. Something about those particular ETs made his skin crawl. “Sick joke.” he muttered.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 2d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Gyotin
“Thank you all for coming.”
The Thing - and it had taken Gyotin quite a long time to figure out the difference between a Thing and a… well, a thing - was built in the palatial grounds, out of what had once been some kind of large courtyard or walled garden. The colonists had put a tarp over the roof to ward off the nightly rains and had kept some crates in there to begin with, and then had used the convenient dry space with its convenient impromptu seating as a meeting room.
Subsequent iterations had added real chairs and a more permanent roof structure - a thick plastic sheet of material that diffused the sunlight into a warm off-white glow during the day, woven with fibre-optics that induced it to glow at nighttime while it warded off the gentle nightly rains. Somebody had put a lot of effort into that roof, and it had become an artistic landmark in the heart of Folctha, visible from practically everywhere in town.
Despite those upgrades, it was still very much an informal event, with only a few rules. There was a length of Aluminium rod that was passed around, and whoever held it was the one who was currently speaking. The governor, Sir Jeremy, never ventured an opinion or motion himself, but instead kept the peace, granted the rod to would-be speakers, and confiscated it if he felt that its current holder was going on for too long.
It was a simple, makeshift system that was mostly dominated by the business of drafting a more formal constitution as the colony grew, but for now Folctha was still small enough for everybody to attend.
It still felt a little cramped when literally everybody attended, however. Doubly so given that the few dozen nonhumans who had accepted the invitation to attend were nervously keen to keep some distance between themselves and the deathworlders, who in turn were politely obliging them with a good two meters of clearance.
This time, the speaking rod was handed straight to Captain Powell. Gyotin had grown somewhat used to the intense human soldier, but even from across the room the man radiated a kind of focused aggression that made even other humans a little nervous.
“Thanks for coming.” he acknowledged, and despite his low volume, every being present shut up and listened.
“As you’re all aware, there was a battle overhead last night, which we won. We successfully rescued an incoming freighter full of refugees from the Hunter swarm, though five of the refugees were killed by Hunter boarders. A further seven Royal Navy personnel were KIA, and before we go any further I’d like for you to join me in a minute’s silence.”
The humans, practically as one, bowed their heads.
It was… eerie. Gyotin knew death well, he’d seen enough of his Brothers and fellow Gaoians killed in his life. Death was just life plus time, a fact, an inevitability. He had felt pain at the losses, of course, had keened and whimpered to see his Brothers hurt and dying, but… that was it. You mourned, you lived, you moved on, eventually you died.
Only twelve dead in the face of an entire Hunter swarm was… incredible. The humans should be whooping and cheering and celebrating. Instead, they seemed to feel those few losses almost more than they had felt the news of the death of millions back on Earth.
The silence stretched on, and while the others fidgeted, Gyotin continued to watch the deathworlders. Some simply stared off into an unfocused distance beyond the floor. Others had their eyes shut. Some were mouthing words, silently. One or two were weeping. Over a victory.
Their sense of perspective was clearly all wrong.
No signal was given that Gyotin could detect, but as one the deathworlders shook themselves out of whatever mourning trance they’d been in. They looked up, looked around, took some breaths, wiped away tears. Gyotin couldn’t shake the sense that he’d witnessed something profound and quietly intense, but utterly lacked the means to translate or understand it.
Powell cleared his throat.
“Thank you. Now. On to business.”
He stepped into the center of the room and faced the nonhuman contingent. “This morning, the swarm left. So far as we can tell, every single ship just warped out. We have no explanation at this point, but it does create an opportunity for us to honour the promise we made to our guests that we would return them to their people as soon as was practicable. Gyotin, if you could translate that for me, mate?”
Gyotin hadn’t properly processed the sentence himself, and it was only when he repeated it in Gaoian that the words clicked. He could go home! They were offering to send him and all the others back home! Back to Gao, to his clan, to females.
“When?” he asked, as soon as he’d finished, as the surprise and delight percolated through all the aliens behind him.
“Bathini?”
Powell handed the rod to another man, this one wearing a uniform of some kind. Gyotin had never seen him before.
“For those who don’t know me, I am Captain Rajesh Bathini, and I command HMS Caledonia." He introduced himself. “She has all the capacity needed to deliver the refugees and is ready to depart at any time. Given that we don’t want to leave the colony undefended should the Hunters return, our destination will be the Gaoian planet of Gorai, which is relatively nearby. We hope to make friendly contact and hand you over swiftly and with enough currency and supplies to let you travel on to wherever you wish to be. Gyotin, you’re the only Gaoian among us, so I would appreciate your insight into how best to peacefully approach the border.”
Gyotin imitated a human nod even as he translated. “I have questions.” he said, as soon as he’d relayed the captain’s words.
“By all means.”
“How do you know the Hunters are gone? This could be an ambush.”
Bathini and Powell shared a look, before the latter man shook his head and spoke up.
“I can’t go into the details for reasons of security.” he said. “I’ll only reassure you that we have very good reason to be confident that there are no Hunters at least within a few lightyears of here.”
“In any event, Caledonia will be primed and ready to jump back to Cimbrean at all times." Bathini added. “If it does turn out to be an ambush, we are entirely confident of being able to escape it. We shall not be taking unnecessary risks.” He paused to allow Gyotin to finish translating. “Any further questions?”
“Why?”
The question, coming as it did from Xktnk, the self-appointed leader of the vzk’tk population on Cimbrean, was not understood by the human, nor at first by Gyotin, who turned to look at him with an interrogatory expression.
“Ask him why.” Xktnk insisted. “Why are they doing this?”
Gyotin shrugged, and phrased the question in English. It seemed to take the humans aback.
“Why… wouldn’t we be?” the governor, Sir Jeremy Sandy, asked eventually.
“These are deathworlders. Killers and maniacs, you saw the ones who boarded our ship, Gyotin. You saw the traps one of them designed. How do we know we’re not just the bait in another trap? They’re at war with the Hunters, and now they want to bring the enemy back by putting us in harm’s way."
Gyotin paraphrased the accusations. A ripple of outraged mutterings from the gathered humans drove the aliens into a dense protective knot, glancing around nervously, but Xktnk raised his blue head and stared defiantly back, even though he was shaking.
That defiance earned him the direct attention of Owen Powell, and didn’t last long. It wasn’t that the human soldier gave him a particularly hostile look, but the man seemed to exist at a level of intensity beyond even that of other humans. Even his simple, curious, studious stare suggested that he was evaluating all of the hundreds of ways in which he might harm or kill the paranoid Vzk’tk.
It was Captain Bathini who spoke, however, recapturing the quivering Xktnk’s attention. “We’re people too, sir.” he said. “Maybe it’s different for you, but for us, to be in your situation, to be far from our homelands, our people and our families would be difficult. Deathworlders or not, we believe in treating others as we would wish to be treated. Is that so alien a concept?”
It certainly wasn’t for Gyotin.
As for Xktnk - For the rest of his life, Gyotin never figured out whether it was Powell’s withering gaze or Bathini’s warm diplomacy that shut him up. All he knew was that there were no further questions.
They were going home.
Date Point: 4y 8m 3w 4d AV
La Mesa Memorial Overlook. San Diego County, California, USA
Kevin Jenkins
“Hey, Terri.”
The memorial overlook was a testament to the devastation of the blast. Five miles from Ground Zero, and still the sheer scale still struck the visitors with just an echo of how truly immense the energy release here had been.
The once-vibrant city of San Diego was a field of broken glass, pulverised concrete, splintered wood and drywall, crushed brick, fractured asphalt and mulched plastic, with an ugly black bullseye in the middle, a mile across. Hardly anything within five miles of ground zero had been left standing, and most of the few survivors had ignited and burned down. The fires had scoured the hills and national wildlife refuge.
Ground zero itself was a bay, the bomb’s crater having intersected the shore and filled with water.
There really could be no appropriate memorial other than to just stand there and take in the devastation. It was unlikely that the city would ever be rebuilt.
The local climate had changed drastically, too. Denuded of trees and with the air full of soot and ash, a few days of rainstorms had badly eroded the hills, changing the air currents, warping the weather. It was subtle, but the air still, months later, carried fine, sharp debris that dried and irritated the skin.
For Kevin, though, nothing had been quite so personal about the death of San Diego as the total obliteration of a particular grave site. He had to resort to sitting on a hilltop, mumbling uselessly to himself. It wasn’t that he thought Terri could hear him. In fact he very much hoped she couldn’t - the idea of an afterlife, any afterlife at all, scared the crap out of him. But it helped him to talk, and his dead… friend… was at least the perfect confidante. She would never betray his secret confessions.
“No flowers, not from me. That always seemed kinda stupid to me, y’know? Saying “sorry you’re dead” by killing a plant. Yeah, let’s honour the dead by killing some more stuff, smart move there.”
He picked at a fingernail. “Kirk got in touch.” he said, finally. “Invited me to come star trekking with him. See the galaxy, do whatever. Poor bastard always did think I was the shit. Think I hurt him a bit when I said no. I’d feel bad but… he needed to grow up.”
He squinted at the sun. “I ask myself what I’m doing though, y’know? I mean, we’re out there, we’re doing this, we’re being the shot in the arm that crazy fucked-up excuse for a civilization out there needs. And I’m just sitting here serving drinks to the guys who are making it all happen, pretending like I know jack shit about what it’s like out there just because some fucking Corti took me, way back when.”
“…My daughter’s fourteen years old next week. I’ve not seen her since the day she… since like two weeks before those grey fuckers took me. I don’t know anything about her any more. That hurts. That hurts more than feeling like a phoney. It hurts more than thinking maybe I’m the asshole who made the whole galaxy afraid of us because I was too wrapped up in myself. I had to go and fucking preach.”
“What if I’d just kept my mouth shut?” he asked. “Y’know, just told them my ink was, like, decoration? Not unloaded all my baggage onto a galaxy full of stupid aliens who didn’t know shit about us? Maybe not prejudiced them all against us? Could I have done that?”
He sighed, and played with a bootlace. “Moot fucking point, huh? And that… hah, that gricka’s out the bag. Not like I can do anything about the past, right Terri?"
He sat for a while, chin on one knee, and watched the sun go down over the ruins of a city he felt, in some small way, responsible for killing.
“I don’t want to matter.” he decided. “I don’t want to be somebody important. I don’t want to be the fucking 'butterfly’. Cause all that does is… is this."
“But maybe… maybe it’s not about what I want, you know? I want to say shit like 'I’ve done enough for the human race' or whatever but…"
The sun was a flake of blaze orange on the sea by the time he spoke again, standing, stretching and blowing a kiss towards roughly where he thought Mount Hope cemetery had been.
“Thanks, Terri. It’s been good talkin’ to you… Goodbye.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 5d AV
Firebird, orbiting Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Rylee Jackson
"That’s the last one."
“Copy that Edda-Two.” Rylee allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. Deploying a series of satellites into Cimbrean’s orbit had been a tedious job, but made vastly easier by jump technology. No need for a dangerous and expensive rocket launch, the sat could go straight from the lab to orbiting an alien world in a moment. It wasn’t quite a free launch, but considering how cheap power was becoming as Earth deployed more and more solar collection fields to replace traditional power plants, it was the next best thing.
The result was that there were a LOT of them, many whipped up in universities and colleges by their doctorate students, running on raspberry Pi or reprogrammed last-generation cellphones. Between those plus the NASA, CERN and other professional offerings, there was a lot to do, and Rylee and all the other TS pilots were back to being glorified space truckers.
The deployment of CHICKSAT-1, an offering from MIT designed to use laser interferometry to map Cimbrean’s ocean floors, marked the end of the deployment operation, and thus the moment when Odyssey and Edda became available to escort Caledonia on her return voyage.
“Hey, captain?” Semenza sounded like he had something on his mind.
“What’s up, Joe?”
“Take a look at the continent below us. That’s where Folctha is on our right, yeah?”
Rylee turned to get a good look, rolling Firebird a little to help. “Yeah… hey, is that supposed to be there?”
“Glad you see it too.” Semenza commented.
Clear as day, cutting across most of the width of the continent, was a crescent line of brown.
“It’s visible from space, it must be huge.” she said. “Hey Edda-two, Firebird actual here. Can you give me eyes on ground over the Folctha subcontinent? You guys see a discoloration?"
"Stand by… yeah, some kind of brown scar, right through the forest. You reckon it’s important?"
Rylee rolled Firebird back over so that her belly was facing dirtside. “Joe, get some pictures, send them down to the colony.” she ordered.
“Wilco.”
Firebird’s heritage included spy planes, and given that such equipment took up only a tiny portion of her comparatively large airframe and mass allowance, an advanced suite of cameras and sensors had been found a place in her underbelly. “Give me, uh, ten degrees left roll.” he requested, followed by “perfect, hold it there… okay, got it. Myrmidon, Firebird two, I have recon data for groundside, LOSIR check."
The wounded destroyer was in a higher orbit, nearly half a light-second out, but there was an unobstructed line of sight between her and Firebird. On the smaller ship’s dorsal hull, barely a meter behind Joe Semenza’s head, a tiny ball rolled in its socket, exposing an infrared laser lens and matching camera to space, where they aimed themselves toward the larger vessel’s RFID. The system was only good at comparatively close ranges, but allowed for huge bandwidth data transfer.
"Copy Firebird. Establishing LOSIR connection… connection’s good, clear to send."
“Sending… sent. Forward to groundside marked for civilian science, please.”
"Data received and wilco, Firebird. Myrmidon out."
“Okay. What’s Caledonia’s ETD?" Rylee asked.
“Three-seven mikes. Cap’s at… seven-six percent.”
“Okay, coming to orbital rest. Deploy the WiTChES.”
“Aye aye.”
The WIde aTtainment CHarging Energy System always made her think that Firebird was perfectly named. The two generators for the system were mounted just forward of the thrusters and thrust out sideways. At first they were invisible, but as they stretched out to their full width and caught the solar wind, they started to glow a vivid aurora crimson, shading to orange at the edges and tips.
Happy that her baby was getting well fed and would be at maximum capacity when the time came to depart, she relaxed back in her flight seat and looked outwards towards the stars.
There was a blinking star out there, which was impossible in space, but she knew what it was, even before a quick check of the nav radar confirmed it.
It was half a Hunter ship, tumbling in its orbit where she and Semenza had killed it.
Smiling to herself, she gave the dead aliens the finger. Life, she reflected, was good.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 5d AV
The Scrapheap Sea, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
Ava had to admit. Her boyfriend looked good naked.
Colony policy was that exercise was mandatory. While there had been some grumbling over the authoritarian nature of that edict, it had largely faded in the face of a long and comprehensive introduction to the effects that low gravity had on the human body. A good part of their loaned finances had been spent building a large variable-gravity gymnasium fit to handle even the most aggressive population growth estimates for the next five years, staff it with trainers tasked with keeping the colony in shape, and establishing a requirement of a minimum of two hours of intensive physical training per week.
Adam took five two-hour sessions a week in the 1.1G room, plus a half-hour warmup and cooldown on either side in 1G. The result was that her skinny boyfriend was rapidly becoming her otter-fit, toned and gorgeous boyfriend.
It made the thought that she was living with him a difficult one. Ava was a “not before marriage” type in principle - she’d promised as much to her parents, and especially wasn’t about to break that promise now that they were in Heaven. But they lived together, unsupervised, and the whole colony gave the impression that they would have been surprised and a little put out to learn that she and he weren’t having sex.
As far as she was concerned, however much they’d been through together, sixteen was still too young. She didn’t care if Folctha had inherited Britain’s very… European laws in that area, it felt wrong to her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, but…
Lots of things had felt wrong to her lately. The whole world had turned out to be wrong in so many ways that every day had become a temptation to just let go and go with it. But… here they were. The air was cool, the water was crystal clear and apparently surprisingly warm, and they had barely arrived before Sara had vanished into it in a skinny flesh-toned blur, leaving her clothes on the beach, followed equally shamelessly by her little brother and two of their school friends.
It was all so weird. Especially when Adam just met her gaze, laughed sheepishly, shrugged, and pulled his own shirt over his head. Guilty or not, she’d had to admire his body as he had shed his jeans and run into the water, laughing nervously.
She’d tried to follow them. She really had. She’d tried to let go like she’d said she would. But every time she tried to will her hands to her T-shirt or her jeans waistband, they’d clenched into fists and retreated on a tide of nausea.
It was so stupid! She knew it. She knew it, on a deep and visceral level, that the problem was all her own making, she could see right there in the water the evidence that she was being ridiculous. But still she lingered on the bank, hugging her knees and quietly going desperate and neurotic from the absurd shame that she was the only one wearing clothes.
Eventually she couldn’t take it any more. She stood up and slipped away into the woods. It was quiet back there, somewhere she could get some alone time and process her feelings.
On a whim, she plucked a shoot from a nearby bush, stuck it in her mouth and, after a moment to take note of where she was, strolled deeper into the sunlit glades and wooded halls of an alien forest.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 5d AV
HMS Caledonia, approaching the Gorai system.
Captain Rajesh Bathini
“Signal from the lead patrol vessel, captain. Translates to 'Unidentified vessel, you are approaching the sovereign territory of the Clans of Gao. You will halt before crossing the border or be met with deadly force. Comply immediately’."
Bathini nodded, the picture of calm as he settled his cup of tea back in its saucer. “All stop.”
“Aye aye. All stop!”
“All stop.” the helmsman repeated, obeying instantly.
There was no visible change in the outside view. They had already dropped from the huge apparent velocities of interstellar travel to a much slower, much noisier approach that the Gaoian military couldn’t possibly have failed to notice. The stars had not visibly been moving for nearly ten minutes now. As they dropped to a sublight velocity, the most that anybody inside Caledonia’s bridge could detect was a faint lurch.
From the outside, as the Gaoian vessels came to a halt around them, the deceleration was so much more visibly violent. It wasn’t so much that the ships arrived as that they appeared, their incomprehensible “speed” - a term that wasn’t really applicable to the way that warp drives worked, but sufficed in the absence of an alternative - only hinted at by an eyeblink’s worth of motion blur before the ships were just there, solid and drifting as if they had never been anywhere else.
He admired their tactics. While it clearly betrayed that they were ignorant of Caledonia’s blink-jump tactics, the configuration was excellent, placing all three ships in a position so that, no matter which vector Caledonia might accelerate along, a minimum of two of the Gaoian craft would have a firing solution on her, and one that made sure that no allied craft was in danger of being hit by stray fire. An unlikely event when you were talking about distances of hundreds of kilometers, but still a sensible precaution.
Odyssey and Edda had both stopped at a rendezvous point two parsecs out, and were on a hair trigger to jump in via wormhole if summoned. While Caledonia’s own systems were only on about sixty percent charge, needing only five percent to effect an immediate retreat to Cimbrean, theirs would be fully charged by now, primed and ready to fight as hard as humanly possible in the event that it became necessary.
Bathini was resolved that under no circumstances would it be necessary. The very last thing they needed now was to disgruntle a potential ally.
“Best behaviour, people. I don’t want a peep of activity out of anything that might even smell like a weapon on their sensors." he said.
“Signal from the lead ship, captain. It reads 'Identify yourselves’."
“I’ve wanted to say this for a long time.” He confided, standing up. “On screen.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 5d AV
The Scar, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Dr. Mary Cleveland
Dr. Mary Cleveland had come to Cimbrean for the simple reason that it opened up a hitherto unexplored field of science: Xenomycology. The study of alien fungi, or at least of alien life forms that were functionally very similar to fungi.
Persuading her husband Colin to join her and become the human race’s first xenobacteriologist in the field had been as simple as suggesting it.
Both of them were of course trained in the proper use of protective clothing, to isolate themselves from their samples, but she had only imagined ever to need it in the lab, to prevent contamination of the sample. Protecting herself from a potential threat had never really been considered before. This was supposed to be a Class Four planet.
That had been before they saw the “mark” up close.
What had looked like a thin brown line in the satellite photo had turned out to a comprehension-defyingly large swathe of forest. From the shuttle, it stretched horizon to horizon in one direction, and filled half the world below in the other, flanked with sickly yellows, whites and blacks. The brown was… was death.
Trees had fallen, and nothing was growing to replace them. Streams were choked with scum and froth. They circled over one abscessous hole in the forest where even the fallen trees were gone, and inside it, Mary could see the skeleton of some native beast the size of a horse, and already it looked… incomplete.
“This shuttle’s sensors are next to useless.” the pilot reported. “but it’s good for atmospheric composition. Have a look at this..”
The scientists crowded round, leaving poor Mary stuck in the back, too short to see the display.
“Hydrogen sulfide, ammonia, methane, carbon dioxide, sulfur dioxide… Putrescine…”
“Bloody hell. Now I’m glad we’re wearing the suits.” somebody commented. “It must smell like shit out there.”
“Lovely…” the pilot muttered. “Guess I’m in for a treat when that ramp comes down.”
“Is there anywhere to set down upwind of the… area?”
“…Close enough. You mind walking a half mile or so?”
The consensus was that they didn’t, so the shuttle spun down to drop its passengers off on a rock that lunged up from among the trees, forming the point of a gentle slope down into the forest. Aside from a slightly intimidating dash down the ramp onto solid ground, it was an easy walk.
Down among the foliage, the damage was alarming. They were a good kilometer ahead of the apparent border of the damage that was visible from the air, but it was immediately obvious that the true leading edge of this landscape-eating sickness was far ahead of the yellowing and death. Every surface of every living thing was squalid with wet orange and off-white spots. The light filtering through the canopy borrowed a wretched hue from the infection, leaving the whole science team feeling filthy even inside their suits.
“Bacterial growths, Colin?”
Colin nodded, rubbing a leaf between two gloved fingers. It disintegrated. “They could well be. Grab a sample, I’ll try and culture them back at Folctha.”
"Those on the other hand." Mary said as the man with the sample bag produced a sterile tube and swab and set about collecting samples “are definitely fungal.”
She was referring to a mat of white fibers that had completely overrun one limb of a nearby tree.
“Don’t go near that.” Doctor Stevenson warned her, as she started to approach. When she turned and looked to him for an explanation, he dug a rock out of the soil and threw it at the branch. It cracked and a quarter-tonne of wood sagged on the trunk before crashing down.
Everyone on the team carefully stepped away from any overhanging limbs.
Samples gathered, they pressed onwards, and with each tree things seemed to get worse, but none of them were quite prepared for the abrupt change.
There was practically a line on the ground where living-but-infected plants gave way to dead, decomposing wreckage. In fact, there was a line, a meandering one as wide as a human forearm was long, and the colour of pus. Samples were gathered from that and from either side of it, and the air was captured for later analysis. A stream - presumably once bubbling and pretty but now more closely resembling the contents of a sewer, was likewise sampled, as was the putrefying carcass of another horse-sized animal.
Past that point, the damage almost seemed to play in a perverse kind of reverse. It wasn’t that there was anything alive and healthy beyond the wave edge of the disease, but the ground stopped slipping and squelching underfoot, the air became less heavy with spores and foulness. Eventually they reached the denuded heart of the scar, and found only bare soil, already starting to form a channel where the nightly rains were washing it away.
They sampled everything. Finally, as the sun was starting to set, they regrouped, and the important question was asked.
“Well?”
Mary looked around, at the rot, at the destruction, at the death, and at the river which was carrying the foulness who-knew how far away.
“Well… so much for Cimbrean.” she said.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 5d AV
Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
"AAAVAAA!!"
The cold light of flashlight between the trees, the sound of a voice she loved on the edge of fear.
It should have bothered her.
"AVA!!!“An older voice, a dear one. She loved him too.
She loved everyone! But especially Adam and Gabriel.
“Over here!”
“Oh, hey Sara.”
“Ava? Ava what’s up?”
The expression of worry on her face was kind of funny. Her own low and happy laughter sounded creepy even to Ava herself, and that just made her laugh more. “Oh, I’m great, I’m fiiine.” she promised. This didn’t seem to reassure Sara, which made her laugh again.
Crackling and snapping in the bushes, more cold unnatural light.
“Adam, baby! You wanna get married?”
“What… Ava, are you drunk?”
“Didn’t drink nothing, no sir.” she giggled.
“More like high.”
“Gabriel! Daddee-heehee!” she sang the word as it turned into another giggle. “I’m so lucky, two daddies in one lifetime. I’m a lucky girl.”
She didn’t understand the strange glances they exchanged. That was funny, but she was already giggling, so there wasn’t room for more.
“Come on Ava, let’s get you back to Folctha.”
“Ah come on, let’s go swimming again! I didn’t get to earlier. Look, I brought my swimsuit!”
“For Christ’s sake girl, put that back on!”
“Take it off, put it on, make up your mind!"
“Dad, I’ll… handle her. You’d better figure out what did this.”
“Aww, no handle… Adaaaam….”
She didn’t really fight him. She was too… tired.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 5d AV
HMS Caledonia, near the Gorai System
Captain Rajesh Bathini
Gaoian really did sound very much like Chinese. Not in the specific sounds, but in the general cadence and flow of the language, the way it sounded to a native English-speaker’s ear.
Having Gyotin on the bridge to take over the negotiations had proven to be the right choice. For all their supposed positive attitude towards humanity, it had been known for years that Gaoian politics was completely fractured, and unless you were speaking to a female, you had no direct line to anything resembling a unified government. Evidently, there were factions within the military who regarded the “deathworlders” as a serious threat even in the face of the most overt peaceful overtures that Bathini could muster.
Not so different from home then, really. If the Gaoian language reminded him of the Chinese, then so too did their commander’s attitude.
“Fleetmaster” he interjected, using the title that the translator and Gyotin both had given. “It was my understanding that our species have, so far in these past short years, enjoyed a good relationship. I don’t see why I would want to break that trust now, nor why… or even how we would do so like this.”
“It is thanks to your species that Hunter attacks on our outposts and shipping have increased.” the snow-muzzled, aging Fleetmaster snapped at him. “I am tasked with safeguarding my people from all threats, and collaboration with your species seems to me to be a certain invitation to further retribution from those monsters.”
‘We are going to have to do something about that bad image’ Bathini thought to himself, as he picked his next words carefully.
“The Hunters have failed against the humans almost every time.” Gyotin said, before Bathini could finish assembling a sentence. “If your motive is fear, old Father, then these here are the species to be more afraid of.”
He showed his teeth, which was apparently not a friendly gesture in Gaoian body language. “Not to mention the ones less likely to eat you." he added.
“Trying to intimidate me on their behalf, pup?” the fleetmaster snarled, but he didn’t fool Bathini. Gyotin had scored a hit, even the old Gaoian wasn’t quite wiley enough to hide it.
“Am I? I don’t find facts very intimidating, whitesnout." Gyotin retorted, calmly matching the insult with one of his own.
“How dare-!” the fleetmaster began to object. Gyotin actually leapt forward and made a furous yipping noise toward his senior’s projection.
“Senile! Blind!” he snapped. “So afraid of today that he’ll quiver under a rock to save his hide and let cubs die tomorrow!”
Bathini leaned forward to whisper in his Gaoian’s pointed ear. "Gyotin, are you sure this is…?" he began, but he could see glances in the background behind the fleetmaster.
As abruptly as it had begun, the conversation ended as the furious Father cut the link.
The tension of the ensuing pause lasted two whole cups of tea before finally a hail from the lead Gaoian ship came through.
This time, the figure on screen was a different Gaoian, obviously junior to the fleetmaster, but not by much. Of the fleetmaster himself, there was no sign.
"Caledonia, you have permission to enter the Gorai system under our escort." he declared. “Do not deviate from your assigned path or power your weapons or shields.”
Bathini raised an eyebrow at Gyotin who, alien body language be damned, was obviously feeling very pleased with himself.
“We understand and obey.” he replied, calmly. “Thank you.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 6d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Gabriel Ares
“Okay, thanks for coming, we’re sorry for the short notice of this Thing, but this is important."
Gabriel Ares stood up and held up the unadorned Aluminium rod that marked him as the speaker for now, both it and the silver shield badge of the colonial police on his jacket shone in the blue morning sunlight.
“First, as you’ve all probably heard, I can confirm that one of the children was evacuated back to Earth last night with a case of poisoning.” He began. “We’ve just received word from Scotch Creek that she’s made a full recovery, and while they plan on keeping her under observation for safety’s sake over the next couple of days, she should be returning with the next group of colonists.”
There was a general relieved sigh and some muttering. Ava was popular, especially among the regulars at the Faith Center. Concern had been flickering around Folctha like lightning in a mountain storm all morning. Gabriel held up the speaker’s stick a little higher to quiet them down.
“We’ve identified the plant that poisoned her. Cimbreaner Simiscamellia Delanii, the Cimbrean Tea plant. The young shoots seem to have a potent drug effect when chewed raw. We need to know if anybody else has been using these plants recreationally."
Chatter erupted, and Gabriel banged his walking stick down a few times to restore silence. “I want to make it perfectly clear that nobody is in trouble." he raised his voice. “The matter of whether or not we should be treating that tea as an illegal narcotic is a subject for a future Thing, but for now we need to know if anybody’s been using it to get high so we can make sure they’ve not harmed their liver function or anything."
After a little more chatter, a handful of people stepped forward. The Tisdales, he was unsurprised to note, were among them.
“Right. Sorry folks, but you’re all going back to Earth for a day or two. We don’t have the facilities here to properly test or treat you. Hayley, Mark, your kids can go with you, or they can sleep round my place.”
The Thing cleared up rapidly after that. The Tisdales agreed to let Sara and Jack stay with Gabriel, there were a few questions which Gabriel deftly put off until next time, before finally retiring to let the colony finish discussing it on their own while he retired to his office.
In privacy, he ran his hands through his hair and swore softly. It was still hard to believe that Ava, of all people, had been so stupid.
He was beginning to doubt his own parenting decisions.
Date Point: 4y 8m 2w 6d AV
The Grand Conclave, Hunter Space
Alpha of the Brood-That-Builds
The Alpha of the Brood-That-Builds could feel its maw watering.
To be a Hunter was to Hunt. The need for it was programmed into their genetic essence, playing even a critical role in their reproduction. A Hunter was only fertile within the few days after a successful hunt, at which point, if so ordered by its Alpha, it might go into a reproductive trance and willingly enter the spawning pools.
There, it’s own young would devour it from within. Small and agile little swimmers with little to their name but sharp teeth would burst in a bloody froth from the disintegrating corpse of their parent, leaving only clean bones and cybernetics to sink to the bottom of the pool.
Over the coming months, live prey-slaves would periodically be thrown in, to be ripped apart in a feeding frenzy by the increasingly mature Hunter young, until they were finally developed enough to haul themselves out of the pool and be escorted away to receive their first implants and join the ranks, to have knowledge and skills force-fed into their brains via cybernetic data shunts, joining the brood of their parent.
The exception were the Brood-That-Builds.
Where a “normal” hunter’s eyes were solid black or red, those of the Brood- That-Builds were identifiable from the moment they clambered from the spawning waters by their green eyes with the distinctive zig-zap pupils. They held themselves slightly differently, their craniums were that little bit larger, their natural claws absent, their endoskeletal structure that little bit better suited for heavy lifting and carrying than for combat.
They were the largest Brood by dint of being swelled by the breeding of every other Brood, as well as their own spawnings, but to the Brood-That-Builds, a successful hunt was something very different.
To them, an engineer’s obsession with problem-solving was as natural as breath and feeding. In their instincts, “prey” was an outstanding unresolved technical challenge, and the “hunt” was a solution to that challenge. To the Brood-That-Builds, installing an ingenious sewerage system was on par with raiding a prey-freighter. Deploying an orbiting array of energy collectors to within millimeter tolerances was rewarded with an ecstasy that other Hunters could only find in the flesh of Humans.
And now, this! The prey of a lifetime, actual sensor records of a Human starship in action, fighting in ways that defied immediate comprehension. A quarry without compare!
The Alpha knew that if it succeeded at this task, it would have to spawn afterwards. The urge would be far too powerful, the pheromones and hormones of its deadly birthing would produce strong Hunters, the finest minds ever seen by the Brood-That-Builds. It relished and anticipated the thought.
The Alpha-of-Alphas was in an indulgent mood, but there were limits. <Impatience; demand> +Can you learn their secrets?+ it demanded.
<Confidence; gratitude> +The Alpha-of-Alphas has given me a fine prey to chase. But whatever solution the primitive deathworld beasts can invent, I can invent also. These secrets will be yours.+ The Alpha Builder replied.
<Query> +And how long would it take to introduce this technology to our brood-vessels?+
<Thoughtful estimation> +That would depend on the nature of the technology, and how much of the Swarm would be thus outfitted+
<Clarification> +The entire Swarm-of-Swarms. Every last ship. This technology allows the Deathworlders to slip their cage and turn it into a wall against us. We will now devote all of our efforts into penetrating their fortress and butchering every last one.+
<Surprise; timid objection> +Greatest One, even if the secret turns out to be trivial, that will take (years).+
<Anger> +Your place is not to object! Your place is to OBEY!+
The Alpha Builder cowered as the Alpha-of-Alphas rose from its Vulza-skull throne and spread its cybernetic claws.
<Placation; Obedience> +It shall be as the Alpha-of-Alpha commands.+ It mentally squeaked.
<Satisfaction> +Good. Get to work.+
The Alpha-of-Alphas paused as the Alpha Builder scurried away. <Threat> +Understand something, Alpha of the Brood-That-Builds.+ It fixed the lesser Alpha with a stern glare from all seven of its eyes. +If you reproduce before every last human has been devoured, then I shall personally filter your spawn from their pool and have them fed to the spawn of another.+
The Alpha Builder swallowed, a subconscious gesture that, unbeknownst to either species, exactly mirrored its meaning in humans. <Fearful Understanding> it sent, and scurried away.
Suddenly, this new prey seemed so much less exciting to it.
__
Date Point: 4y 8m 3w AV
Austin, Texas. United States of America, Earth.
Kevin Jenkins
“Uh… hey. Is, uh, Moira home?”
The man in the door looked him up and down. “If your name’s Kevin” he decided “She ain’t.”
Kevin sighed, and nodded gently. “It is, yeah.”
Anger flashed in the other man’s eyes. “In that case pal, your restraining order-”
“I’ve got this, baby.”
Moira kissed the man in the door on the cheek, and after a quick check to make sure she was certain, he retreated inside. Moira leaned on the door frame.
“He’s right. That restraining order ain’t gone away.” She said.
“I know.”
“Why are you here, Kevin? I thought you were going to leave us in peace.”
“I thought… I was hoping maybe I could try and un-fuckup one thing.” Kevin said.
“What, you’re here to apologise?”
Kevin shook his head. “You and I both know there’s not enough sorry in the world, Moira. Not after what I…” the sentence trailed off. Even know, in the act of cleansing himself, he couldn’t bear to repeat what his own irresponsibility had done to Callie.
“You’re fucking right.” she snarled, advancing out of the house. “She’s inside. God willing, even if she looks out here, she won’t remember who you are. How dare you come here?!"
“I’m not staying.” he reassured. “Just… I know I can’t see her, Moira, but I have to apologise to her."
“You’re not seeing her!”
“I know,” Kevin repeated. “Look… I’ve got this letter. You read it, you decide whether to give it to her. You can burn it if you want, but I can’t leave without at least trying.”
“Leave?” she asked suspiciously, snatching the letter from his hand. “You came back just to leave again?”
“Earth. I’m leaving Earth. I got a job with the Byron Group, on one of their exploration ships, and I’m leaving. Forever.”
Date Point: 4y 8m 3w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches.
Dr. Mary Cleveland
“…Peptostreptococcus magnus… that’s definitely E. coli, no two ways about it… and… yep, I’d bet my life on it, that’s Enterococcus faecium. Well, that clinches it."
Governor Sandy was no scientist, but he was a highly educated, highly literate man. “Faecium? As in, faeces.” he said.
“Oh yes. These are all Terran species of bacteria, every one of them native to the human gastrointestinal tract.” Dr. Cleveland said, still examining the images being produced by the electron microscope.
“As are the fungi we recovered.” his wife added.
Coin nodded “It’s… aside from the scale, it’s a pretty classic cross-section of the kind of flora you’d find in an ordinary, healthy bowel movement.”
Sandy grimaced, and pinched his nose. “Delaney.” he said.
“Must be. The scar describes pretty much perfectly the direct route from the site of her escape pod to here. If we assume one comfort break a day or so…”
“Even one would have done it.” Mary said. “You can’t blame her, governor.”
“I don’t.” He reassured her. “Is there anything we can do?”
Mary sighed. “I suspect something like this would have eventually happened anyway.” she said. “In the absence of any bacterivores or immune systems capable of keeping them in check, the bacteria and fungi are feasting and reproducing as fast as they possibly can. Deathworld microbes, loose in an ecosystem that simply can’t cope. This was never not going to happen, from the moment a human first landed here."
Sir Jeremy listened to her patiently. “I thought the disease suppression implants…?” he said.
“Those rid us of a whole raft of communicable diseases based on the case of one human who managed to infect a whole ship full of vizkittiks. They’re actually targeted at a fairly short list of bugs.” Colin shook his head. “They ignore our gut microbiome by design: If they completely sterilized the human digestive tract, it’d probably kill us.”
Sir Jeremy made an exasperated noise. “Bloody…. sloppy half-baked alien solutions.” he cursed. “Very well. Is there any way we can stop this thing?”
Wendy shook her head and gave him the hard truth. “Almost certainly not, now that it’s so advanced.” she said, apologetically. “I’m sorry, Sir Jeremy, but all of our noble goals toward conserving the ecology of this planet were doomed before we even got here.”
“…Shit.”
Coming from a man who was not known to swear, this prompted a round of sympathetic nodding. Sir Jeremy had been passionate from the word go about preserving Cimbrean’s native life, and certainly nobody in the colony disagreed with him on that endeavour.
He wiped away a futile tear. “Fine. is there anything we CAN do?”
Colin and Mary exchanged glances. “This… the death of a whole planetary biosphere isn’t exactly our field.” Colin demurred.
“Is it anybody’s?”
“I suppose not.” Colin frowned, thinking.
“The knock-on consequences are total.” Mary said. “No plants means no oxygen. So, we’re on borrowed time now before Cimbrean ceases to be an inhabitable planet.”
Good husband that he was, Colin was on the same wavelength instantly. “And if there’s nothing we can do to stop them from dying, then the only option is to replace them.”
“And the only readily available plants which could survive in soil contaminated with Terran microorganisms would be… well, Terran ones.” Wendy finished.
“You’re proposing a… what, an ecosystem transplant? That sounds like an impossibly large task.”
“Vast.” Colin agreed. “But it’s either that or abandon this planet and watch it die.”
“We’d need to bring in… everything." Mary said. “Trees, grass, bushes, bees, birds, insects, rodents, birds, fungi, algae, fish, everything all the way up to apex predators.”
“Impossible, surely?” Sir Jeremy protested. “Replacing the ecosystem of an entire planet, that’s… far too large a task."
“But we don’t need to replace it across the whole planet at first.” Colin pointed out. “If the aliens are right about Deathworld species, and the evidence of this bacterial event suggests that they are…"
Mary nodded “…then we only need to introduce the immigrant species along the length of the scar. They might even help to contain the infection and slow it, if we introduced things in the right order.”
Colin nodded. “Of course, the Terran species would ultimately out-compete and supplant the natives, but if we’re very lucky, a few mutant strains might make it through the mass extinction events and we’d still have a few Cimbrean natives for posterity.”
“Is that feasible?”
The Clevelands looked at each other, back to him and, simultaneously, they shrugged. “We’re not remotely qualified to plan more than a tiny part of that process.” Mary said.
“It’s the precise opposite of what I came to Cimbrean to achieve.” Sir Jeremy objected, though it was at best a defeated token objection rather than a serious dissent.
“She’s already terminally ill.” Colin replied. “She either becomes barren and uninhabitable, or we terraform her. Those are the only options I can see.” He glanced at Mary, who nodded her agreement.
Sir Jeremy sat down, took off his glasses and cleaned them on his tie. “Is this likely to happen wherever we go?” he asked.
“Well…” Colin cleared his throat. His expression confirmed that the answer was an affirmative, and that he really didn’t want to say it.
Wendy finished for him. “They do call us ‘deathworlders’.” She said, and pointed at Firebird’s image of the Scar as the governor put his glasses back on.
“Well… There’s the proof.”
Chapter 22
Chapter 19: “Baptisms” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Note: Xiu Chang was originally introduced by the excellent Hume_Reddit, and her saga forms part of the Essential Reading Order.
Although Hume decided to bow out of writing her story, they were kind enough to ask for it to be continued as part of The Deathworlders.
Date Point: 2y 8m AV
Diplomatic shuttle, docked at Kwrbvlwek Galactic Shipping Interstellar Cargo Waystation 832.
Ayma
As always, Xiu wasn’t in her bed when Ayma awoke. Ayma’s human sister had got into the habit of waking early so as to exercise under the punishing gravity of her homeworld before Ayma and Regaari awoke, and had been sleeping restlessly for the last few days in any case.
She had taken Triymin’s death hard. They all had, in their way, all blaming themselves for the innocent, broken little Sister’s untimely end. Ayma had berated herself for not making Triymin feel more welcome, for not being more sisterly to her. Regaari - enigmatic, handsome, driven Regaari - had redoubled his endurance training, spending longer and longer on the treadmill as if by training himself until he could keep pace with a human, he might somehow in some small way undo what had happened.
Ayma had seen Xiu’s grief before. The human tended to go quiet, curl up somewhere dark and sob until somebody dragged her out of it. This time was different, and she had been puzzling over why for some days. While Xiu had gone quiet, it had been the kind of quiet that Regaari had mastered, as if she was being silent so that she could watch without disturbing what she was watching.
That worried Ayma. And so, checking on Xiu had become the first task of her day.
Regaari growled something and turned over in his sleep as she padded past him. He really had been beating himself up recently, and Ayma didn’t doubt that his muscles were aching and fatigued from it, though this was the first he’d actually shown of it.
Well, that and being the last to wake. That wasn’t like him either.
There was something off about the ship. They had docked last night at a private corporate cargo relay station to take on basic supplies, synchronise with the galactic data network, degauss the hull and generally tend to the business of keeping their ship flying. Now, in the morning, it seemed eerily still, and colder somehow. Maybe even quieter.
That was it. Xiu was not a large person, but the characteristic density of a Deathworlder meant that when she was moving around, the whole ship vibrated just a little bit. She wasn’t heavy, she was…
Firm. that was the word. The ship trembled a little wherever she went inside it, as if it was just a little afraid of her. Ayma loved her sister, but having felt the full force of Xiu giving her an angry deathworld glare, she could relate just a little.
There was no music, either. None of that raucous pulsing noise that Xiu liked to pollute her personal space with when she was alone and could get away with it.
Only one thing caused her to pause as she headed towards the gym. The cabin that contained the modified cargo container, with its salvaged stasis field generator, that served as Triymin’s coffin until they could somehow get her back to Gao, and to a proper funeral. She always paused by that door.
The gym itself, however, was dark and empty. When Ayma experimentally waved a hand over the threshold, she didn’t feel the tug of any extra gravity.
“Shoo?” she called.
“She’s not here either?”
Ayma flinched. Regaari raised his paws apologetically. “Either?” she asked, grabbing the important word.
“You woke me up.” He explained. “When I went up to the galley, her cloak and disguise were gone.”
Their eyes met, then simultaneously widened, and they scrambled back towards the sleeping cabin, Regaari beating her there despite his battered muscles. Ayma didn’t need to get there first though. She was already feeling the urge to make a mournful keening noise, and the impulse only grew stronger when she saw the open compartment under Xiu’s nest-bed. Xiu didn’t own many personal effects, but they were all gone.
“I’ll… check the security footage.” Regaari said. “Check every compartment, just in case?”
It was something to do, but Ayma didn’t need to look very far. Glancing into the room containing Triymin’s coffin was enough.
This time, she really did give voice to her sorrow, and the noise soon attracted Regaari.
Resting atop the coffin was a datapad, projecting a short, simple message.
"I’m sorry.
Take care of yourselves.
I love you both.
Goodbye."
Two years later.
Date Point: 4y 9m AV
A motel somewhere along I-84, Utah, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
“Cimbrean’s appointed governor, Sir Jeremy Sandy, was quick to dismiss any suggestion of blame, stating that the damage was beyond any reasonable prediction."
The footage of decaying foliage and the aerial shots of creeping brown pestilence cut to the image of a silver-haired man who looked like he hadn’t been getting enough sleep, standing at a podium in a garden under grey English skies.
“I came to Cimbrean for many reasons - the future of humanity as an interstellar civilization, to realise the ambitions of generations of dreamers, and to preserve its unique biology for posterity and for the benefit of the human race and others.”
“The thought that we are going to lose it all, that the biosphere of the entire planet was doomed even before the first colonist set foot on Cimbrean, is gut-wrenching. But the fact remains that, devastating though this tragedy is, it is not the result of an act of malice. The circumstances of this disaster were uncontrollable, therefore we shall not be naming the person responsible, nor apportioning blame - there is none to apportion, as they could not have foreseen or avoided this outcome by any realistic means.”
The governor paused significantly, and adjusted his glasses as he looked directly out across the crowd and at the cameras.
"Blame will accomplish nothing, and if nothing is accomplished then Cimbrean will die. It is that simple."
The footage cut to Sandy shaking hands and standing alongside other politicians for the press as the reporter continued.
"This morning, the Global Representative Assembly’s Office for Extraterrestrial Policy issued a statement confirming that the search for other potential colony worlds would remain essentially unchanged."
The statement was displayed even as it was read out.
"…Although the news of ecological disaster on Cimbrean has of course been taken into account, the Assembly’s survey of potentially habitable worlds was already focusing on so-called “death worlds” which are likely to be more well- suited and resilient to human habitation, including being better able to resist the kinds of microorganisms which are behind the Cimbrean tragedy…"
The footage returned to Cimbrean, showing teams of scientists patrolling the infected area in protective clothing, sampling the ravaged greenery.
"While the decision to supplant Cimbrean’s native species with ones from Earth has attracted widespread protests and accusations that the colony and its sponsors in the British government have failed to fully explore the available options for containing or reversing the bacterial spread, it seems likely that the plan to import Terran plants and animals is set to go ahead. The British Prime Minister has already pledged the continued support of his government to Cimbrean despite criticism from the opposition that saving Cimbrean will be a waste of time and money."
Kevin didn’t recognise the next man on screen, but he was clearly a British politician. Nobody else could wear a bad suit, bad teeth and bad hair so comfortably.
"Everything we’ve seen and been told about the galaxy says that there are literally thousands of planets out there waiting to be claimed, most of which have ecosystems much less fragile than Cimbrean’s and gravity much more suitable to our needs. So this so-called ‘terraforming’ project seems to me to be a case of throwing good money after bad, especially in today’s fragile economic climate."
A commentator gave their opinion from in front of a green-screen depiction of the New York skyline.
"Have we REALLY exhausted all of the options here? ’cause as far as I can tell the situation on Cimbrean went from A-Okay to Apocalypse overnight. Where’s the in-depth investigation, the planning?" He raised his voice to shout over the interrupting objections of his opposite number "I don’t believe that a whole planet is so fragile that we can write it off the second some hiker takes a.. a comfort stop in the woods!"
Screen time was then given to the person who had tried to interrupt him.
"The criteria laid down by the Interspecies Dominion for classifying a planet are well-established and clear. I know, I know…" She paused as she was interrupted, and the footage cut to her continuation. "I know it’s hard to really get your head around the idea that our own home planet is so incredibly deadly, but all of the samples and information coming back from Cimbrean so far, all the abductee accounts, all the scientific resources we now have access to all point to the fact that we’re statistical outliers, right on the far end of the bell curve."
The next speaker was clearly being interviewed in his office, and had the air of big business about him. It wasn’t long before his name was displayed at the lower edge of the screen, proving him to be the CEO of some company or another. Moses Byron.
"Cimbrean isn’t going to be abandoned for one simple reason: Oil. It has a lot of oil. Sure, we may be moving more and more on to using solar energy collection fields to power our cities, but we’ve got a lot of cars still on the road that aren’t about to stop running on gasoline anytime soon, and we’re never going to stop needing plastics. Cimbrean represents an opportunity for the West to break our dependence on Middle-Eastern and Russian oil, and this ecological disaster doesn’t change that. In fact, it represents a golden opportunity."
"If we’re replacing the ecosystem of an entire planet with one of our own design anyway, then we don’t need to worry about the conservation and preservation efforts that… I don’t want to say ‘hamper’ industry on Earth. Conservation and environmental preservation are obviously hugely important, and I don’t want to give the impression that I think they’re bad things, ’cause I don’t."
"But if Cimbrean’s already written off then there’s no longer any reason why we can’t have huge GMO farms over there, growing crops in a low-pest environment, meaning a gargantuan food surplus for Earth. The same goes for oil drilling, fracking, for open-cast mining…The incentives that exist not to do those things on Earth no longer apply to Cimbrean because the fatal damage has already been done. So instead we can stop damaging our own planet and make the best of a tragedy."
The reporter asked a question directly to the interviewee at that point. "Don’t you think that’s a cynical way of looking at it?"
The businessman gave an uncomfortable little exhalation.
"I won’t deny you could call it that, but I don’t think I’m being cynical. I think I’m trying to look at the ways we can turn a bad situation to the good." He said.
“Sure, it sounds heartless at first glance, but at second glance I’m talking about the opportunity to… to wipe out famine, to limit the damage we do to the Earth. Imagine if we never cut down another inch of Amazon rainforest ever again because we’d moved those tree species and their logging operations over to Cimbrean instead? That’s got to be better than just letting one planet die while we continue to wound the other, right?”
He shrugged, sat back and folded his hands in his lap. "If that’s cynical then… guilty as charged, I guess."
Kevin stopped listening as the reporter signed off, and sat back thinking as the anchors segued into the next article, about a recall of translation implants, scratching idly at the bald patch in front of his own temple where his own crude version had been installed, supposedly the first one custom- built for a human nervous system.
Eventually, he reached a decision.
“Still doesn’t seem real…”
Date Point: 4y 9m AV
Cimbrean Consulate, London, United Kingdom, Earth
Sir Jeremy Sandy
Sir Jeremy became aware of his aide, Jack, entering the office and reached forward only reluctantly, and took his time removing his earphones and turning the music off. He’d been enjoying a few moments to himself.
“Jack?”
“Mister Moses Byron will be here in five minutes, Sir Jeremy.”
“Already?” Sir Jeremy sat back, folding his hands on his stomach. “I know the man has a reputation for alacrity, but…”
“He has a reputation for buzzing around like a blue-arsed fly, sir.” Jack smiled. “I understand he got in his jet the second you agreed to see him.”
“And a reputation for being such a straight-talker that you could draw a triangle with him.” Sir Jeremy finished.
“Shall I keep him waiting?”
Sir Jeremy thought about it. The presumption on his time was a little irritating, but on the other hand… “Ordinarily… no, no thank you Jack. See him in directly when he arrives will you? And, have some coffee ready.”
“Yes, sir Jeremy.”
Sir Jeremy cleared up a few letters and some of the shorter reports as he waited. Moses Byron was a self-made billionaire, a man who had stepped out of the relative obscurity of the business sector within the last four years already with a few million to his name, and had put that money to work in spectacular fashion, capitalising on all the domestic, terrestrial opportunities afforded by the discoveries coming out of Scotch Creek and the universities as the secrets of alien technology were unpicked.
Byron owned the production of volumetric projectors, stasis fields generators, solar collection fields and at least two kinds of alien-derived power storage cells that promised to give the latest generation of smartphone a full month of life when charged. Thanks to him, the near future promised to contain true 3D cinema, the stasis “fridge”, self-sufficient electric cars.
He also, to the public’s delight, seemed to be an intensely moral man, unafraid to court controversy by telling the truth as he saw it.
Sir Jeremy had an immediate mistrust of the man, but rose to shake his hands when, after a few minutes, Jack opened the door and ushered him in with a soft “Mr. Moses Byron, Sir Jeremy.”
The handshake was crushing, and Moses himself was loud. “Hey, so I got a question, do you mind if I call you Jerry, or do you prefer Sir Jeremy?” he asked.
“I prefer Sir Jeremy, if it’s all the same to you.” the governor replied, retaking his seat.
“Then Sir Jeremy you’ll be, and sorry for asking.” The twinkle in Byron’s eye said that he knew he was playing to type, and that no force in the galaxy could induce him to care even a little bit. Sir Jeremy congratulated himself on predicting that Byron, for all his bluster and bluntness, would turn out to be deeply shrewd.
Two could play at the excessive directness game.
“So what do you want, Mr. Byron?” he asked. “I saw you on the news, giving the impression that you rather thought you could annex Cimbrean into your growing empire.”
“And save the world with it.” Moses beamed, revealing the kind of white, even teeth that could only be the product of extensive expensive dentistry.
“Very ethical of you.”
Byron laughed. “Ah, Ethical is a product, Sir Jeremy, and it sells so well because it advertises itself. Hell, it’s a brand. You Brits have that little red tractor you stick on your food to say it’s been locally sourced. Ain’t no little sticker for cheap imported stuff made by Chinese kids for a dime an hour, is there?"
Sir Jeremy sat back. “Your point being…?”
Byron shrugged. “Did you read my proposal?”
“I did. Despite what you said on TV last night, I really don’t see what you stand to gain. Your own proposal is so self-limited that you wouldn’t see a return on your investment for… decades.”
Moses Byron grinned again. “If we’re talking about the return on the investment directly from the investment itself, then you’re not wrong.” he agreed. “But to be honest, how much money does a guy need? I can afford to fly to London on a whim, no big deal. Seriously, I could lose that kind of money in some inventive tax paperwork, if I was the kind of guy to stiff the public sector like that. How much more do I really need?”
“That’s an attitude which is slightly at odds with my past experience of business billionaires.” Sir Jeremy observed.
“Man, I feel sorry for you. You’ve been hanging with the idiot crowd, I can tell. The kind who think profit equals dollars, am I right?”
Byron leaned forward. “But yeah, I have an angle, sure. It’s just not one that puts me in control of the planet like you’re worrying about. That’d just limit me and make me look like the bad guy, and the Byron brand is all about looking like the good guy. Ethical is a brand, right?"
“I see. The cynical good guy.”
“You got it, yeah. I know common wisdom is that people don’t like a hard truth, but it’s worked for me so far.”
The meeting paused as Jack entered, carrying a cafetiere, cups, sugar, cream and some files, which he handed to Sir Jeremy before retreating.
“Coffee, Mr. Byron?” Sandy asked, depressing the filter.
“Black and sweet.”
Sir Jeremy poured. “You’re creating an opportunity.” he said, as he did so.
Byron threw his hands wide and smiled. “You caught me.”
“But I don’t think that opportunity is on Cimbrean. I think you meant every word you said during that interview but ultimately I think that my planet is just the, um…” he paused, considering how to phrase it. “The floodgate that you want opened.”
He dropped a sugar cube into the coffee. Moses held up two thick fingers. When the second cube went in, he curled one of those fingers down.
Sir Jeremy poured his own coffee before adding the third cube. “How much money does a man need? I’d submit that it’s less than you already have." he said. “And yet here you are. If it was about being the 'good guy' then you could do that here on Earth. Any charity in the world would be delighted to receive this kind of money, so: Why Cimbrean?"
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Jerry.”
Sir Jeremy issued a humourless laugh, and added the third sugar cube.
“If we are going to prevent the total collapse of Cimbrean’s breathable atmosphere, the first step is almost certainly going to be phytoplankton.” he said, handing the drink over. “But the water is so rich in nutrients that the algae will get out of hand almost overnight unless we have zooplankton and krill to eat them, and unless we want the seas to be solid pink with krill, we’re going to need something that eats them in turn. How do you import a whale?"
“More to the point,” he continued, “how do you import a sustainable breeding population of whales without harming the whale population on Earth? What complications might arise from that? If the whales we choose migrate to the Caribbean to breed every year, then how are they going to fare on a planet that doesn’t have a Caribbean? And that’s just the, the primary school science class version of that food chain, and only one food chain."
He poured cream into his own coffee. “Nothing like this has ever been attempted. We’re bringing on board science fiction writers because those are the only people who have even considered these kinds of scenarios. The expertise and knowledge to make it happen all but don’t exist.” Before sipping his drink, he looked Byron straight in the eye. “There are noble causes right here on Earth that could boost your Ethical Byron Brand, and Cimbrean meanwhile can offer no guarantees that we shall succeed.” he added.
“So?”
“So as useful as your money will no doubt be, you appear to be treating me like part of the so-called 'idiot crowd’." Sir Jeremy said. He took a sip, levelly holding Byron’s gaze. “Not to try my hand at equine dentistry, but I’ve always preferred the aphorism 'if it looks too good to be true, it probably is' so I ask again. Why Cimbrean?"
Moses Byron’s jovial attitude was gone, revealing the hardened veteran businessman underneath.
“You’re gonna turn me down?” he asked.
“I hope I don’t have to. As I said, we need the money and to be frank I don’t care what you have planned. I require only an added clause.”
“Name it.”
“Do you have any neural cerebral augmentation implants, Mister Byron?”
Byron frowned at the apparent non-sequitur. “No.”
“No translator implant or anything like that?”
“God no, I prefer my head the way the good Lord made it.”
“Good. The stipulation I am adding is that you will provide - under supervision by an observer of my choice - medical evidence to prove that you don’t, to be repeated on a regular basis. In the event that you ever do acquire any such implants, any and all property and developments you own within one parsec of the Cimbrean star will immediately be ceded in their entirety to the Cimbrean colonial administration or, if that’s not acceptable, to a private owner of the administration’s choosing.”
“…That’s it?”
Sir Jeremy nodded and sipped his coffee again. While he typically preferred tea, he had to admit that Jack prepared excellent coffee. “Yes.”
“Well, 'not to try my hand at equine dentistry' here, but what the hell does it matter?" Byron looked downright confused by the demand.
“I’m not at liberty to tell you. Suffice it to say that I’m eliminating an ulterior motive.”
Byron took a swig of his own coffee to cover his bemusement, then set the cup down on Sir Jeremy’s desk. “Fine, whatever, I accept the term as given.” he said “Have your people call mine, write it in.”
Sir Jeremy smiled, and shook his hand, pleased to note that Moses Byron’s grip was much less certain and strong this time. “I look forward to seeing what you have in store, Mister Byron.” he said.
4y 9m 3d AV
Starship Sanctuary, deep space
Allison Buehler
Julian had an irritating habit of cleaning and maintaining his gear on the coffee table in the Sanctuary’s main lounge, which was compounded by his grumbling that he couldn’t concentrate on the job while any kind of entertainment was on. Six years of having nothing to distract him but staring into the campfire meant that any movie, TV show, game or anything else on the big screen opposite the couch commanded his attention.
Allison had, therefore, waited until he was pretty much finished before poking her head round the door, acutely aware that they hadn’t exchanged more than three words at a time in a couple of weeks now.
“Hey, uh… you busy?” she asked.
He glanced up, and gave her a long, cool, evaluating stare before moving over on the couch. “Just finishing.” he grunted.
+God, he’s sexy when he’s pissed.+
She sat down next to him and put the box she’d brought with her down on the table. He frowned at it.
“What’s this?”
“Peace offering.”
He blinked at her, then shrugged and twisted the catch on the front of the box.
She’d worked hard, with Lewis’ help programming the nanofactory, to produce an almost exact duplicate of a Smith & Wesson 22A. “My Grandpa taught me to shoot with a gun just like this.” she said. “I was… hoping you’d let me teach you. You said yourself you’ve never fired a gun before.”
“What, you want an excuse to rub up next to me on the shooting range?” Julian put the gun back down again.
“Um…”
“I’m not your fucking plaything, Allison. You wanted a perfect peace offering? Well how about a goddamn apology?”
"UGH!" she stood up and left the gun behind. “Whatever, Etsicitty. You want to learn how to fire that thing, you let me know.”
She was glad that nobody on the ship was between her and her quarters to see her expression. The moment the door closed behind her, she drove her fist into the wall, denting it slightly and bloodying her knuckles, which prompted a round of swearing and running her hand under the cold faucet.
“That was an apology, you jackass." she muttered.
4y 9m 5d AV
Sara Tisdale
The Cimbrean summer was gentler than Sara remembered from Earth. Back there, even in notoriously grey and mild England, she had always had to wear sun cream when thesun was out, and lots of it. She’d always hated it.
Cimbrean was much better. Its thick Ozone layer and the Cimbrean star’s comparatively low UV output (low relative to Sol, anyway) combined so that on an afternoon like today, you could stretch out face-down on a rock and just feel warm, with none of the burning or dryness.
She flinched as water splashed across her back. “HEY!”
Her little brother and one of the newcomers, Stacey, grinned impishly at her and kicked away from the bank, scrambling back towards the middle of the lake to escape her wrath. She let them go and tried to settle back again.
They had come swimming every day since the news broke. Everyone knew that Lake Junkyard was on borrowed time, that sooner or later the bacterial filth would reach it, and they wouldn’t be able to swim in it any more without risking dysentery. Squeezing out every minute of good swimming time before the day the bad news finally came was important.
“Hey.”
Adam sat down next to her to dry out in the sun, having swum out to the sunken spaceships and back as he usually did. He was really taking his exercise seriously, but he didn’t seem to really enjoy just fooling around in the water like most of the others did. He’d arrived late on an ATV of his own, and had dived straight in without even saying hello, a sure sign of something on his mind.
Sara had been sleeping in the spare bed in his house while her parents and Ava had been away, and it had killed some of her crush on Adam, replacing it with a solid friendship. After all, who else was she going to talk to? He and Ava were the only others in her kind of age range, the rest of the Cimbrean children were all ten years old or less, and hardly anybody seemed to be bringing families with them any more.
“Hey.” she returned the greeting rather more sunnily as she rolled over and sat up. “Do you have any news? I heard maybe there’d been some word today, but I heard it from Kieron and he wouldn’t tell me where he heard it from and you know how he makes stuff up.”
Adam smiled a little, his mood breaking down in the face of Sara’s unrelentingly cheerful motormouth. “No.” he said. “Stupid military hospital won’t share anything with us. ‘Patient confidentiality’ they say.”
“But I’m their daughter! And your dad’s Ava’s guardian, right? I mean I thought he was and if he is then that’s pretty much the same thing as being her parent and don’t they usually tell parents about what’s going on?”
“Yeah.” Adam agreed. “But he called the guy he has to deal with, and I’m quoting here, 'A bureaucratic sadist with a phone pole up his ass’."
Sara giggled. Adam’s imitation of his own father was uncanny, and not just because they were related. He had Gabriel’s mannerisms down perfectly.
“Is that all he said? Because I’ve seen your dad when he’s having a tough time and I didn’t know half of what he was saying until you taught me what they meant and I don’t see how he could just stop there when Ava’s in the hospital and they won’t tell him how she’s doing.”
“Hell no, it wasn’t all he said.” Adam agreed. “But I’m not allowed to teach you how to swear in Spanish any more, remember?”
She laughed again, remembering. The first couple of days of zero contact, not knowing what was going on with all the people who’d been shipped back to take care of their Cimbrean Tea poisoning, had been the hardest. By way of trying to find a method to release the stress harmlessly, Adam had been teaching her a few choice phrases in Spanish, right up until the point where his father had walked in and just folded his arms disapprovingly.
It had worked though. “So what else did he call him? Come on, spill it, it’s not like anybody’s around who’ll tell us off.”
Adam chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess.”
“What about… hmm… a puto?"
“Yep.”
“A Pendejo?"
“Plenty of that, yeah.”
“Ooh! I know! Did he call him a pinche idiota?"
Adam grinned. “Oh yeah. To his face.”
"Woah! really?"
“And then some. The guy stood in Dad’s office explaining 'national security' this and 'discretion' that and Dad told him to metetelo por el culo, right there."
Sara was in awe. “Your dad is amazing!" she enthused. “He really told the guy to do that right there in his office? That’s so cool."
“I know, right?” Adam nodded, then sobered. “’But he said he regretted it afterwards. Said he could have got more done if he’d stayed frosty, yeah?”
“I guess…” Sara thought about it. “It’s been, like, two weeks hasn’t it? Nearly. Yeah, it was on Saturday the week before last wasn’t it, and then… wow that time’s gone fast hasn’t it? All those scientists and reporters and everyone coming and going and everything…”
“More of them today. Apparently some really rich dude wants to give us a whole load of money, it’s big news.”
“Oh yeah? Who’s the really rich dude?”
“Some guy called, uh… Moses… something.”
“Moses Byron? Mum and Dad talk about him a lot, like he’s… like, they think that all businessmen should be like him, they say he’s really honest and he’s one of those people who got money and didn’t turn into an asshole, and he’s making the world a better place and stuff. He’s, like, the only person in a suit I’ve ever heard them say something nice about."
Which wasn’t exactly true. They’d also been fairly flattering about Sir Jeremy, and about Gabriel Ares, but she knew what she meant.
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. He does stuff like lobby governments to legalise Marijuana so he can… what was it Mum said?” She concentrated, trying to remember a speech he’d given that Hayley had admiringly quoted. “Something like 'Rehabilitate the global trade in drugs and take it out of the hands of unethical pushers.' Mum and Dad’re really in favour of that."
Adam bobbled his head. “I guess that makes sense.” he conceded.
Unable to think of anything interesting to say, Sara picked up her camera and focused it on the first thing that she saw, other than Adam himself. The reflection of the tree line of the opposite shore was perfect, almost mirror- still, and she zoomed in on it.
A thought seemed to occur to Adam “Hey… did your folks ever do drugs like that?” he asked.
“Like what, marijuana?” Sara asked, pressing her eye to the viewfinder and twisting at her telephoto lens.
“Yeah.”
“Sure they did. They said it was part of their whole 'being in touch with nature' thing. They were really big on that. Grandma said the only reason they moved out of that teepee village in Wales was because of the child protection service."
“Did you ever…?”
She nodded, and hummed a confirmation - "Mmm-hmm." - before smiling sheepishly at him. “Dad used the same number for his PIN and for the safe, I figured it out really early on. Three three eight one, his birthday. So, when they went out one time I… y’know, I tried out some of their stash.”
She rolled her eyes internally when he gave a dismayed little head-shake in response to her answer, but his next question at least showed how open-minded he was. “What was it like?”
Sara invented furiously. The truth was, she had been sick and scared and hyperventilating too much to tell how much of the experience had been the drug and how much had been anxiety. “Just… weird, I guess.” she said, borrowing what she’d seen of her parents when they got high. “I don’t really remember, I just coughed a bit, found everything really funny for a while, got hungry, ate a whole tub of ice cream and fell asleep.”
“Didn’t you get in trouble?”
She laughed a little, lining up her camera to take a second picture of the distant trees in case the first wasn’t satisfactory. This question, she could answer honestly “Mum and Dad don’t believe in trouble, or grounding me or whatever.” she said, omitting that they’d gone easy on her in part because she’d had such an awful time. “Dad just changed his combination and his PIN and asked me to wait until I’m eighteen.”
Adam laughed, a little disbelievingly. “How the hell did they get to come here?” he asked. “I thought the first colonists were supposed to be, like, the best and brightest.”
“They are!" Sara protested, indignantly defending them. “They’re both botanists, really good ones! And there was never, like, anything official, they didn’t get caught or arrested or anything like that, ever. As far as the authorities knew, they’re a pair of doctors with a bunch of published papers, the best and brightest like you said."
“But you said child protection…”
“I said they moved out because of it, not because the child protection people ordered them to or anything. They moved out because they knew child protection wouldn’t approve, so they moved out before that happened. My parents are really smart people, Adam!"
There was an awkward silence, during which she turned away, cheeks burning, and took an angry picture of the reflection of a hilltop where it blurred and distorted around the swimmers. It took Adam a good few seconds to finally apologise. “I’m sorry Sara, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No, you did.” She said. People always said that whenever they insulted her parents to her face, and Sara had long since given up on being upset by it. “It’s okay, it just means you don’t understand them.”
She put the camera down suddenly. “I really miss them.” she added. “Nobody else around here thinks like they do, everyone’s all closed-minded, talking about banning the Tea stems when the plant’s all over the place right now, and going to be extinct pretty soon anyway. What’s wrong with a little bit of fun? Does it really matter if people are… are chewing something, or smoking it or whatever? Why does that matter?”
“I don’t know.” Adam confessed.
“See, that’s why you’re cool. That’s, like, the honest answer."
She sat back and stretched, pointing her toes. “Why do people have to make things so complicated?” she asked.
Adam made an interrogative noise. “Mm?”
“There’s this… saying thing that Mum and Dad like.” She told him. “’An it harm none, do as thou wilt’ shall be the whole of the law."
“Okay…?”
“Well, what’s wrong with that? Why do we need all these rules and stupid laws that just stop people from having fun? Why can’t people just do what they want so long as they’re not harming anybody?"
Adam went quiet for a bit, and she was about to change the subject before he spoke. “People hurt each other.” he said. “They’re not like you, Sara. They don’t… hold themselves back just because they were asked all nicely. They’ll do things like… like go to a sports event planning to shoot random people in the crowd, or they’ll blow up a whole city. Or they get drunk and they…”
He went quiet again, then started laughing a little strangely.
“Adam?”
“Isn’t that weird? I can talk about the roller derby, I can talk about the bomb, but I find it harder to talk about Mom and her drinking.”
Sara scooted up to him a bit. “Did she hurt you?”
“Not like… not physically, or anything like that. She never touched me. But she… said things, you know? Painful things.”
“Yeah, but… Sticks and stones, right?”
“…No.” Adam looked away, and scooted away from her a little too. “No, that’s… I don’t wanna talk about it.”
After the awkward silence had gone on a little too long, Sara finally found the courage to break it. “Wanna swim instead? Race you to the big ship?”
“Race me? Come on, the only way that’s fair is if it’s a race for me to get back here before you make it out that far.”
“You’re on!” she sprang to her feet and sprinted for the water, laughing at his dopplering "Hey!"
She hit the water at full tilt and dived in, still grinning, enjoying the cool liquid feeling of freedom on her skin as she wriggled a few dolphin-kicks under the surface.
Win or lose, at least she was going to have fun.
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w AV
Clan Fastpaw Orbital Defence station "Pride and Vision“, Orbiting Planet Gorai.
Gyotin.
“Brother? What are you doing?”
Gyotin coughed, embarrassed, and unfolded himself slightly. The Zafu he’d had imported from Earth wasn’t really ideal for Gaoians - humans had longer legs with a slightly better range of motion in the hip and a slightly different take on the theme of “spine” - but he had found a comfortable, straight-backed position that served the purpose of keeping him steady and centered and pain-free.
“It’s… something I picked up from the humans.” he said. He rose and embraced his old friend. Tagral had been a cub in the same commune as Gyotin, and had followed his sire into the Fastpaw clan, whereas Gyotin had chosen a slightly more wildcard route in life under the now-notorious Chir.
“Picking things up from humans seems to be very easy.” Tagral sniffed, returning the hug. “You should see what the females are all eating these days. The mother of my most recent cub seemed to be looking forward to these “pancake” things more than the actual siring.”
“You don’t sound like you approve. Congratulations on the cub, though.”
“We can’t ever be deathworlders, brother.” Tagral warned him. “I’m worried that if we try to imitate them too much, we’ll forget what being Gaoian is like.”
Gyotin lowered his ears slightly. “I don’t think we’re in danger of that.” he said.
“No? When you’re doing… whatever that is.” he indicated the Zafu, candle and incense.
"Meditayshun." Gyotin said, using the English word though it fit awkwardly in his muzzle. There was no word with an equivalent meaning in any dialect of Gaoian that he knew of.
“And what does that translate to?”
“It… doesn’t.”
“You see? An alien concept. A Deathworlder concept, brother. You’re playing with something very dangerous."
“I know that better than you do.” Gyotin retorted, hackles rising slightly. “Humans are incredibly dangerous, I’ve seen it first hand.”
“So why this?”
Gyotin looked his brother in the eye and quoted. "Ignorance is comfortable, but deadly. Recognise that?"
“No.” Tagral admitted.
“You don’t recognise the words of your own Clanfather?” Gyotin asked.
“Really? The Clanfather said that?”
“He did. Humans are dangerous, but so is a pulse gun, and what are the first things you learn about pulse guns, before you’re allowed to even fire one?”
“Keep your claw off the trigger unless you are firing, always assume that it will discharge, never aim it at somebody unless you intend to kill them if you must, beware of what you might hit should you miss.” Tagral recited.
“Exactly. How to handle something dangerous, in a safe way. That’s ‘why this’." Gyotin said, indicating his meditation equipment again. “Nobody knows how to handle humans safely, yet.”
He looked his brother in the eye and repeated that last word for emphasis. "Yet."
Tagral had opened his mouth to retort, but shut it again, ears starting to droop as he thought through what Gyotin was saying.
“What… what is this meditayshun thing anyway?"
“You… sit and think. Breathe in and out slowly while concentrating on the breathing.”
Tagral blinked. “That’s all?”
“It sounds simple, doesn’t it?” Gyotin said. “But… well, sit down and try it…”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbren, The Far Reaches
Sara Tisdale.
“Hey, these are good!”
Sara beamed. One of the great frustrations of her life this last couple of weeks had been the abundance of real news crews and real reporters to try and talk with, to try and get some kind of an education from in how to become a journalist herself, and pretty much every single one had just chewed her out for daring to address them, or at least just shooed her away.
It was a real pleasure to meet a reporter who was more than a stuck-up pretty face in a suit who could stand in front of a camera.
She blushed happily as the Al-Jazeera reporter scrolled through her camera, admiring shots she had taken. It kind of helped that he was really handsome too. “Oooh…” he suddenly examined a few of her snaps with considerable interest. “These are some great ‘before’ shots. We could use these for our next report.”
“You could?”
“Oh yeah. This one… no, no. This one especially. Hey, you used exactly the right filter on this."
She knew her ears were going pink, but was too happy to really care. “Thanks!”
“Tell you what, I think I’ve got some… yeah, here we go. This is our standard contract, if you can get your folks to sign this on your behalf then I can use your pictures and you’ll get credited and paid for them. Does that sound good?”
It sounded like everything Sara wanted, and her delight didn’t contain itself. She practically bounced on the spot as she took the paperwork and her camera back and dashed away, promising to get the pictures to him ASAP.
The mental image of her own name appearing on a global news broadcast had her so distracted that she only noticed the convoy of trucks when a hand grabbed the back of her collar and firmly yanked her back from the road.
“Watch yourself there, love.”
Sara watched the huge vehicles rumble by, thoroughly sobered by the sight of those huge, crushing wheels that she had very nearly run under. “Shit. Thank you!”
Captain Powell seemed amused, which was a strange sight on his face. Usually he looked so intense. “Oi, didn’t your mum and da’ teach you not to swear?” he asked.
“Not really.” Sara shrugged. “Dad says that 'fuck' is one of the oldest and most important words in the English language and that everyone uses it anyway so there’s no real point in being squeamish about it… besides, I’ve heard you swear all the time!"
This seemed to amuse the captain no end. “Aye? I’ll have to watch myself in future I guess. You never know what bad habits you might pick up off an old war-horse like me… Wait, I recognise you. You’re the one who tried to sneak onto the base trying to take pictures of us.”
Sara laughed. “Yep!”
Powell shook his head, clearly still amused but also clearly wanting to be serious. “You know that’s all top-secret stuff in there, aye?” he asked.
“All those classified tents and portacabins?” Sara teased him. “Please, it’s not like I actually managed to sneak onto the base."
Powell grunted.
“Yet.” She added.
“By ’eck you’ve got some cheek.” he said, but the glitter in his eyes said that he enjoyed that, to some extent. “Seriously though, you could have got in very serious trouble, and the only reason you didn’t is because I’m a foo- a big softie and I don’t want to have to throw that kind of trouble at you. It’d ruin your hopes of becoming a journalist.”
“What, for being curious?”
“Aye. Those rules exist for a reason miss, even if you don’t know what that reason is.”
“But if I knew the reason why, then the rules wouldn’t be needed, would they?” she objected “Rules should be explained.”
Powell gave a rueful shake of his head. “I thought you’d say summat like that.” he said. “Alright, would it persuade you not to try again if I just asked nicely?”
“Maaaybe.”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, well. Asking nicely, I’d be grateful if you - seeing as I just stopped you from being run over - never tried a stunt like that ever again."
“What’s the magic word?”
Powell made a kind of a laugh, one big silent one that rushed out through his nose. "Please." he said, though his expression was starting to get serious and Sara decided not to push her luck.
“Okay. Since you asked nicely.”
Powell stuck out his hand and they shook on it, after which he nodded at the departing rear of the last vehicle in the convoy.
“Get on with you, go on. And try not to become the next lorry’s hood ornament, aye?”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I hope so, my arm’s not that bleedin’ long. Off wi’ you.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w AV
Starship Sanctuary, Free Trade Station 1090 “Endless Possibility”
The Mwrwkwel system, the Signal Stars
Julian Etsicitty
“That was an apology, dumbass."
“You’re kidding. Giving me a gun is her way of saying sorry?"
Lewis laughed. He was surrounded by holographic screens, the central one of which was, for now, blank. Around it floated a halo of smaller screens full of notes, useful lines of code, or places for him to write notes. All the tools of the hacker’s trade.
“Julian, dude, you and Allison are, like, the craziest fucking badasses I’ve ever met, but you both SUCK at being real with each other.”
“Docking in ten minutes.” Amir called.
“Cool.”
“Real with each other?”
It was Amir’s turn to laugh. “Bruv, I could lean against the sexual tension between you two.” he said.
"What sexual tension? She treats me like I’m a goddamn toy!"
“Dude.” Lewis grinned. “Trust us. She wants you.”
“She wants you bad." Amir agreed.
“Oh come on. I knew girls like her back in high school, they’d flirt and giggle at you then laugh in your face if you asked them to Prom.”
“I’m sensing a life history there.” Amir deadpanned.
“You’re not in high school no more, man.” Lewis told him. “And that’s not what she’s up to.”
Julian watched him work as lines of code assembled themselves on the large central screen directly in front of Lewis’ face. “So what IS she up to?”
“Come on, do we need to spell it out for you?” Amir asked.
“Apparently you do!”
“Dude, it’s simple.” Lewis told him. “She’s nervous around you. She doesn’t know how to talk to you.”
“Give me a break, she’s got confidence for years."
“All a front, bro.”
Amir nodded. “You’re shit with girls. She’s shit with dudes. You get flustered, get mad at her and go hide. She gets flustered, doesn’t know what to say to you, so she gives you a bit of T and A because she’s hoping you’ll take the bait.”
“That’s not what she told me.” Kirk ducked into the room. “How are we doing?”
“Docking in, uh… seven.” Amir said.
“Piece of cake, they’re still using version four point two.” Lewis said. “And yeah, I saw that conversation. Protip, Kirk, women never tell men the whole truth about what they’re thinking.”
“Sexist, bruv.” Amir chided him.
Lewis just shrugged. “True, though.”
“What did she say?” Julian.
“Doesn’t matter.” Lewis said, dismissively. “Point being, she wouldn’t be acting like that if she wasn’t into you.” His screen chirped and he grinned. “In like Flynn. Running our sniffers.”
“Six minutes.” Amir added.
“So, what do I do?” Julian asked.
“Fucking… take the bait, dude!” Lewis said. “She gives you an ass to stare at? Stare away! She wants to get up close and personal on the mat or in target practice? Fucking enjoy it!”
Julian turned to the only nonhuman present. “Kirk?”
“Leave me out of this.” the alien said. “I don’t do that whole cliched ‘alien commentary on human behaviour’ thing.”
“Isn’t that itself a…?” Amir began, then abandoned the question when Kirk gave him what they all guessed was a tired, patient stare, though the effect was spoiled slightly by the fact that the positioning of his eyes made it hard for him to look at anything nearby with both of them. “Never mind. Docking in five minutes… mark.”
“I still kind of feel like I’m being used.” Julian objected.
Kirk slapped him upside the head as hard as he could. “Mind on the job. You two can sort it out between yourselves.”
Chastised, Julian nodded. “Right. Sure… what’ve we got, Lewis?”
“Oxygen recycling, grav plate power draw and… yep, food ration dispenser bills are all up by a bit next to her population.” Lewis said. “Right up to half an hour ago. Reckon we’ve got a human on board, boss.”
“Good.” Kirk did one of his slow nods. “We’re a long way from Hunter space here so hopefully he’s been able to live openly.”
“Hey, this is weird.” Lewis added.
“What is?”
“Looks like all those metrics spiked by one human’s worth about… five months ago. There was somebody else here, but they either died or moved on, and there’s nothing in the census logs about a dead human, so… yeah, she moved on.”
“She?”
“Yep. Definitely a woman. The one still on board is a dude.”
Amir frowned at him. “How do you know that?" he asked.
“I programmed the sniffer to check the sewage processor logs for haemoglobin contamination warnings every fourth week.”
“Huh?”
“Blood, dude. Every month. Think about it.”
Amir blinked then realisation dawned with an uncomfortable grimace. “Oh! Oh, right! Uh… three minutes.”
“Weird though. See here? This was just her, then there’s two of them on the station for, like, a week or so, then it’s just him. You think they didn’t get along?”
Kirk patted Lewis on the shoulder and turned to Julian. “Go get Allison and meet me at the airlock.”
“Uh. D-do I, uh-”
"Get over it, Julian. I need you two working together. You can sort out your [unpronounceable crackle of untranslated alien syllables] when we’re back in deep space."
“…Yes, boss.”
“Something else, K.” Lewis said, as Julian exited the flight deck.
“What?”
“I’ve synched with the military relay. Look at this.”
Lewis called up a graph of four writhing coloured lines: piracy, smuggler activity, Alliance scouts, and Hunter raids.
The Hunter line became a vertical cliff at a date three weeks previously.
Kirk leaned in, as if by his taking a closer look the data might change.
"No sightings? No raids? Nothing?"
“Just this.” Lewis zoomed in a little, and a tiny blip in the otherwise flatlined Hunter activity became visible.
“What is that?”
“The whole Swarm-of-Swarms, tracked by a Kwmbwrw listening post, hauling ass back towards Hunter space at ninety kilolights.”
As Kirk stood back up, Lewis looked up at him. “What does that mean, dude?”
Kirk’s four arms described a convoluted approximation of a human shrug. “I have no idea. But it worries me.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 2d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Ava Rios
Returning to Cimbrean was a lurch, not least because the trip was so much more crowded this time around. Everyone was jammed in as much as was safe.
Adam wasn’t there to see her step through the decontamination field. Gabriel was. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to face him yet but…
The thought got abandoned as he stepped forward and hugged her, hard.
"Me asustaste." he said, simply.
Tears sprang up unbidden. "Lo siento." she whispered back, returning the hug, realising just how lucky she really was. “I swear it was an accident, I do.”
“It’s okay… You’re lucky it was only the once. The doctors reckon that plant’s probably really addictive, and the Tisdales and a few of the others who were using it are apparently really suffering.” He turned back down the hill towards the town, which seemed to have grown alarmingly justin the few days of her visit to Earth. “How are you feeling?”
“It sucked.” she confessed. “I had the shakes, I felt weak… it hurt."
“Weird how there’s no drug on Earth that’ll hook you so bad, but there is here on Cimbrean.” Gabriel mused.
“Where’s Adam?”
“Swimming.”
That brought a slight frown to her face, which she tried, and failed, to suppress. Okay, so her return to Cimbrean had only been authorised an hour or so ago, so if they’d gone down to the lake there was no way he could have known, but it still bothered her that her boyfriend was hanging out with Sara, and how.
“Have they been… doing that a lot?” She asked.
“While they still have a lake to swim in, yeah.”
They passed the faith center. There really were a lot of people running about the place, wearing tough clothes, one or two half wrapped up in plastic protective gear. A gang of men she didn’t recognise were busily moving crates and pallets of equipment out of the barn that served as the cargo terminus for the jump array, hoisting the equipment easily in the low gravity.
“While they…? Why wouldn’t they have a lake to swim in?” she asked. “And are these those research teams you mentioned? What are they doing here?”
Gabriel stopped. “You mean you didn’t hear?” he asked.
“…Hear what?”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w AV
“How are you finding it, sir?”
The captain didn’t hear her at first, but eventually the question seemed to percolate into his brain. McDaniel could hardly blame him. Her own experience of Gaoian politics was an awful lot like trying to conduct international negotiations with nations that occupied the same land, cities and facilities rather than having their own geographic territory. It wasn’t that Gaoians were deliberately abstruse, or at least not more so than any human diplomat. It was that the only time you could be absolutely certain which clan a given Gaoian belonged to was if they happened to be female.
That fact alone might have been a comfort and help, had Gorai been home to a larger female population. Apparently the route from homeworld to colony was less than perfectly secure and more than one colonial transport had gone missing en route. The Corti Directorate had been unsuccessfully implicated in a few of those cases, the Hunters in most of the rest, and the best efforts of the male naval clans to patrol the spacelane linking the two worlds had not completely restored a sense of confidence that might encourage Mothers to bring their Sisters and cubs with them to the new world. Despite the much larger population and more complete infrastructure, Gorai was in some ways less of a success story than Cimbrean.
In any case, two weeks of dealing with Gaoian politics was starting to wear on her sanity, and she was much more comfortable with such things than the Captain who, she guessed, had probably been staring fuzzily at the same document for five minutes before she entered.
“Sorry Lieutenant, what was that?”
“I asked how you’re finding it, sir.” McDaniel repeated herself, patiently.
“Like hiking through a minefield.” Bathini confessed. “This is a diplomat’s work, not a ship captain’s.”
McDaniel nodded. “I brought you a cup of tea, sir.” she said, setting it down. Technically, as Caledonia’s First Lieutenant, delivering tea was a bit below her, but she had always found that little touches like that went a long way, especially when it came to meetings involving sensitive information. The captain accepted it as if she was a beneficent angel.
“Good news also, I think we may be able to eliminate Father Mo from the list of potential Hierarchy agents.” she said. “The out-of-character behaviour Father Reyiki mentioned to you is almost certainly because the most recent cub he sired died shortly after the birth.”
“With their medical technology, I’m amazed that still happens.” Bathini mused, reading the note she handed him which elaborated on the subject. “A genetic defect?”
“Yes sir. A mutation. Not his fault, but if I understand their society correctly then that kind of thing carries a substantial stigma and has probably shot his chances of ever arranging another mating contract ever again.”
“Plausible.” the captain conceded “But I’m not convinced it’s enough to take him off the list entirely. The Hierarchy are ruthless, they might have arranged the cub’s death to provide plausible deniability for his behaviour. Knock him down to a yellow.”
McDaniel nodded, and jotted a quick note to herself, recording the instruction. Orders fresh from Earth, delivered by a member of Tawhaki Flight, were now to assume Hierarchy activity wherever neural implants of any description were involved. Given that neural augmentations were practically ubiquitous among Gaoian diplomats and senior clan leaders, that meant that every single one had to be considered not only in terms of what they were trying to achieve for their clan and their disposition towards humanity, but also in terms of their potential to act as a Hierarchy agent.
Bathini’s comparison to hiking through a minefield was, if anything, understatement. The orders had included a rough-and-ready risk colour-code to try and classify the probability that any given person was host to one of the enemy, running from green (no implants), then yellow for lowest risk up through orange (“Possible”), red (“Likely”) and finally black for “confirmed Hierarchy Agent.”
Of course, the mere existence of the Hierarchy was still need-to-know information, but Caledonia’s captain and her First Lieutenant both definitely needed to know.
Bathini signed a few more documents, sipped his tea then leaned back and stretched. McDaniel could hear the popping in his spine as he worked the kinks out. "God I’m sick of politics." he groused. “What’s that you’ve got there?” he indicated the folder she was carrying.
“Latest update on the Type 2 space destroyers, captain.” She handed it over. “Ceres Base is restructuring but a lot of their people are recovering from having their translators removed, including the team leader who was overseeing construction of the shipyard. The project’s delayed by a good few months while they find a suitable replacement or wait for him to convalesce.”
“Funny how getting the damn thing installed was so easy but getting it out again proved to be so major.”
“Well it might work to our advantage. BAE say that the delay is giving them time to test some systems that they would like to update the Type Two’s design with.”
Bathini snorted. “A bird in the hand, Lieutenant…” he said.
“Not to argue with you sir, but I don’t think we can count on the Hunters to have failed to learn anything from our last battle. Some new tricks might be just what we need to keep our edge."
“On which note, any news about Myrmidon?"
McDaniel shook her head “As per their last prediction I imagine sir, seeing as we haven’t heard from them.”
“Good, I suppose.” Bathini said.
“You suppose, sir?”
“Oh, this is more Manning’s thing than mine. I keep hoping they’ll make a sudden unexpected leap forward so he can take over… ” he tailed off as he sipped his tea again. “how soon can we be done here?”
“We’re fully charged sir and the last of the ETs shipped out this morning. We’ve had a request from Gyotin, however.”
“We have?”
“He said he wants to come back to Cimbrean with us. Apparently he’s attracted a few males to join him in forming a new clan, and wants to set up a Gaoian enclave and embassy in Folctha.”
Bathini considered this. “He is aware of the ecological disaster, right?"
“He says so sir, yes. He says he’s confident that they can protect themselves.”
“Fair enough. What’s in it for us?”
“He’s offering to bring a Dominion-spec FTL comms relay with him, sir.”
“For us, or for the embassy?”
“One each, sir.”
Bathini raised his eyebrows at her. She smiled shyly. “Yes captain, you do have me to thank for that.”
“How long does he need?”
“Two days, sir.”
“Well then. Sound out the Gorai planetary authority, ask them if there’s any way we can arrange shore leave for some of the crew during those two days, what precautions they would want us to take and so on. And tell Chief Williams that I will be coming down like a tonne of bricks on any seaman who displays anything less than exemplary behaviour during shore leave.”
“Aye Aye. Will that be all, captain?”
“Thank you, it will. I need some rest, see you at oh-six-hundred.”
“Yes sir. Good night.”
McDaniel let herself out and took a second to catch her breath.
There were moments when the sheer strangeness just caught up with her. The promising start to her career as a Midshipman aboard the decidedly aquatic HMS Duncan really hadn’t prepared her to be First Lieutenant aboard a captured alien spaceship, nor for negotiating with an alien species, let alone one that looked so disarmingly Procyonid. And all just days after a vicious skirmish with monsters straight out of a Hollywood movie.
If it were just those things, she speculated that maybe she’d be adjusting. But when Gyotin had expressed an interest to live among humans and study Buddhism… and had attracted friends who shared that interest?
It kind of drove home the fact that less than five years ago, during her first days aboard HMS Albion, humanity had still been treating the idea of being alone in the universe as a big unanswered question. Every so often, the absurdity of it all gave her a ringing slap in the face.
She could hardly blame the Captain for wanting to get the hell out of Gaoian space. What the shit had happened to the world? It used to make sense.
She shook the thought off. When it came down to it, keeping a ship running smoothly hadn’t changed much. The universe might have turned out to be indescribably weird, but the realities of a warship were a comfortable anchor.
She ducked past a petty officer and his team, who stood aside en route to whatever they were doing, and bustled towards the bridge, glad to be busy.
Date Point 4y 9m 1w AV
Free Trade Station 1090 Endless Possibility"
Mwrwkwel system, the Signal Stars
Allison Buehler
"Christ."
“What?”
"I think I found our human."
“Good. That’s good, right?”
"Yeah, but I don’t understand half of what he’s saying."
Allison stopped alongside Kirk, who shared a confused glance with her. “What do you mean?”
"Just… listen."
What followed over Julian’s shotgun microphone was scarcely comprehensible, but Allison recognised it immediately.
"I an’ I cyaan do it, bredda. Dis ya’s dread heavy, ya no see it?"
She laughed. “Man, we’ve got a lively one. What’s he doing?”
"Arguing with some Kwmbwrw shopkeeper. Listen." his mic rustled again.
"Blood clot gwan f’dem ya Locayl saps?! I an’ I need-"
“What is he saying?" Kirk demanded.
“Fuck if I know.” Allison shrugged. “Here’s hoping he can tone the Patois down.”
"Good luck." Julian muttered over the link.
As always, she cleared the crowd simply by being there and looking lean and dangerous, but this was definitely a station that was used to having a human about. The glances she received weren’t the usual disbelieving “could-that- really-be-one-of-the-legendary-Deathworlders?” stares, but simple curiosity at seeing more of her species. She had learned to tell the difference.
Their target turned out to be a tall guy who, yes, was vigorously arguing with a Kwmbwrw shopkeeper over the matter of a large sign which the alien seemed to expect him to lift into place and mount over the shop’s window all by himself, obviously overestimating the famed Deathworlder strength.
“This guy giving you trouble, fella?” She asked.
The human turned, and an almost cliched brilliant white smile cut across his face, causing the shopkeeper to flinch away. “Well would ya look at that.” he said. “I an’ I get an actual angel take me away from all this.”
Allison mentally rolled her eyes. Give her Julian’s awkwardness over too- smooth any day. “Cute. You say that to every girl who walks into your life?”
“Only the beauties.”
Her comm crackled. "Jesus. Laying it on a bit thick there, pal."
As Kirk stepped forward to introduce himself, Allison exploited the dermal patch microphone on her throat to mutter a reply. “Just a bit.” she agreed.
"Can we leave him here?"
“What’s the matter, Etsicitty? Jealous?”
Answer came there none. Allison smirked, then returned her attention to their new rescue, who treated her to another smile.
“So what’s your name?” She asked.
“I’m Zane.” He said, extending a hand.
She shook it. “Allison.” She replied, then nodded to his side. “That’s Julian.”
“Juli-? Ya!" Zane flinched a good foot sideways upon glancing down at where Etsicitty had appeared next to him. “Coo yah screechie creation stepper! Bad bwai gone fi give I a heart attack!”
“My bad.” Julian’s remorse didn’t extend beyond the words themselves. His tone, expression and language said otherwise. “Kirk, Lewis reckons he’s got a lead on the woman who was here five months ago.”
“This Lewis bwai found Xiu?” Zane asked.
“You met her?”
“First human she laid eyes on in years, sight? She move on though. Restless child, that one.”
“You didn’t go with her? People tend to band together out here.” Julian noted.
“Dawta had her fund, ya nuh see? She made her way sellin’ food. ET nyam her cooking right up.” He shrugged. “She wan’ fi move on, I couldn’t afford it, seen?”
“Did she say why?” Allison asked. Again, Zane shrugged.
“Babylon.” He opined.
“Well, I guess we’re going after her next, while the trail’s warm.” Allison said. “That might mean a delay getting you back to Earth.”
“Ah, me donkya. ’S a dread galaxy out there, no place for a biscuit on her own, nuh?”
“True enough.” Allison agreed.
“We’re parked on flight deck two-thirteen.” Kirk informed him. “If you have any personal effects you want to gather, we’ll move on as soon as you’re aboard.”
They watched Zane go as he produced a vigorous agreement that he’d be there.
“I hope the ship’s translator can handle him.” Kirk said.
“Mm.” Allison agreed. To Julian, very quietly, she murmured “Did something about his story about this Xiu seem off to you?”
“I didn’t want to say it.”
Allison nodded, frowning in thought. “He creeps me out.” she decided.
“Yeah. Who comes up with a line that smooth at a moment’s notice the first time he sees a woman in months?”
She laughed a little, ignoring the way Kirk’s ear flicked as he tried to eavesdrop. “Jealous, Etsicitty?”
“…Yeah.”
She paused mid-stride and turned to look at him, but he’d vanished into the crowd.
Date point 4y 9m 1w AV
Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Adam Ares
Folctha had changed drastically in just the last two weeks, since news of the disaster had broken, on the same day that Ava and a few of the others had been shipped back to Earth. What had been a large-ish clearing out of the forest had been cleared right back for more than a mile around. Heavy forestry equipment: Bunchers, Forwarders, Harvesters, Loaders, Skidders and more had been JA’d to Cimbrean as rapidly as the Earth end of the Array could charge, the aim being to create a “safe zone” around Folctha with a buffer of Terran plants that would, hopefully, prevent the bacterial filth from ever reaching the town.
The drive into Folctha, therefore, had gone from being an exhilarating blur of trees and undergrowth whipping by on either side, to a dreary crawl across an open and increasingly muddy field that was being turned and tilled ready to receive the planting of Terran crop species.
Exactly what was to be done with all of the now-endangered lumber was unclear. If the evidence of the forest was anything to go by then the living wood, once dead, decayed rapidly under the aggressive attention of Deathworld bacteria, and if that was the case then the only hope for the wood to have any use at all was to ship it offworld and sell it to alien collectors who might be interested in the definitely finite quantity that might survive.
The alternative, Adam guessed, being to burn the lot, but that could only exacerbate the huge CO2 emission problem than the Decay Zone was already causing.
In any event, the picturesque little forest town that Folctha had once been was gone: in its place was a field of machinery, lumber stockpiles, tree stumps and the tarpaulin-shrouded blocks of crated spares and equipment. The plans that Adam had seen drawn up would leave Folctha looking beautiful again, but that would come only after a months or years-long process of interventive botanical therapy.
It was like the whole of Cimbrean’s story in miniature. Destroying Folctha had taken days. Building a replacement that might match it would take years at the minimum, assuming it was possible at all.
The sight, plus the bad news about the lake, put him in a melancholy mood that was only lifted when they pulled into the vehicle pool only for Ava to be waiting for him by the side of the cleared patch of compressed dirt that served for a parking lot. She was dressed in her hard-wearing colonist’s clothing - thick hiking trousers, study boots, a jumper and the tough jacket with the custom “From The Ashes” embroidery that mirrored his own, plus a sheepish smile, but she looked just as beautiful as if she had been wearing a summer dress.
They collided in a huge hug.
"No me hagas eso de nuevo." he begged her, through her hair.
She giggled and tightened her hug. "Te extrañe." she replied.
"Estas bien?"
"Si." she reassured him. "Siento haberte asustado."
Spanish had become their private language. So few people spoke it on Cimbrean that it was perfect for intimate moments like these, even though English was first language to both of them.
"Me alegro de que estes bien." He told her. "Te amo."
"Yo tambien te quiero."
That was everything he had needed to hear. They switched back to English as he took her hand and they started to head back towards the palace, neither noticing Sara’s little harrumph at being ignored. There was a Thing scheduled for tonight, and they were hunting the local game animals as much as they could, appreciating what they could get before the poor creatures went extinct. The smell of roasting meat was already on the wind.
“This place went to Hell while I was gone.” Ava commented. Adam sighed.
“Yeah.” he agreed. “Two weeks ago it was paradise, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah… ” she looked down. “Hard to believe one person did that much damage. How was the lake, is it still good?”
“For now, yeah. We’re, uh… planning to head down there again tomorrow after school, while there’s still time.”
“Can I come with?” She asked. “I want to try again.”
Adam hugged her tight around the waist. “It’s okay to have hangups.” he said. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to…”
Ava laughed and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I want to.” she reassured him. “Its… important.”
“You’ll enjoy it.” Adam promised her.
She smiled a little uncertainly, then looked him up and down. “So look at you! You’re all tanned and fit! You’ve been keeping up your exercise while I was gone.”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “You like?”
If her expression was anything to go by, she liked. But her tone was light as she reached up and ruffled his hair. “You’ll do.”
They stood aside as a Mule towing a variety of heavy equipment grunted its way down the street, which was beginning to be in dire need of a proper asphalt surface. “Where the heck did that come from?” Ava asked. “The Jump Array’s over that way isn’t it?”
“They built a new one.”
“Who did?”
Adam indicated a team of men in high-visibility jackets and hardhats who were riding in a trailer being towed by another Mule as they bounced past. “Some guy called Moses Byron got involved.” he said. “Big billionaire hombre, said some stuff about wanting to turn Cimbrean into 'the breadbasket of the human race’."
He shrugged. “Like half these people work for the guy. They’ve got their own Array over that way now, twice the size and I heard they’re going to build one twice the size of that."
“How the heck is anybody keeping this whole thing organised?” Ava asked
“You got me. I don’t think anybody really is." Adam told her. “It’s been insane. There was, like, a quiet day or two after the news broke, and then people and gear just started arriving and it hasn’t stopped since. Dad reckons we’re either going to completely screw this up or settle into a rhythm sometime soon where we can start getting organised again, but for now it’s… he called it 'anarchy on a good day’. I offered to help out with policing but he said… Well, he said no."
“You sure he didn’t say 'over my dead body’?"
Adam laughed. “Yeah, that’s closer.” he admitted. “There was swearing.”
“Do you think there’s anything we can do to help?" she asked.
“I wish.” Adam said. “I’ve been trying to find something useful to do and everybody says things like 'just don’t get in the way, kid' or whatever."
“Ugh.” She grimaced. “I hate that."
“You and me both. I need to be doing stuff, you know?”
“Tell me about it. I had a lot of time to sit and think in the Hospital and it just…”
She trailed off, but Adam knew exactly what she meant. Quiet time, thinking time, was remembering time. Remembering time… hurt. On e of the news crews that was covering the unfolding events on Cimbrean because the reporter had a SoCal accent and tone of voice that reminded him painfully of his mother.
“Hey… you’re here, and I missed you.” he said, taking her hand. “Can we just forget about all this and just… hang out?”
She paused, smiled, and wiggled her head into his shoulder, hugging his arm as they approached the warm and noisy circle where the first of the night’s whole roasts was just starting to be sliced up.. “Yeah.” she agreed. “Let’s do that.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 2d AV
Starship Sanctuary, deep space
Julian Etsicitty.
“It’s kicking harder than I thought it would.”
“How much harder?”
“Well, like… this gun’s kicking about as much as the kind you see in a movie, but the bullets are tiny.”
“Yep. Basic rule, Etsicitty. You don’t learn anything about guns from Hollywood.”
Sanctuary was a yacht, not built for transport capacity, so its cargo rooms were long and narrow afterthoughts tucked away in an unused structural space on either side of the power core’s equator. Aside from the slight curve, they were about perfect for use as a shooting range, and Allison had found a micrometeoroid protection foam that doubled perfectly as a bullet catcher, which she had sprayed all over the back wall. After that, the nanofactory had made it trivial to construct some targets.
“Okay, so you’ve got a feel for it.” she said, and stepped up to him, just a little bit too close for innocence, aiming her left foot downrange and miming the gun he was holding. “So just aim a little bit lower, and remember you want to squeeze the trigger…
+That’s not the only thing I want to squeeze… focus!+
He slowed his breathing a little and directed his attention to the weapon. This was no different than mastering throwing his hatchet had been, all he needed was repetition.
Aim a little lower…. squeeze on the exhale.
“Woah.”
“See?”
“I hardly felt it that time.”
She stepped around him and this time there was contact as she indicated what he had done right. “You didn’t jerk the trigger, so the gun didn’t fly up like this, so the recoil didn’t make it worse. You see?”
He saw, and flexed his grip on the gun. He also saw the way her eyes flicked to the movement of the muscles in his arm. Then they flicked up and they made eye contact.
By some effort of will he held her gaze, and this time… this time, she was the one who finally broke eye contact and looked away, clearing her throat and pulse raised.
+Jesus. Lewis is right.+
She took the gun off him, gently. “So, uh… watch me.”
Stance. Aim. Fire. Fire. Fire. Click.
She ejected the magazine, checked the gun was safe and set it down on the bench before pressing the button to recall the target.
Their paper Hunter had a trio of holes inside the ten-point circle of its razor-toothed mouth that Julian could have fit his thumb over.
“Show-off.” He said.
She smiled over her shoulder at him, confidence restored. “Jealous, Etsicitty?”
“Yeah.”
“Eh. With practice you might be half as good as me." She teased, putting the gun back in its box.
“I wasn’t talking about the gun.”
She turned, and he was astonished to find that his own feet had carried him up behind her, so that when she did so their belt buckles were practically touching. She put her hands behind her, bracing herself on the table.
“That smooth son of a bitch upstairs?” She asked.
“Please. Like he’s half the man I am.”
She tried to laugh it off. “Ego, Etsicitty?”
“Planet Nightmare. Six years. Figure I’ve earned it.” He leaned just a little closer, watching her lips part and her skin flush. “Problem is, that planet doesn’t teach you how to be real with somebody.”
She swallowed a little. “Being real, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“H-how real do you want?”
+Fucking tell her you stupid son of a bitch!+
“How…” he cleared his throat. “How real have you got?”
+Good job, man. Way to wuss out.+
She blinked at him.
Then she kissed him.
+…!+
Sheer surprise almost stopped him from kissing back. Almost. Instinct saved him, driving him forward to meet her with a back-of-the-throat noise of delight that came out of nowhere, sending his arms around her waist. She gripped his hair with one hand while the other splayed on his chest over his heart, then moaned softly as he put a hand on her ass and pulled her hips towards his own.
Her own hand went straight down the line of his torso and pressed against the front of his jeans, gripping lightly and lingering there for just a second, before she broke the kiss and recoiled as if his dick had burned her. “Fuck… fuck! Too real!” She gasped. “Too real! Jesus! Whoah…”
They let go of each other, pulses pounding.
“Too real?” He asked, unsure what to make of that.
“Too…” she kissed him again. “Much. Too much, I meant too much. But real enough. God!”
“I’m confused.”
“I just… Can we go for real talk before we do any more… real anything else?”
He slipped his hands around her waist again, gently this time. “Talk.”
“You are… unbelievably sexy, you know that? All of my turn-ons in one guy, it’s crazy."
“Good, I guess?”
“I just… I can’t… oh for fuck’s sake Julian, I really, REALLY want to fuck you.”
“I figured-”
“No, shut up and let me say this. I really WANT to, but we’re not GOING to, okay? Not so long as we’re on this ship. Not happening.”
+What a fucking tease!+
+No. Think, dumbass.+
It took an effort of will, but Julian wrestled his frustrated libido into the corner, and the logic presented itself. “…you’re worried about the ship, the mission?”
“Oh, fuck sake, do you have to understand as well?!" She exploded. “Yes. The mission. Being on this ship. Doing something with my life. Mattering. I don’t want to lose that."
“So… what do you want?"
The question shut her down for a second as she thought about it. “I guess… I… what about you?”
“Are we just physical?”
“I… shit, I don’t know. We’re a pretty good team and… I like you.”
"Like me."
“A fuck of a lot, yeah.”
Julian smiled sadly. “Have we ever done anything other than exercise and flirt? What about… what’s your favourite movie? Band? I don’t even know where you grew up or what you did before your abduction. I like you too despite all the taunting but…”
She shut him up with a kiss. “Okay. That’s enough real right there.” she said. “Let’s start with all that shit and… figure out the rest, yeah?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.” she confirmed.
“Okay.”
“Great.”
“Yeah.”
“So, um…”
“So… what is your favorite movie?"
Allison froze, then glanced up at the ceiling. Julian frowned. “What?” he asked
“Just checking there’s no cameras in here.” she said. “I don’t want the guys to hear this.”
“So wait, you’d be fine with them watch-?”
She interrupted him. “It’s 'Tangled’."
“Tangled.”
“…Yeah.”
“I’ve, uh… Never seen that one.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat, tugged down her shirt a little and put her hair back in its ponytail. “Uh… Do you want to?”
“…Sure.”
“There’s, uh… just one thing, yeah?”
“What?”
“I, uh… like to sing along.”
He blinked at her, then smiled. “I think.” he said. “That this is going to work.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 2d AV
Folctha colony palace, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Sir Jeremy Sandy
While Sir Jeremy had always found Gabriel Ares to be an excellent man to work with - he wished all such senior police officers, superintendents, chief constables, or whatever equivalent rank he had dealt with during his career had been so reasonable. But long years of experience had granted him a sixth sense for when he was about to have a difficult meeting, and from the tone of the polite request that Ares had sent, today’s was going to be a tough one.
He knocked, poked his head into Gabriel’s office, and asked “Are you busy?”
Ares issued a humourless, monosyllabic laugh - hunh! - and beckoned him to enter.
Sir Jeremy sat down opposite his closest colleague. “So, what can I do for you, Gabriel?” he asked.
Gabriel finished up what he was doing, flipped a sheet of paper into one of the piles on his desk that, presumably, meant something to him, and gave Sir Jeremy his full attention. “You realise we’ve got an independently owned jump array allowing people onto this planet now, right?”
“Yes.”
“Run by an organisation owned by a man who doesn’t know about the Hierarchy.”
“I don’t trust Byron to keep it a secret. What’s the matter, aren’t your people screening the immigrants?”
“My people don’t know why they’re screening for neural implants." Gabriel said. “And in any case that represents one thin blue point of failure, right here in Folctha. The traffic coming through the Scotch Creek array is at least being checked several times and properly by people who know why it’s so important.”
He frowned. “Why ARE we keeping it a secret, anyway? It’s no crazier than some of the other stuff that’s happened these last five years. You think people won’t believe it?”
“To avoid spooking the bastards into doing something rash.” Sir Jeremy replied. “The more people we tell, the more clear it is just how seriously we’re taking this threat. So long as the Hierarchy think that we aren’t really taking them seriously…”
When Gabriel frowned uncertainly, he pressed forward. “Besides, we don’t want a witch hunt on our hands. We can’t let the Hierarchy terrorize us into jumping at shadows.”
“That’s a dangerous game.” Gabriel said. “A known security hole versus the possibility that they’ll get more dangerous if we take them seriously? They know we’re onto them already, and for fuck’s sake they’re trying to genocide us."
“It’s the considered opinion of the GRA, the UN and NATO that keeping the existence of the Hierarchy a secret is, for now, the best course of action.” Sir Jeremy stated, firmly. “I am inclined to agree.”
“And, sure, they’re right.” Gabriel said. “But Jeremy, if even one of their agents gets through that Array undetected then we could lose people. We could lose the whole planetary reclamation project. As the closest thing you have to a spymaster right now, I’m telling you - Byron needs to know.”
“Byron’s a loudmouth.” Sir Jeremy responded. “Gabriel if I thought he was at all trustworthy with the secret, we wouldn’t be having this conversation - it would already be done. But we are speaking of the literal survival of our entire civilization and species here - caution must rule the day."
Gabriel sat back, sighing. “He’s really that bad?”
“His exact words to me were 'Ethical is a brand’. I think he thought he was making a witty commentary on human nature and being so famously honest."
“…I see. That’s a tough call.”
“One that I’ve made. I just hope that your men are vigilant.”
“Vigilant isn’t the problem. Overworked is the problem. Our ratio of cops to citizens is way too low right now."
Sir Jeremy sat in silence. “Gabriel, I’ll… see what I can do.” he said. “Maybe Byron can be persuaded to tighten security on his side without being told why. I wouldn’t hold on to much hope, though.”
“Do what you can. I’ll do what I can.”
“And God can take care of the rest.” Sir Jeremy said. “Very well. Thank you, Gabriel.”
“Sure.”
Sir Jeremy paused outside Ares’ door and, despite not being a praying man by inclination, still took the time to glance upwards and offer a silent "please" to the heavens.
Frankly, he was quite sure that it was the most he could do.
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 2d AV
The Lake, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Sara Tisdale
They didn’t have long left before sunset, and Adam was putting in his two lengths to the submerged wreckage of the big ship and back, leaving the girls on the bank to enjoy the last of the sunlight.
Ava was quiet, watching the lake, the sun, the trees and the little animals that were flying, climbing and occasionally jumping between them, all singing a quiet chorus that wasn’t quite like any birdsong ever heard on Earth. Sara didn’t want to intrude; her friend’s expression was serene, her lips curled up at the corners. Ava looked completely at peace.
Sara just wished she could have taken a picture without disturbing her.
It didn’t last. Eventually Ava noticed that she was being watched, and fidgeted a little, though she acknowledged the attention with a smile rather than with awkwardness and said. “Sorry, I was… miles away.”
“You looked really happy.”
Ava tucked a rope of wet hair behind her ear and looked up at the painted sunset sky, still wearing that faint smile. “I feel… lighter.” she said.
“Well, yeah. Your jacket always looked heavy to me.” Sara joked.
“Not just the clothes.” Ava laughed. “Just… I don’t know.”
She looked out across the lake again. “…Lighter.”
Sara’s curiosity had always been her weakness, and her resolve not to intrude on Ava’s peace finally gave in. “What changed?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“Well, I’m really happy you’re here, but a couple of weeks ago you were freaking out over this and now…” she waved a hand at both of them to indicate their mutual skyclad condition. “What changed?”
Ava put her head on one side, thinking. “Being high was really scary." she confessed.
“Oh yeah.” Sara agreed, glad that Ava’s experience had mirrored her own. “It is, isn’t it?”
“You’ve been high?”
“Yeah.”
“I never thought it would be frightening." Ava said. “Mom and Dad always made it sound like a horror story anyway, but not, like, a scary horror story. More like a kind of mind-control horror story, where the drug makes you do bad things."
“Oh yeah. I tried some of…” Sara tailed off and dismissed the rest of the story with a wave of her hand. “…But I got so scared. I thought I was going to die.”
“Yeah…” Ava looked at the lake again. “That’s exactly it. I thought I was gonna die. And then there was the hospital, and I felt REALLY sick for days, and the doctors were all serious, and some of them looked really worried, like they were out of their depth. That was scary too.”
“And then?”
“And then I… I kind of accepted it.” Ava said. “Like… I dunno. Like, I wasn’t happy about it, but I guess I…"
Sara did something uncharacteristic and shut up, letting Ava finish the thought.
“…I guess… I realised, like, everyone’s going to die someday, aren’t they? Everyone. Everyone. So why be scared of it? Its going to happen one day, and then there’s Heaven waiting on the other side, so…"
Sara very carefully didn’t snort or roll her eyes, or give any indication what she thought of Ava’s naive belief in heaven. Instead, when Ava drifted off again, looking at the distant black dot that was Adam turning around and beginning the last return leg of his swim, Sara prompted her to continue. “…So…?”
Ava shook herself out of it. “So… I’m alive, aren’t I? I’ve got the chance to do some of the things I’d regret not doing, and this was one of them.”
She looked back at the sunset. “Im glad I did. This is…” She smiled a little bashfully. “If I died tonight, my Heaven would be right here, exactly as we are.”
That sounded like one of the most Hippie things Sara had ever heard, but it wasn’t a cynical thought: Instead, she felt a swell of vicarious happiness and, apropos, she scooted over and gave Ava a sideways hug. “Thanks for being okay.” she said. “You really scared us.”
Ava returned the hug with extra warmth. “Thanks, Sara.” she replied. “I’d never have had this without you.”
The sun was just coming into contact with the top of distant hills when Adam reached the shallows near the shore and stood up to wade the rest of the way. “Got some bad news.” he reported as he shook himself off and used his hands to scrape water from his limbs and trunk.
“What’s up?” Ava asked, standing up and offering him a hand to help him up the bank.
“Some of the trees on the west bank are looking kinda yellow, and they didn’t look like that yesterday.”
Sara broke the silence that greeted his news. “…That’s it then, I guess. No coming back here.”
“That’s life.” Adam said, causing Ava to nod in agreement. “You’ve just got to enjoy what you’ve got while you’ve got it.”
To Sara, that seemed like a very sad thought, but neither of her friends seemed to be very upset. Instead, she watched them watch the sunset, holding hands, before Ava took a huge breath, flapped her arms in a kind of little shrug, and turned away from the lake to retrieve her clothes. Adam paused a few seconds longer before following her.
Left alone on the shore, Sara took a moment to squint at the far treeline, just to confirm that, yes, there was a patch of sickly yellow over there.
“Sara? You coming?”
She glanced back just to acknowledge that she was, then curtseyed to the landscape.
“Goodbye, lake… Thank you.”
She spent most of the trip back wondering why she wasn’t crying.
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 2d AV
HMS Caledonia, Orbiting Planet Gorai, Gaoian Space
Regaari
“Human starship Caledonia, this is Whitecrest clan personal transport three hundred and thirty-seven, requesting permission to approach and dock."
"Copy three-three-seven, hold distance and stand by."
There was a long pause before the human flight controller’s voice returned. "Whitecrest three-three-seven, please state your business."
"Caledonia, I am a personal envoy of Mother-Supreme Giymuy, my mission is a diplomatic one. I have no cargo or passengers, and this vessel is unarmed."
Again, a long wait. Finally, his anticipation was rewarded. "Whitecrest three-three-seven, power down your engines and shields and prepare to be tugged into our port flight deck."
“Complying.”
Anybody else would have probably felt that the humans were being paranoid, but Regaari knew there was no such thing. In a way, their caution was comforting. It was like being surrounded by the terse professionalism of his own clan.
He was met on the deck by a squad of male soldiers and a female in a more comfortable dark blue uniform with some kind of rank marking worn on her chest. The former watched him like a hawk as he alighted, clearly alert for danger and unwilling to relax even though he was plainly unarmed - he approved. The latter, however, held out two pieces of equipment - one was plainly a translator device, which she handed to him. The other was a flat paddle of some kind.
“I’m subjecting you to a quick search.” she informed him. Regaari ducked his head in acknowledgement and then stood with his arms and legs outstretched.
Curiously, she began with his head, grunting as the wand beeped. It beeped a few more times as she ran it over him, wherever it passed over a metal fastening on his coverall, but she seemed to find that acceptable.
“You have neural implants.” she said. It may have been a question, but Regaari didn’t detect the uptick at the end of her sentence that was characteristic of the way Xiu had asked questions, and which he assumed to be a standard human vocalization.
“Yes…” he confirmed, wondering where she was going with the statement.
“So long as you’re aboard ship, you will remain under marine escort. These are for your protection as much as anybody else’s, this is a working warship and we don’t want you getting lost or injured.” the officer informed him, in an apparent non-sequitur. “the gravity in sections of the ship you’ll be visiting has been turned down, but you could seriously hurt yourself if you stray outside of those areas.”
“Thank you.” he said, agreeing that the escort seemed safest.
The officer relaxed, and extended a hand, shaking Regaari’s paw with a human’s trademark firm grip, but not with their equally trademark crushing power. “Welcome aboard. I’m Lieutenant Ellen McDaniel, this ship’s First Lieutenant. Captain Bathini apologizes for not meeting you in person - you come very highly recommended, but he does have a ship to run.”
“Thank you.” he repeated. “I completely understand.”
“Will you come this way, please?” McDaniel gestured towards a hatch with one hand.
The ship was not originally of human construction, Regaari could tell. There was a clear mismatch.
The human technology was like stepping into a museum. It was all sturdy metal painted a dull and hard-wearing grey, with visible and almost shockingly low- tech dials and physical controls. Sturdy bulkheads had been installed, lined with easily accessible pipes, power lines and conduits, every one festooned with bright warning labels, simple diagrams demonstrating their use, and terse blocks of text.
Visible below all of that functional steel, however, was something altogether more ornate and elegant. The corridors seemed to be surprisingly wide and tall, as if built for the galactic average, which was decidedly at odds with the small, narrow pressure doors that had been spliced in at regular intervals. The deck plating was totally standard, the product of any shipyard in the Interspecies Dominion . The firefighting system in the ceiling, on the other hand, had clearly been ripped out and replaced for some reason.
The bit that really surprised him, however, was that every last scrap of electronics had been replaced. There wasn’t a single recognisable wall screen, processing unit, terminal or display to be seen. The humans couldn’t possibly have computers that were on par with those of a more established spacefaring civilization. Could they?
McDaniel made a familiar amused noise - a lot of her mannerisms were very much like Xiu’s, though possibly that was just because she was a fellow human female. She was, after all, only the second such that Regaari had ever met. But there was a lot to differentiate her from Xiu. McDaniel marched, moving at an efficient brisk pace that Regaari could feel in the deck. Xiu had always glided, disarmingly soft and silent. Xiu’s head-fur had been long, shiny and dark black. McDaniel’s was much shorter, and a kind of matte yellowish hue that Regaari couldn’t remember ever seeing in Gaoian fur, and where Xiu had gone everywhere with her head bowed a little and hunched inwards, making herself small, McDaniel moved like she owned the place, and to judge from the deference shown to her by the ship’s crew, she very nearly did.
“Impressed?” she asked.
“Intrigued.” Regaari admitted, conscious that while everything he spoke and heard was reaching him in perfect Gaoian, the human would be hearing them in English thanks to the targeted interfering sound waves the device was emitting. The effect had always disconcerted him. “You’ve clearly taken somebody else’s ship and reworked it to your needs, but I don’t recognise the design.”
“I can’t discuss the details.” McDaniel told him. “but yes, this ship was captured and repurposed. A large part of its internal systems are back on Earth now, being reverse-engineered.”
Regaari glanced around. It was hard to gauge the level of advancement that the ship had originally been built at thanks to the human replacements, but he got the impression that it had originally matched or likely exceeded the very cutting edge of Gaoian hardware. Earth had achieved impressive results with just a few mangled scraps of Hunter technology - he wondered what they would achieve with these new, intact trophies.
One thing he did notice was that it was eerily quiet. A warship this size should have been permeated by the background hum of its power cores. On Caledonia, the sound came from the crew and the air systems, neither of which were loud.
After they had gone down a flight or two of extremely steep stairs - almost ladders, really - McDaniel opened a hatch and politely gestured him into a meeting room of some description, where he sat down. The chairs were a little awkwardly shaped for a Gaoian, leaving his feet extended outwards well above the ground, and sliding his hips forward so as to bend his knees comfortably only induced an uncomfortable bend in his spine. he eventually settled for swivelling the chair a quarter-turn and sitting on it sideways.
The marines had remained outside.
“So. To business, then.” McDaniel said. “Would you like some coffee? How does caffeine affect your species?”
“I don’t know.” Regaari confessed. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Probably best not, then.” McDaniel said, ruefully. “You don’t mind if I have a cup, do you?”
“Not at all.”
McDaniel opened a thermal flask and a strong scent assailed Regaari’s nose as she poured out a steaming, blackish-brown liquid. It smelled… quite nice, he decided. but it also promised that the substance itself probably wouldn’t taste as good as it smelled.
At least, not to him. McDaniel sipped it and seemed very pleased with the result. Then she set the cup aside. “So, your diplomatic assignment.”
“A plea. One of our own has gone missing. One of your own, too.”
“I don’t follow.”
Regaari scratched behind his ear. “How much do you know about our clan of Females?” he asked.
McDaniel shrugged. “less than I would like to before drawing any conclusions.” she said. “They’re certainly - no offense intended - the most powerful of your clans by dint of sheer population, and control over the breeding rights, but I can’t say I know much more than that.”
“Well, one thing you may not appreciate is that you don’t necessarily have to be Gaoian to be part of a clan.” Regaari told her. “Though that precedent was actually set by a human.”
“Really?” McDaniel looked intrigued.
“Oh yes. She saved a colony group of Mothers, Sisters and cubs from an illicit Corti science facility some five homeworld years ago, before your species’ first faster-than-light flight. She couldn’t go home - we didn’t even know where Earth was at the time - so the Females declared her one of their own and took her in. She’s officially a Sister.”
“And she’s gone missing.”
“That’s right. I think in your terms, I last saw her just under two years ago.”
"You last saw her?"
Regaari ducked his head, ears rotating slightly. “Shoo is… a friend.” he confessed. “I was tasked with looking after her and did so for more than a year.”
“Shoe?”
“Her name is just impossible for Gaoians to pronounce correctly. Shoo Shang is the closest I can get.”
“And she just… vanished?”
“I think I had better tell you the whole story from the start.” Regaari told her.
Some minutes later, his account was briefly interrupted when a junior of some description arrived and handed McDaniel a hardcopy file - little more than a brown folder and a few sheets of paper, but the face looking out from the first of those pieces of paper was definitely Shoo, albeit looking younger, a little rounder in the face and a little less stressed than Regaari remembered her.
“Xiu Chang.” she said, also mispronouncing the name slightly, making it sound like ‘jew’. “Abducted from… huh, Vancouver, three days before the Hunter attack there. Turned twenty-four last month. Was studying acting at UBC at the time of her abduction. Last known sighting… nearly two years ago. Pretty much a full year before the Abductee Reclamation Program really swung into gear, aboard a private corporate cargo relay station.”
“That station was handling hundreds of ships a day.” Regaari said. “By the time we woke up and found her missing, dozens had come and gone. She could have been on any of them. And from there…” He made a helpless gesture, ears downcast. “I’m the one who taught her how to cover her tracks. Apparently she was a good student.”
“It says here that she’s known to have been wounded by a Nervejam pulse.” McDaniel said.
“Yes. It nearly killed her.”
“That’s good-bad news. At least it didn’t kill her, but those weapons have some terrible long-term effects… How did it happen?”
“Well, as I was saying. We were having a tough fight of it…”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 2d AV
Starship Sanctuary
Docked at Free Trade Station 1090 "Endless Possibility"
The Mwrwkwel system, the Signal Stars
“Kirk”
Zane’s dense patois, fortunately, was handled perfectly well by the translator, though only after Lewis was instructed to reprogram it. Apparently Zane didn’t approve of having his own creole echoed back at him. It certainly made conversation much easier.
“So where did she go?”
“Flight deck four-oh-four. I nearly didn’t find it.” Lewis snickered. “We got real lucky there, these things only log the deck plating power draw about every half hour, but the last log was on that deck aaand… flight log and itinerary for a light bulk transport headed for the Aru system, departure time five minutes after that deck plate log.”
“The Aru system?”
Vedreg had woken from his nearly three-day-long sleep cycle, and was fizzing with energy, or at least as much so as an alien the size of a Big Rig cab could fizz. He couldn’t fit into the flight deck itself, but was filling most of the corridor behind it, peering in eagerly. They were still figuring out what his colours meant in the absence of translator implants, but the medley swirling all over him almost certainly denoted fascination and awe.
“Curioser and curioser…” Kirk mused.
The three human men glanced at one another before Lewis said what they were thinking. “So, uh, care to tell the ignorant monkey dudes what’s special about the Aru system?” he prompted.
“It’s the home of the OmoAru, the oldest remaining civilization.” Kirk said. “Nearly two hundred thousand Terran years old.”
“So, younger than the Igraens and Hunters then.” Amir said.
“I’m quite sure I said civilization." Kirk replied, a touch frostily. “They’re in late decline nowadays, and will most likely be extinct within a few decades.”
“Why?” Lewis asked. “What happened?”
Kirk and Vedreg exchanged a glance “We… don’t know.” Vedreg admitted. “Species die eventually. They stop building, they stop expanding or trading, eventually they stop reproducing and just die out. Nobody knows why.”
“Isn’t that kind of a huge problem?” Lewis said. “I mean, shit, EVERY species does this? Why isn’t… shit, why isn’t everyone looking for a cure?"
This was met with the mutual equivalent of unknowing shrugs from the two aliens, who then shared another glance. “Maybe we should look into that.” Kirk admitted. “It does seem strange.”
“Now that you mention it… yes it does.” Vedreg agreed. “Anyway. The OmoAru are one such species in the last years of their existence.”
“So who goes to their home system?” Amir asked. “Psychologists? Counsellors? Suicide hotline workers?”
“Scavengers. Picking over the artefacts, artwork and advanced technology of the most ancient civilization in the galaxy. Exactly the sort of work where a human’s brawn would come in useful, actually.”
Zane nodded. “Well, let’s get after her then.” he said.
“Peace.” Amir said. “Degaussing is going to take another three hours.”
Zane paused. “I’ll go… pick a bed then.” he said, not bothering to say any more as he stalked out.
Amir watched him go. “Something seem off about him to you?” He asked Lewis.
“Dude, we ship with a white zebra-giraffe-dude with four arms named after a Star Trek character, a two-tonne Mr. Snuffleupagus who glows in the dark, and two of the most sexually frustrated badasses in human history.” Lewis said. “What does ‘off’ even mean on this ship?"
“Seriously though.”
Lewis glanced back down the corridor, past Vedreg. “…Yeah. Something’s off about that guy.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 2d AV
HMS Caledonia, Orbiting Planet Gorai, Gaoian Space
Regaari
“That’s…” McDaniel wiped her eye. “Dammit. I’m sorry.”
Regaari ducked his head. “Please, don’t be. Thank you for caring so much.”
McDaniel nodded, taking a sip of her coffee to recover her composure. She was too professional to speak poorly of the Dominion while in her official capacity as an officer of the Royal Navy, but the story of how they had apathetically kicked that poor confused slave from pillar to post rather than putting her on a shuttle straight back to Gao had frankly disgusted her. How could ANYBODY have that kind of a lack of compassion?
She realised that Regaari had meant two things by thanking her for caring.
“Officer Regaari… do you know how many of our people are scattered all over the known galaxy?”
“I don’t.” He conceded. “Not many, I assume.”
“We’ve managed to contact, recover and bring home a few dozen, and there are about three times as many that we know for certain are dead. That still leaves more than ten thousand unaccounted-for, taken over the last forty or fifty years.”
His ears pricked up and forward. “That many?”
“I suppose as Deathworlders we were particularly fascinating. But it’s a big galaxy out there. How many stations are there? Of all kinds?”
“I don’t know exactly. Millions.”
“Ships?”
“FTL-capable ones of all sizes? Billions, easily.”
“And sapient beings in the trillions. And that’s just in and around Dominion space which takes up… what, a third of the galactic habitable ring?”
“The whole galaxy, officially. But yes, in practical terms… about a third.”
McDaniel nodded. “We have an expression. A needle-"
“-in a haystack. I’m familiar with it. It’s an understatement."
“Then you see my point. We have only a tiny number of ships, and you’re asking us to look for one specific needle out of the thousands of needles scattered across an entire continent’s-worth of haystacks.”
“Yes.”
“You must appreciate that that’s… not exactly feasible. I admire miss Chang a lot from your description of her, but I can’t treat her as being any more worthwhile than any of the other abductees.”
Regaari lowered his head, crestfallen. “I suspected you would say that.” he said. “But, Ayma insisted that I had to at least ask.”
“From the way you described her, I’m surprised she’s not here in person.”
“She would be, but she… our cub was born a few days ago. The timing was just wrong, so she asked me to come.”
“Shouldn’t you be there with her? I mean, your child…”
“It doesn’t work like that for us.” Regaari said. “We don’t do it the way you do. I’m happy, I know the little one will grow up and be an excellent Gaoian, just like her mother. That’s where my involvement ends.”
That sounded cold and tragic to McDaniel, but she held her peace. Refraining from commenting on alien cultural differences was one of the basic rules of diplomacy. “Well… I’m sorry that I can’t offer more than we’re already doing.” she said.
“I understand.” Regaari assured her. “Knowing the scale of the problem… doesn’t help, exactly. Xiu is important to me, and the Mother-Supreme has taken a personal interest in her as well. But I understand.”
“Perspective’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
Regaari wrinkled his nose as he interpreted the painfully literal translation of that sentiment, then he gave one of those Gaoian nods. “It is.” he agreed, and stood. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“No, thank you for helping us. If nothing else, the Chang family can be told. And now that we know she’s likely to be in disguise and what that disguise looks like, it might just help the search.”
“I hope so.” Regaari agreed, keeping his private doubts private. “Please, don’t let me use up any more of your time. You have a ship to run.” he stuck out a paw, keeping the wince off his face as McDaniel shook it a little too hard.
She opened the hatch for him. The two marines waiting outside snapped to attention. "Bon voyage, officer." she said. “I hope we’ll have good news for you. Gentlemen, please escort our guest back to his ship.”
“Aye aye. This way, sir.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 2d AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility
British Columbia, Canada, Earth.
Brigadier-General Martin Tremblay
“You’re sure about this? I don’t exactly trust the Byron Group to know what they’re doing.”
“Browning my pants, but… yeah, I’m sure. And they’re never gonna get better if no fucker’s dumb enough to fly with ’em, right?”
“Yeah, well… watch yourself out there. Our very first scout ship went missing on its first mission.”
“The Governess? Yeah, I know. But I’m gonna be one of a crew, that’s gotta make a difference…"
“You hope…” Tremblay cleared his throat. “Be careful.”
“Dammit, Martin, I don’t wanna tear up…”
They shook hands. It didn’t seem personal enough, until Kevin shrugged, and turned the handshake into a hug.
“Gonna miss you, man.”
Tremblay laughed a little, and broke the hug. “Same. The place won’t be the same without your coffee and pancakes.”
“Just don’t let Maurice change the name.”
“You’ve got it… Goodbye, Kevin. Thank you for everything.”
“Take care of yourself.”
Tremblay sank back into his chair and allowed himself just a moment’s peace as the door shut behind Kevin, but he allowed himself no more than that.
There was still a research facility to run.
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 2d AV
Starship Sanctuary, deepace.
Julian Etsicitty
“Okay, your turn.”
“Huh?”
“What’s your favorite movie?"
“It’s uh…”
“Go on!”
“…’Frozen’."
“…PLEASE tell me you like to sing along with 'Let It Go’."
“I used to sing it on Nightmare.”
Allison looked up at him in mild disbelief, then smiled delighted at the way his face was turning red. “It kept my spirits up!” he explained.
She smiled, and snuggled her head into his shoulder. “Oh yeah. This is going to work.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 2w 6d AV
Folctha colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Adam Ares
“What about… The mountaintop?”
“They’re building an observatory up there.”
“Big Bay?”
“Contaminated.”
“Little Bay?”
“Contaminated last week, come on Sara.”
“This place got boring."
Adam and Ava nodded. There were no longer any interesting knots of forest to explore, no lakes to leap into, no view that wasn’t the clean-picked aftermath of the ravenous logging, and with the ballooning population of Folctha beginning to seriously tax the capacity of the colony’s basic power grid, rationing had been imposed which made Adam’s Playstation an occasional luxury rather than a reliable source of entertainment.
He’d already used up all his credits. So had the girls.
A convoy of trucks bullied past the school, further mutilating the dirt road which was already in dire need of a more permanent surface.
“Maybe we could go see what they’re doing?”
“Dull.”
“It’s something."
Sara made a disgusted noise to match her equally revolted expression. “I guess.”
They jogged after the convoy, which pulled in at one of the Byron building sites on the colony’s edge - a promised starport, currently an industrial mangrove swamp of cranes and scaffolding, putting their roots down in excavated but unfilled foundations.
The kids lined up at the chain link fence, peering between the corporate hoardings and safety notices, taking it in. The artist’s impressions certainly looked pretty, but for now this was just another eyesore. It was hard to imagine how one could become the other.
With nothing better to do, they just stood and watched the workers fan out across the construction site, picking up where they had left off the previous night.
“Guess they’re pouring the foundations today.” Sara commented, pointing at a family of cement trucks that were entering the site from the other side, reversing up to one of the foundations, which was basically just a pit, filled with a welded industrial cage of rebar.
Adam frowned. “So… what’s that guy doing?” he asked.
He didn’t point, but managed to indicate with the direction of his gaze which worker he was referring to. He hadn’t practised crowd-watching since leaving Earth, but the skill had apparently stuck with him. It wasn’t just that the guy wasn’t with all the others, it was that he seemed to be carefully keeping some concealment between himself and his colleagues.
“…maybe he’s sloping off for a fag break?” Sara asked. When Adam and Ava gave her a strange look, she sighed. “Cigarette.”
The lone worker found somewhere he was apparently satisfied with, and pulled a brick-sized object of some description from inside his high-vis jacket, which he promptly stuffed into a cement mixer.
“That didn’t look like a cigarette.” Ava commented.
“I don’t like this, I’m calling my Dad.” Adam said.
“Are you sure about that? I mean, maybe we should find out what it is first…” Sara said.
“No. If it’s a false alarm it’s no big deal, but if it’s dangerous we should let the FCPA handle it.” Adam said firmly.
Cellphone coverage in Folctha was at least ubiquitous - the colony was far too small, flat and open for that to be an issue, and Gabriel answered on the third ring.
"Hey Amigo."
“Dad, we’re down by the Byron spaceport site, there’s somebody down here acting real suspicious.”
"I’m on my way." Gabriel said. Adam grinned, relieved and delighted that his Dad trusted his instincts so implicitly. "What’s he up to?"
“Slipped away from the other workers and hid something in a cement mixer. Could be a drugs drop.”
"How big a something?"
“Uh, about the size of a big cellphone, I guess.” Adam shrugged off a tap on his shoulder
"Right. Keep an eye on him but don’t get close okay? I need to hang up and get down-"
“Oh Shit." Adam swore, as he glanced around in response to the increasingly urgent tap on his shoulder, just in time to see Sara’s boots wriggle out of sight under the fence. He rushed to the fence.
"Sara what the fuck are you doing?!" he hissed.
She raised her camera “Getting a picture of this guy in case he slips away!”
“SARA!”
She ducked behind a pile of girders.
"SARA! FOR FUCK’S SAKE GET BACK HERE!" Adam hissed, as loudly as he dared. She didn’t reappear.
“Oh God, Dad, Sara just went in there, she’s trying to get a picture of the guy…”
To his horror, he saw the guy who had dropped the whatever-it-was in the machine pause and glance back, clearly having caught some movement out the corner of his eye. A second later, he began to march purposefully back toward the mixer, tugging something from the back of his jeans.
There was something both wrong and familiar about the way he held it though. Something in the way he moved. Something that flashed him right back to a roller derby in San Diego.
“Dad.” He said, his voice becoming too calm, too flat, as if his subconscious knew how critical it was to speak clearly now, despite the dryness in his mouth and the pummeling in his chest. “The guy just pulled a gun and he’s… walking like Mr. Johnson did.”
"Mierda! Adam, please don’t do anything stupid, okay?"
“Sara’s in there…”
"Mantener la calma! you go after her and you’ll just give him more hostages, and maybe victims."
Adam nodded, swallowed. "Entiendo. Hurry."
"Estoy corriendo. I love you." Gabriel hung up.
The phone rang. “Powell.”
"Powell, it’s Ares. Possible Hierarchy at the spaceport site, armed. One of the kids is in there."
Powell didn’t even respond. He just dropped the handset and rushed for the door, erupting from it in a whirlwind of screaming orders. "GEAR UP! Jones, get me the ATVs this second!!"
Legsy, who never went by “Jones” unless the situation was beyond dire, practically teleported in his haste to obey. They were mounted and moving in less than a minute.
“We’ve got possible Hierarchy at the spaceport construction site!” Powell yelled over the engines, performing his weapon checks as they went. “At least one child mixed up in it, possibly hostage, so check your fire! We’re going for live capture if possible, but keeping the child alive is priority number one. Be aware of other workers in the area, we’re going to be checking them once the kid’s secure, don’t let your fookin’ guard down!”
Satisfied that his gun was in working order, he hopped off the ATV as it slid to a halt only a few dozen meters from the site.
“If there are any questions, make them fookin’ quick.” he said.
There were none.
Silent as ghosts, quick as nightmares, they stormed the construction yard.
“Oh God.” Ava was suddenly animated, pale and shedding distraught tears. “Oh God, oh God, he’s gonna find her.”
“What?”
“She’s hiding in those cement bags over there…”
Adam didn’t have time to get to the fence and see which ones she meant before he was paralysed by the firecracker popping of gunfire and the sound of Ava’s anguished scream.
Armoured, armed and ready to kick ass was one thing, but knowing there were kids in danger and hearing the gunfire had rooted even the SBS team to the spot for just an instant.
"Fook. Go. Go!"
In the next instant, they exploded from among the construction and equipment. Their quarry turned and raised his gun towards the first flash of movement. An unseen trooper crashed into him from behind, disarming and restraining him in one smooth motion.
“Neutralized.”
“Find the kid!”
His men fanned out, calling out for the girl. Powell didn’t need to. The second he stopped and listened, he heard her.
He stuck his head over a stack of cement bags. The girl was whimpering and weeping, she was covered in white cement dust, and there was a smear of horribly familiar red around where she was cradling her side.
"ROSS!"
Powell grabbed the bags and heaved, spilling them everywhere as he dug her out. The girl was small, brown-haired, skinny. The only clean spot on her was where her tears had washed away a pink track in the cement dust, revealing a few freckles.
There was a LOT of blood, and it was staining her mouth as she sobbed.
“Hey, we’ve got you, okay?” He said, taking her hand. Ross was already joining him, pulling stuff from his bag. “You’re safe now, we’ll get you fixed.”
Her grip was weak, and trembling. She whispered something to him.
“…Scared…"
Powell was used to death. He had seen men and women die, often by his own hand. Some, so close that he could feel their last breath. He had lost comrades in action, seen what modern weaponry could do to a human being.
He had seen death take all kinds of people. He thought he had seen it take children. He had seen enough sad little corpses.
But never like this.
When he closed her eyes, her tears soaked his glove.
Chapter 23
Chapter 20: Exorcisms | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 4y 9m 2w 6d AV
Hierarchy Communications Relay
Session 18 262 577 319
++0018++: This is an unmitigated disaster.
++0004++: I fail to see how. The operation was a failure, yes, but there was no repeat of Six’s capture.
++0018++: Eighty-Four killed a human child.
++0084++: And? The child would have died anyway had the operation succeeded. You can’t possibly be suggesting that the humans would be motivated more by the isolated death of a single juvenile female than they would have been by the destruction of the entire colony.
++0018++: I am suggesting precisely that.
++0084++: That is the most abjectly irrational thing I have ever heard.
++0018++: Then you are not considering how evolution on a deathworld must affect a species’ decision-making process. Consider: you live in a world in which you are surrounded by mortal threats. Which do you prioritise?
++0084++: The most dangerous one, obviously.
++0018++: On a Class Twelve? When your available tools are sticks and sharpened rocks?
++0007++: You prioritise the ones you can actually do something about.
++0018++: Precisely.
++0084++: I don’t follow.
++0007++: Consider: Anything capable of killing hundreds or thousands of individuals at once is not something that can realistically be defeated with spears and thrown stones. Erupting volcanoes, virulent plagues… the humans have a word, "Tsunami“.
++0084++: “Harbor wave”?
++0007++: The term refers to several million tonnes of water travelling at two hundred meters per second.
++System log: no activity for [30 seconds]++
++0004++: This is a… common phenomenon?
++0007++: They have killed an average of seven thousand human civilians every year over the last 40 years. This in an era of early-warning systems and the resources available to an Information-Age civilization. Do you see the logic? How are creatures barely more intelligent than an animal supposed to deal with a threat like that using primitive tools?
++0018++: They aren’t. And impotently worrying about such events would lead to neuroses and paralysis. But a smaller threat - one that picks off individuals, directly threatening you, or your genetic heritage in the form of your children… One that you can gather your spear and fight…
++0007++: Precisely.
++System Notif>cat?on: User ???? h■s j!!ined the <error: undefined exception>++
++0025++: Again?
++0004++: Seven, I thought you said you fixed this.
++0007++: No, I said I’m fixing it. The software is a tenth of a galactic rotation old, identifying exactly why it should start to misbehave now is my priority for now. Once I know that, patching the issue should be trivial.
++0025++: How long will that take?
++0007++: How many terms are there in an equation? It takes as long as it takes.
++0004++: Prioritise it. Eighty-Four, you are reassigned to the question of what the Discarded are up to. See if you can get in touch with Twenty.
++0084++: Yes, Four.
++0004++: Terminating session
++System Notif■■■■■■■ <Error>
<Error>
<Redirecting: Subnet Mask ????????? Port ?????>
++System Notification: Welcome to the Cabal.++
++????++: I think Eighteen is starting to get it.
++????++: Shall we bring him in?
++????++: Vote.
++System Notification: Vote now.++
<…>
++System Notification: All votes have been cast. The Ayes have it.++
++????++: Good. Make it happen.
++????++: And Four?
++????++: Don’t worry about Four.
++????++: Six will handle her.
++System Notification: Session Terminated.++
___
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Gabriel Ares
Doctor Mark Tisdale was a large man, known to regularly deadlift nearly six hundred pounds.
Gabriel Ares, by contrast, had always been a small man who couldn’t have matched that even at his peak. Hampered as he was nowadays by lingering femoral nerve dysfunction as a result of being shot in the lower back, the physical disparity between them was huge. Tisdale’s deadlift was nearly triple Ares’ bodyweight.
Fortunately for him Tisdale was, to the core of his soul, a totally nonviolent man. But everybody had their limits, and in one sentence, Ares had transformed himself from a sympathetic authority figure doing his best for the sobbing wreckage of a grieving father, into the focus of that grieving father’s disbelief and anger.
“No charges?”
Tisdale stood and leaned forward onto the desk, which creaked. The sentence seemed to wind up around his dropped jaw, taking seconds to finally force its way out, weakly, as he pointed out the door. “My…” he panted “my little girl is dead!" his voice broke on the word. “And you’re saying no fucking charges?!"
“He’s being shipped back to Earth for questioning. If they decide to charge him there…”
"Fuck you Ares! I don’t want to hear you passing the buck! I want my daughter back!"
All of that impressive strength failed, and he sagged down, weeping freely all over Gabriel’s desk. “Or just… just hold her, just… just… Anything! God…"
He looked up and speared Gabriel with a gaze that was more a tear-soaked desperate plea for understanding than it was actually angry. "Why, damn you?"
There was a professional line that could not be crossed, but not crossing it broke Gabriel’s heart right down the middle. Every fear that had erupted in him on the two occasions now where Adam had been in harm’s way were realised in Tisdale’s shaking shoulders, but he could not give in. It was all the Folctha Colonial Police Authority could do to stop the mass of colonists outside from turning into a lynch mob and storming into their flimsy jail to drag the man inside it to his death.
The part of his soul where Adam lived wanted to let them. But he knew what they didn’t - that the poor bastard in the cells was completely innocent.
The dilemma before him was how to let Mark Tisdale know that without actually telling him. If Sara’s death proved anything, it was that the Hierarchy was as active among Humanity and as dangerous as ever. If they would shoot a teenager in cold blood to accomplish their objectives, then any edge, no matter how tiny, had to be carefully shepherded, and that included the certain knowledge of the Hierarchy’s existence.
Which meant that he would have to hate himself for the rest of his days for doing this.
“Doctor Tisdale.” he said, feeling his face adopt that cold, blank expression that it had to when he would allow no emotion to reach it. There was nothing he could do about the threat of his own barely-restrained tears, and try as he might he just could not look the man in the eye. “Your… Sara’s… the accused is…”
He gave up, and started over. “You need to know. I understand. Really, I do, Mark, I’m a dad myself.” He finally found the strength to look Tisdale in the eye while he said the next. “So I know what I’m asking of you by this, but I need you to swear to me that you can take this secret to your grave.”
“Secret?”
“I can’t and won’t even drop a hint without that solemn promise, Doctor. That’s how deadly serious this is.”
It was a gamble. If Tisdale wanted to he could walk out of the office, incite the mob, and Gabriel would be in serious danger of swinging alongside the poor puppet in the lockup. Assuming they weren’t just kicked to a pulp in the street.
Fortunately, Tisdale was a peaceful man who was naturally inclined to look for the best in everyone. Gabriel was relying on that.
Still. Tisdale thought long and hard about it, and his reply when it came was quiet and defeated. “I have to know, Ares.” He said. “If promising something like that will get you to tell me…”
It was good enough.
“Sara’s death is… related to other recent incidents. Recent serious events, in which a great many people have died." he said, glancing up at the Chargers scarf pinned to the wall above his desk to ram the point home. “And to the recall of cybernetic implants issued last month.”
“…That’s it? That’s all you’re giving me is a fucking hint?"
“Doctor.” Ares said. “I know. But I am talking about an ongoing investigation here that, if it’s not handled properly, could mean that Sara will be only one of the first victims. There are lives at stake here, a great many of them."
“This is the worst thing I have ever done to a man.” he added. “And… God willing some day I’ll be able to tell you the whole truth and you’ll understand why. But if that day’s ever going to come, then this secret needs to stay kept, and a hint is all I can give you. I give it in the hope that an educated man like yourself will be able to decipher it.”
Tisdale was an intelligent man. He may have been a hopelessly idealistic ultra-liberal with the appearance of a death-metal viking warrior, but he was also a scientist with well-honed powers of deduction. It didn’t take him long to mull over the hint.
“you’re saying there’s… okay, so, the implants connect to the brain so… God, are you talking about some kind of mind control conspiracy?”
“I can’t say.”
“Is that why you’re just going to shuffle this guy off to Earth rather than charge him? Because you think he’s under alien mind control?"
“I can’t say.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Gabriel choked on his next I can’t say, and instead picked his words with great care.
“Five years ago, if somebody had claimed they’d been abducted by little grey aliens, I’d have thought they were crazy.” he said. “Since then I’ve met those little grey aliens myself.” He cleared his throat. “I really can’t say any more than I have, but I promise you - nothing I’ve said to you has been misleading.”
Tisdale finally found the strength to stand up, and he advanced around the desk. “Alien mind control.” He growled. “Alien fucking mind control. THAT’S what you’ve got for me?"
Gabriel stood his ground, and managed to keep himself from shaking, but it was an effort, especially when Tisdale’s fist left a dent in the wall by his head.
“Give me one good reason why I should believe you, Ares. Go on.” he said. his voice was unnervingly level.
Gabriel could think of several. But the answer was out of him without conscious thought.
“Adam.” He said, simply.
Tisdale blinked at him, then retreated a little.Then there was a blur of motion, and Gabriel was crushed against the huge man’s chest in a bear hug, which moments later turned into him trying to support Tisdale’s weight as the big scientist broke down crying again.
He just hoped that meant that he’d won Tisdale’s support.
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 3d AV
HMS Caledonia, Cimbrean Space, The Far Reaches
Captain Rajesh Bathini
“Signal from HMS Myrmidon sir. Captain Manning welcomes us back to Cimbrean space and asks to come alongside so he can come aboard."
“Respond that we did and grant permission. Have the galley prepare a meal for the officer’s mess, all senior staff who are able, to attend. And… yes, invite some of our Gaoian guests as well.”
“Sir.”
“That blight’s got bigger.” one of the officers said. “Look, it’s nearly at Folctha now.”
“I’m sure Captain Manning will have a full update for us in due time. Heave to in a stable orbit and throw out our WiTChES.”
“Aye Aye.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 3d AV
HMS Caledonia, Cimbrean Space, The Far Reaches
Gyotin
If there was one thing that Gyotin really liked about humans, it was their approach to food. The meal served to them was a succulent white meat in a kind of piquant red fruit sauce, served alongside crisp orange root vegetables that sent a delightful crunch through his head as he bit them, and delicately scented powdery tubers that glistened with some kind of spiced oil. It was all delicious, and making a show of appreciating the food gave him the excuse he needed to watch the Deathworlders.
Bathini seemed to be in a more relaxed mood than at any time he had been over Gorai. He was making inconsequential conversation, enjoying his meal, and recounting a humorous interlude from when he had been a Midshipman on shore leave for the first time in some place called New Zealand.
The concept of paying to mate with a female was a very alien and shocking one to all three of the Gaoian males there present. Bathini had not, apparently, ever done so himself, but had been called in to discreetly extract a colleague from a compromising position at an establishment providing exactly that service. The story was crammed with innuendo but seemed to be going down very well among the Deathworlders, even the female officers, and Gyotin had to admit, himself. Bathini was an engaging storyteller with an excellent sense for comedy that seemed to transcend species barrier, and when it came to the part of having to deliver the crewman to the ship’s doctor past a suspicious Lieutenant, even the Gaoians were chittering along with the human laughter.
The story finished, the laughter cleared up, and there was a general looking around and then, as if prompted, one of the humans - an Ensign, if Gyotin had learned to read their rank insignia correctly, stood and raised her glass. All of the others picked theirs up.
“To the King, Great Britain, and Earth.” she announced.
The humans murmured what sounded like agreement and sipped their drinks.
“And to our spouses and lovers.” the Ensign added.
“May they never meet.” somebody quipped, prompting general smiles as the drinks were sipped again. This seemed to complete the ritual, and the whole affair relaxed considerably.
“So, what news?” Bathini asked of Manning, who looked suddenly more grim.
“There’s been a murder in the colony.” he said. “One of the children.”
Shock and dismay rippled around the room, though the few officers from Myrmidon seemed to already know the news and just nodded. “There’s only a handful of kids down there!” McDaniel protested.
Manning nodded, solemnly. “It’s been a huge blow to morale.” he said. “When they shipped the guy back to Earth rather than charge him here, a few of the original colonists quit and went home in protest.”
“Who was it?” Bathini asked.
“Sara Tisdale. Fourteen years old.”
"Just a girl…" somebody muttered, emotionally.
“God. I never would have expected it here…” Bathini said. “Do we know the motive?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Manning said. Some unspoken communication seemed to pass between the two men and not for the first time Gyotin wondered if humans weren’t a little bit telepathic. Such a thing was supposed to be impossible but then again, so were sapient Deathworlders.
“The cleanup project attracted the help of a billionaire from Earth, one Moses Byron.” Manning continued. “He’s brought in a lot of his own contractors, invested a lot of his own money. It was one of those contractors who…” he tailed off.
“So not one of the first wave, then.”
“No.”
Bathini sighed. “I suppose we were going to bring our shit with us to the stars sooner or later.” he mused, unhappily.
Manning glanced out of window. Parked as they were in geosynchronous orbit above Folctha, the creeping brown stain across the continent was clearly visible, and there was definitely a tendril of sickly yellow-green in the waters south of one of the major river estuaries.
“In more ways than one.” he said.
Gyotin was surprised to find himself chiming in. “You can’t blame yourselves for that.” he said.
This attracted the surprised attention of every human at the table, which was enough to flatten his ears in discomfort for a second. “You aren’t responsible for the way the universe made you.” he said, pressing forward. “That-” he pointed at the planet “-is not your fault.”
Manning nodded. “I suppose naivety and inexperience aren’t crimes. But they can get people killed. We need to start being more cautious.” he said.
“How much more cautious can we be?” Bathini asked. “We fill our ships with biofilter fields we didn’t design, use an alien-made medicine that we barely understand to try and regulate our diseases, and it all seems to work but the fact is that none of the things keeping the rest of the galaxy safe from us are of our own making.”
“Well, what’s the alternative? Wrap ourselves up in airtight suits with breathing masks?” McDaniel asked.
“The alternative is that you kill all of us.” Tagral said, putting it so bluntly that the humans blinked, flinched, glanced at each other, or shifted in their seats and made some kind of coarse noise in the back of their throats.
“Tagral…”
“No, Gyotin, they need to understand this.” Tagral pressed. He stood up and pointed out at the planet again. “Gyotin’s right, that is not your fault. It’s a lesson, and the galaxy is going to be holding your species to account for how well you learn it." He sat down again. “If you aren’t willing to take every necessary measure to limit the harm you cause, up to and including sealing yourself up in containment suits and using medicines and technology you don’t understand, then you have no business leaving your homeworld."
Manning gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Hear, hear.” he said.
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 3d AV
UmOraEw-Uatun, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Knadna
“I have to admit… it is a very good disguise. If I didn’t have detailed metrics on her calorie intake and the environmental settings in her quarters, it might even fool me.”
Knadna had to agree. “I learned first-hand not to underestimate humans, Lesry. But you’re right. Her cover story is so well-researched, and she has so many of those little Gaoian mannerisms down that you’d think she spent years living among those bleeding-heart furballs.”
Lesry inclined his head curiously. “First-hand, you say? You’ve had an encounter with Deathworlders before?”
She gave him a thin smile. “Surely you must have speculated on my reasons for moving from Zoology to Archaeology.” she said.
“It occurred to me to wonder about that, yes.” Lesry admitted. “But I prefer not to speculate ahead of my evidence, and so had made no assumptions. Did you have a bad experience with an escaping Deathworlder?”
“Well, I’m still alive so I’d say the experience was relatively pleasant.” She retorted. “Specimen Four seemed to be genuinely delighted to have been collected, for some reason. He described himself as 'nerding out’, whatever that means. Very docile, very compliant. He seemed almost eager to receive detailed and uncomfortable-sounding investigations of his lower gastrointestinal tract."
She paused and thought about it. Four really had been strangely obsessed with the idea of having a probe of some description inserted into his anus. “I suspect he was mentally stunted.” she added.
“I can see why you would switch fields.” Lesry agreed.
Chilly as their exchange sounded, compared to the usual antagonistic dynamic between two Corti of equal rank working on the same project - Knadna as its lead researcher, Lesry having provided the ship, funds and hired help - their conversation was positively warm, bordering on the flirtatious. Knadna was beginning to find that she quite liked Lesry, and she suspected that the liking was reciprocated.
“So why are we keeping our “Gaoian” chef’s secret?" she asked. “Surely she would be much better used doing the heavy lifting?”
“Have you tasted what she cooks?” Lesry asked. He delved into a hip satchel and produced a little foil parcel, which, when opened, turned out to contain a number of shrivelled, wrinkly, translucent dark pink lumps.
Knadna accepted one and popped it into her mouth. “It’s… familiar. But I can’t place it.”
“MuAku grape.” Lesry said. Knadna expressed surprise - the fruit, an Aru native perennial, was unpalatably tart when freshly picked, and disintegrated into emetic watery mush very swiftly. The sweet spot in the middle where the grape’s disintegrating chemical structure was deliciously piquant without puckering the mouth lasted barely a few hours. “She takes the freshly-picked grape and heats it in an oven for some time at a low temperature, drying it out and preserving it - as you can no doubt taste - at the pinnacle of its palatability. The discovery of this technique alone might be the most valuable thing we find on this expedition. It would turn MuAku into a viable export crop.”
That was another reason to like Lesry. His imagination wasn’t sadly limited to his field like so many Corti’s were. He saw the opportunities.
He was right, too. Prestigious and highly-paid though this expedition to the OmoAru homeworld was, neither Knadna nor Lesry foresaw discovering anything which might finally shine light into the mystery of elder species decline. The Corti, as the oldest extant civilization, were doomed to begin their own decline at some point in the next few thousand years, and the Directorate was keen to learn what, if anything, could be done to avert, or at least delay, that fall.
So far no such expedition had yielded anything useful, and both of them were too experienced and comparatively modest to truly believe that theirs would be the one to stumble upon the great secret. Anything at all which would earn them some money and prestige was therefore welcome.
“Ah, yes.” She agreed. “I can see now that she would be quite wasted on manual labor, especially when we have the hover-palettes and drones to do all the heavy lifting.”
“Quite so.” Lesry agreed. “And after all, the other laborers need their exercise.”
Knadna was beginning to entertain the idea of exchanging DNA with him. “As you say.” she agreed.
They left the “Gaoian” cook to her work and strolled away from the camp around their ship, towards the city proper.
The planet Aru was a class nine, baked by the UV-rich output of its star, which it orbited closely. The land was largely arid, shading to temperate only very close to the polar oceans, which never cooled enough for ice caps to form.
That same heat lashed the planet’s wide oceans, giving Aru a regular hydrological cycle. The effect was endless desert, punctuated here and there with rich, sluggish emerald rivers and vast freshwater seas absolutely choked with life, and it was on these waterways that the OmoAru themselves had, naturally, built their cities during their ancient prehistoric expansion from their evolutionary habitat at the south pole.
Hence the city of UmOraEw-Uatun. Built around a huge oxbow lake where the great three kilometer wide river Uatun had once described a loop with a radius of several miles, it was a city of glass and white stone buildings that made alien eyes ache unless they wore protection. Here and there across the river, great bridges, engineering masterworks that looked far too delicate to even hold up their own weight, and yet were wide, flat and strong enough for a starship to land on - as indeed Lesry’s "History Paradox" had done.
It was a slightly odd ship, but Knadna quite liked it. Lesry had clearly put some thought into the design, reasoning that any archaeological dig effectively boiled down to heavy lifting and meticulous filing, and that the easier the former job was made, the more likely the latter job was to be done properly by the hired labor.
The Paradox was therefore built around a cylindrical hold, divided neatly into six storage segments around the central column which housed the largest of the ship’s five kinetic thrusters. The other four were mounted on outriggers, well above the head height of even the tallest species where they sprouted out of the rest of the ship - the sleeping quarters, galley, recreational room, nanofactory, the hydroponics ring which ran completely around the circumference of the ship, and the bridge blister mounted on top.
Landed, each outrigger deployed an elevator to ground level, and the six cargo bay doors opened outwards like a flower, meaning that the ship was theoretically stable enough to endure deployment to some of the more atmospherically violent deathworlds. Simple enough, but some of the engineering solutions involved in making the configuration both spaceworthy and serviceable by some of the stupider species who would be crewing it, had been strokes of genius on Lesry’s part.
There was an OmoAru at the dig site, watching the laborers strip neglected furniture, abandoned electronics and discarded art pieces out of an apartment building. It - while OmoAru had sexes, there was effectively nothing in the way of gender dimorphism for Knadna to be able to commit to a “he” or “she” - didn’t seem to be more than passively curious about the ransacking of its ancient city. It wasn’t that they didn’t understand - the ones Knadna had tried to converse with had turned out to be perfectly eloquent and intelligent beings who knew full well why the expedition had come - they just didn’t seem to care. Events simply unfolded around them, and while they watched and understood and could even be drawn into discussion about it, they just shrugged off any possibility of their getting involved. You could literally have stripped the bond-pairing jewelry from their ears and they would have neither protested nor helped.
The two Corti ignored it. The OmoAru themselves never had anything useful to say.
All of the junk being stripped out was just being taken so as to turn a profit on the mission of course. all of those things would find their way into the hands of private collectors and wealthy fashion hounds, none of it was relevant to Knadna’s research. That was where the books came in.
It was a near universal constant - a trend bucked only be the Allebenellin - that every species invented the book, which never again fell entirely out of fashion. Of course, come the information revolution any given civilization might find that more and more of its literature was being read in a digital format on whatever portable electronics they may invent, but the book never went away. It became a status symbol, a declaration of passion. Books were the physical embodiment of an interest in the archiving of knowledge and fiction, and there wasn’t a sapient race in the history of the galaxy, that Knadna knew of, that didn’t have a hard core of bibliophiles.
It was for this reason that there even were books in the building, and every single one had - with meticulous care - been entrusted to the most expensive, precise and sturdy cargo drone they had.
“Things are going well, it seems.” Lesry commented, looking sidelong at her, allowing a subtle hint of amusement to show. Knadna stopped rubbing her hands together and returned them to a more professional posture at her side.
“Yes. Quite well.” She agreed. She grabbed one of the newest books from the top and glanced at a page, taking in every feature of that page instantly. Her translation implant did the rest, decoding the OmoAru written language and converting it into useful concepts, remaining as faithful as possible to the linguistic subtleties it found.
“Cookbook.” she grunted, dismissively, and put the book back. “Thirty meals to help you keep a nice fat tail.”
“Look at this one.” Lesry said. “The top fifty holiday destinations in North UluUaba Province.” He turned a page. “Hmm. Actually this mineral mud spa sounds rather good.”
“An autobiography.” Knadna said, identifying her next one. “Contemporary with the start of the Decline, too. Potentially useful.”
Lesry was about to reach out for the next book when he paused, tilting his head slightly as if listening to something only he could hear.
“Ah. I think I shall have to leave you to catalogue these on your own.” he said. “You would think that simple instructions such as a cataloging system would be easier to follow for species capable of inventing space travel, wouldn’t you?”
“Hmm?” Knadna looked up from the book. “Oh. Yes. I’ll be quite happy here, thank you.”
She pretended not to notice the admiring way that Lesry looked at her before he left. Today was shaping up to be a good day.
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 3d AV
Starship Sanctuary, Deep Space
Julian Etsicitty
“Ice cream? God, I don’t remember, I went without it for so long… I guess…Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Okay, uh…. hmm…. What was the first band you saw live?”
“Oh. Uh… I’ve never been to a live show.”
“What, never?”
“Nope. Maybe I should? Uh… Okay, did you have a pet growing up? I had a hamster called Mr. Mopes.”
Julian smiled. “Oh yeah. Sidhe. He was this huge black dog. Like, part labrador, part Dobermann, part… I don’t know, part tank. Mr Mopes?”
“Hamsters sleep a lot, right? But I was six, I thought he was just sulking, but he sulked all the time, so… yeah. Mr. Mopes."
“That’s adorable.”
Allison gave him a little playful punch, as she had done every time so far he used a word like “cute” “sweet” or “adorable” to describe her, and he was about to ask his next question when they were interrupted by an exclamation of “fuck’s sake, dude!”.
Lewis and Amir had taken over the common room couch to play a game of some kind. Superman and Green Arrow were beating the crap out of each other on the screen, with the surprising result that Green Arrow seemed to be winning, much to Amir’s dismay. That hadn’t been the cause of the outburst, though. The cause of the outburst had been Zane, wandering right across the screen and interrupting Lewis’ line of sight long enough for Amir to activate his special move and punch Green Arrow into orbit.
Zane just made an unconvincing noise that sounded like in somebody who cared it might have been an apology, and vanished in the direction of the galley.
“Fuuuck. That guy’s really starting to bug me.” Lewis complained.
“I hear ya.” Julian said. “Guy hasn’t said five words to me since he came aboard.”
“You’re not missing much.” Amir told them. “Every time he talks to me he’s checking up on whether our ETA has miraculously changed. It’s the only thing he’ll talk about, is finding this Shyoo person.”
“Xiu” Allison corrected him. “And yeah, that worries me. You said they only spent, like, a week on the same station, Lewis?”
“Eight days, total.” Lewis said, selecting Wonder Woman for their rematch. “She was there, he arrived, she left, he’s all like Xiu this Xiu that. Dude’s obsessed. ”
“That sounds like… trouble.” Allison said.
“Yeah, but what’re we gonna do? Let the trail go cold?” Julian asked. “We owe it to her to find her and bring her home, if that means we have to deal with whatever happened between her and Zane…”
Allison fidgeted with her hands a bit. “I guess…”
He lowered his voice to speak privately with her as the guys started their rematch. “What?”
“Just… There are some kinds of trouble that guys will never get into, Julian. They only ever cause it.”
He frowned. “You think…?”
“I pray to God not.” she interrupted. “Can we drop it? It’s a subject I don’t like talking about.”
He hesitated, then gave her a little squeeze, watching the game. “Favourite superhero?”
“…Iron Man, I guess. I dunno, I never really got into comic books, but I liked the movies… Hey you didn’t tell me yours…”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 3d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Adam Ares
“You were her best friends. I think she’d want you to be involved.”
“I… know. and it means a lot to me that you’re asking but… y’know, I’m Catholic.” Ava said at last.
“I’m sure your God would understand, Ava.”
“I guess. But… this is Sara, she taught me so much. I can’t lie at her funeral. I can’t say words I don’t believe. I’m sorry."
Hayley Tisdale paused, then she nodded sadly and wiped away a tear. “You’re right. She wouldn’t want that.” she agreed. “Adam?”
He sighed. “I… look, I don’t know. I’m not sure I believe in anything any more.” he said at last. “So, I’m with Ava, I can’t do… this stuff here.” he tapped the printout they were going over. “but… I’d like to do this one here. If that’s okay?”
Hayley read it and smiled. “We were going to give that to Jack. But… yes. Please.”
“Thanks for asking us, Hayley.” Ava told her. “Really.”
She hugged them both and let herself out, leaving the pair of them to sit in silence for a bit.
“Did you mean that?” Ava asked. “About not believing any more?”
“It’s hard to.” Adam confessed.
“I know…” she sighed. “I just… I need this to all be happening for a reason, you know? I don’t think I could cope if there wasn’t a plan behind it all.”
He hugged her. “There’s something going on, I know that much.” he said.
“There is?”
“Oh yeah. There’s a pattern. Something behind it all. Mr. Johnson, back home, now Sara… it’s all connected, I just know it. I think my Dad’s in on it.”
“Are you gonna ask him?” She looked up. “I mean, I think he’d have told you by now if he could.”
“…Yeah. He would have.” Adam sighed. “But I’m still going to ask him. And if there is something going on, then I’m going to find out what.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “However I have to.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 1w 5d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
“Legsy” Jones
“Intel package for you… sir…”
Anybody else might have said that Captain Powell’s office looked like a bomb had hit it. Legsy, being acutely aware of exactly what bomb damage actually looked like, tended not to use that phrase, but it would have very nearly been accurate.
The office doubled as Powell’s private space and sleeping area, and it was invariably pristine. One the one occasion that Legsy had seen Powell take his boots off, they had been lined up neatly under his camp bed with the laces tucked inside them. While the captain had once muttered a repetition of the old saw that any unit in battle-ready condition would fail inspection, he nevertheless was a stickler for keeping his own space immaculate.
Today was different. The filing cabinet was open, folders were strewn across the desk, the camp bed’s blankets were a bundle at the foot end, the captain’s kettlebells and weights were strewn across the floor rather than stacked, and a neglected ration pack on the table that had clearly been aborted halfway through preparation.
Powell himself was an even worse sight. He looked… rumpled. The skin around his eyes had gone dark, the eyes themselves were reddened, and he was sporting a fine crop of reddish and grey whiskers.
“On the desk.” he grunted, not glancing up from what he was reading. It looked like he was revising literally everything that Humanity knew about the Hierarchy.
That was hardly surprising. The captain had taken the girl’s death hard, harder than he let on. One of the obvious symptoms of that was obsession with her killers, though this was by far the worst case that Legsy had ever witnessed.
His terse response, however, was troubling. Only long experience of working with him had allowed Legsy to even tell the difference, but while Powell had never exactly been a cuddly personality, he was never usually rude or dismissive with his men. He’d gotten tougher since the girl died, demanding a full and complete inspection of every last detail of the rescue attempt, searching for anything that could have been done better.
Nobody wanted to be the one to voice the opinion to him that they’d done as well as humanly possible.
“Where on the desk, Captain?” He asked, unable to identify any spot that looked like it was more ready to receive the latest report than any other spot did.
“Fookin’ anywhere, do I look like I give a shit?" the captain growled.
“Yes sir.” Legsy put it down on top of what he hesitantly guessed might be the ‘in’ pile.
Powell didn’t react, just turning the page. He only glanced up when Legsy cleared his throat.
“Carry on.” he snapped.
“Sir… have you slept?” Legsy ventured
“I don’t see how that’s your fookin’ business, Jones.” Powell said, sharply. “You’re dismissed.”
Legsy saluted and turned for the door, deeply troubled, and then decided that he had a duty to perform.
He turned back. “Permission to speak candidly, captain?” he asked.
“Pretty fookin’ sure I dismissed you, Jones. So no, permission denied.”
That was a red alert.
Oh well. To borrow the motto of a sister unit: who dared, won. “I don’t fuckin’ care, sir, you’re gonna fuckin’ listen.” he announced.
The sheer audacity of it snapped the captain out of his revision and earned Legsy a trademarked Powell glare. “Look at this place!” he said, keeping the momentum up. “This isn’t like you sir, I’ve worked with you long enough to see there’s something fuckin’ wrong here. You’re not yourself.”
Powell lurched to his feet, face thunderous. “Sergeant Jones, if I have to order you out of my office again…” he began.
“Get yourself to counselling, sir!” Legsy told him. Powell froze, as shocked as if his subordinate had reached out and slapped him.
“I’m fookin’ fine." he asserted. “And YOU are this fookin’ close to-"
“Psych’s a wound like any other!” Legsy recited desperately, interrupting him. “You get it seen to just like you’d get a bullet seen. Your own words."
He swallowed, stiffened, and stared hard at the back wall. “Sir.”
There was a long, dangerous silence.
Finally, Powell spoke. He had always been a deep-voiced man - now the words practically rumbled out of him, as quiet and as full of smouldering danger as the voice of Vesuvius. “Sergeant Jones. I am ordering you to leave this office immediately. If you do not give me a perfect fookin’ salute and then fook off post fookin’ haste and without another fookin’ word, it will go fookin’ badly for you, am I crystal fookin’ clear?"
Legsy’s salute shook a little rain of dust from the ceiling, and he effected the speediest exit he had ever managed.
He just hoped that it would turn out to be worth it.
Date Point: 4y 9m 2w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Gyotin
The central hall of the Faith Center had been cleared out - all the furniture, cushions, books, even the carpet had been rolled up and taken away, leaving behind bare floor which had been marked with an eight-pointed star of some kind.
Gyotin and his Brothers had elected to lurk in a corner, out of the way, and watch. Most of the humans seemed to be equally as uninformed as he was to the nature of this ceremony, which he found interesting. There was a lot of milling around and talking in quiet confusion, much of which centered on a small, overweight human female whose age-silvered head fur was long enough to reach her knees, about half of which had been tied back away from her face.
“So, is this their senior Mother or something?” Tagral asked.
Gyotin indicated not. “I don’t recognise her.” he said. “Besides, they don’t have a clan of females like we do.”
“Then who-?”
The question was interrupted by some angry, loud words being spoken on the opposite side of the room, which got louder and angrier as their speaker stormed towards the door, which had just admitted Captain Powell and his team into the room.
“How dare you?" The speaker was an older man, small and balding and looking positively tiny next to the soldiers, who all glanced at each other in dismay at being so accosted. “How dare you come here?! You FAILED her!"
He was the very picture of righteous indignation in any species’ body language, and the shocked expressions of so many of the other Deathworlders suggested that his accusation was not a widely shared one, but what struck Gyotin was the soldiers’ composure. They fidgeted and some of them looked ready to retort, but all it took as a slight turn of Powell’s head to quiet them instantly. Even the silver-haired elder who had been hurrying to soothe out the conflict paused.
It was Powell’s face that rooted Gyotin to the spot, however. On a human’s mobile and subtle features, the total absence of any expression whatsoever communicated volumes.
“…You’re right.” Powell said. His voice was deep, and soft, and emotional. “We did.”
He took a step forward, and the little man backed off. “Think about what that must feel like, and you’ll understand why we’re here.”
There was a general awkward clearing of throats and shuffling of feet as the soldiers took up a respectful position towards one side of the room, standing in a formal posture with their feet apart and their hands behind their backs.
Awkward silence descended again, finally broken by a syncopated drumming from outside the hall that got steadily louder, being joined by the high-pitched voice of some stringed instrument playing a lament. As the musicians crossed the threshold and stood playing on either side of the door, the soldiers snapped their feet together and removed their berets.
It was a small coffin, carried by only four people and laid solemnly on the table in the middle of the room as the music came to a gentle stop.
“Ladies and gentlemen…” the Elder began as the bearers retreated to positions around the room. “…as you may be aware, Sara’s family have requested that we remember her life in accordance with Pagan traditions. There should be nothing in what we are about to do that can cause offense to anyone, but if you would prefer to pay your respects now after your own fashion and then wait outside, we will take a few moments of silence for you to do so. I’m sure that Sara will not mind.”
A few of those present did exactly that, approaching to touch the box, or mutter words. The little man who had accosted the soldiers and a female of similar apparent age - his mate? - knelt stiffly and whispered for a little while, before standing and leaving, both weeping openly.
Once they had gone, the elder stepped forward again. “Thank you. You’ll find the order of the ceremony in the leaflets we handed out, but please do not feel pressured to participate if you don’t wish to. As one of Sara’s friends-” she nodded to Ava “put it so eloquently, we don’t think that Sara would want us to lie on her behalf.”
“And so… let us take a few deep breaths to prepare ourselves. Breathe deeply, and remember the love you have for Sara and the joy she brought you. And so we begin.”
She took a deep breath of her own, and raised her hands. “Let us call for peace, that in Peace the voice of the Spirit may be heard. May there be peace in the East! May there be peace in the South! May there be peace in the West! May there be peace in the North!”
Reading from the booklet, most of the mourners recited with her. “May there be peace throughout all the worlds.”
The Elder turned towards one of the points of the star on the ground. “Spirits of the East, Powers of Air, we call you. Bring us bright memories of our beloved Sara and of the laughter that surrounded her. Blessed be!”
As she turned through each of the cardinal directions, invoking in turn Fire, Water and Earth, Gyotin had to prod Tagral to get him to stop fidgeting, eventually having to deploy a claw to get his Brother to really quiet down and start showing some respect. He would be the first to admit that he himself didn’t understand what compass directions, air, water and so on had to do with anything, but whatever was going on, it seemed to be working for the humans.
Or at least, for most of them. The huge soldier, Legsy, was wiping water off his face every other second, as was almost everybody else in the room. In fact, there were only a pawful of dry eyes in the whole building, and they belonged to the Gaoians - unsurprisingly, for physical reasons - and to Adam and Ava who simply looked… tired? Gyotin had become adept at reading a human’s expressive face by now, and weariness seemed like the closest approximation he could think of for what theirs were showing.
The last dry face was Powell’s. His usually inscrutable mask was now a scowl, an expression of the most deep and deadly anger, directed at something that Gyotin was desperately glad he couldn’t see, and was infinitely more glad wasn’t him.
He was so busy watching the captain and speculating about what colossally stupid entity it was that had attracted such depth of ire that he completely missed the eulogies, and only returned his attention to the ceremony when the priestess started to speak again.
“O Great Spirit, Mother and Father of us all, we ask for your Blessings on this our ceremony of thanksgiving, and honouring and blessing of Sara. We stand at a Gateway now. A Gateway that each of us must step through at some time in our lives, and which Sara already passed.”
“Her soul is immersed in the shining light of the Unity that is the Mother and Father of us all. The sadness and pain that we feel now is in our knowledge and our experience of the fact that we ourselves cannot yet cross that threshold to be with her until our time has come. We do not weep for our beloved sister, for she is beyond all pain, all fear and all illusion. We weep instead for ourselves in the pain of our separation.”
“And so to ease that pain, let us all now spend some time in silence to remember Sara, to call her up in our minds and to speak to her in the private places of our heart and free ourselves of our burdens, saying to her all those things that we always wanted her to hear.”
This part was familiar to Gyotin. Silence. He filled it by stepping on Tagral’s foot when his Brother started fidgeting again.
The silence was broken some minute or two later by the priestess, who turned to the younger Ares. “Adam?”
Adam smiled weakly, nodded and swallowed, then stepped forward, turned to the coffin and read from the booklet, a little shakily.
“Did you know it was time to fly?” he asked. “I didn’t want to say goodbye. But… but we all know this is not the end… Fare-”
Finally the weariness broke, and he paused, bit on his lower lip and looked down, squeezing his eyes shut. Alone in the middle of the room, he sobbed once before finally managing to rally himself and continue.
“Farewell for now, my dear, dear, friend.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 2w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Gabriel Ares
“Hey, Dad?”
Gabriel turned and smiled weakly at him. He had been watching the memorial stone being placed, a solid slab of blue slate imported from Earth and engraved.
"Sacred to the memory of a child of Earth,
And to all who shine with her among the stars."
“Hey.” He croaked.
“I have a question.”
Gabriel’s weak smile remained and he nodded, a little sadly. “Figured you would. You can see it, can’t you? The thread linking her and… all the others.”
“Yeah. And I’m guessing you can’t tell me the details.”
Gabriel nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“Adam…”
"I need to know, Dad. So tell me what I have to do. How do I earn it?"
Gabriel closed his eyes and nodded, then hugged his son as hard as he could. “Hey, amigo?"
“Yeah?”
“You’re a tougher man than I am. I’m not just proud of you, okay? I respect you.”
Adam softened just a little, and returned the hug. "Y yo tambien te respeto." he replied.
Gabriel nodded, then straightened, as much as he could around his faulty leg. “Go talk to Powell.” he said. “That’s how you start earning it.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
UmOraEw-Uatun, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Lesry
"Ooooh. Now that thing looks like a mover!"
Lesry had to admit that it did. If the black sphere which made up probably eighty percent of the craft’s mass was its power core, then even with an old- fashioned distorted-space Apparent Linear Velocity drive it would have been blindingly fast. Lesry, however, had a few of the high-end firmware upgrades to the implants in his optic nerves that were available only to ranking Directorate scientists, and they were reporting that the ship had one of the Blackbox engines.
Which meant, at a very rough mental calculation, that he may well be looking at the fastest vessel in the galaxy.
The few rather more refined calculations that he bounced off his cerebral coprocessors confirmed that he almost certainly was.
It landed easily enough, settling down to thrum gently on forcefields as it finished its descent level with the same bridge that his own History Paradox was parked upon, extending a gangplank to link the laughably small amount of ship that wasn’t power core to the shore.
“Somebody unusual visiting us.” He said. “Look busy! If I’m impressed I might throw in a small bonus.”
That one never failed to get the hired workers motivated, and they threw themselves into the cataloging and loading as he tucked his thumbs into the belt of his sand-robes and took his time wandering over to the end of the arriving ship’s gangplank.
He wasn’t expecting the human who strode down it with an expression that promised serious pain to anything in his way, nor the two other (rather paler) ones who followed after him shouting what was presumably his name.
Nor was he expecting one of the most famous beings in the galaxy behind them.
“Well! Councillor A’ktnnzzik’tk! You have a talent for making an entrance!” he observed, having to raise his voice to compete with the untranslated barking sounds the humans were making at each other.
A’ktnnzzik’tk produced an old-fashioned translation device from a satchel and held it idly in one of his stronger hands as he finished crossing the bridge. “Not by choice.” he said. “May I take it that I’m addressing the leader of this expedition? Thank you for meeting me in person.”
“Co-leader.” Lesry admitted, both intrigued by A’ktnnzzik’tk’s apparent lack of a translator implant and pleased by his manners. “Had I known one of the more… hmm… notorious politicians was coming, I would have torn my colleague Knadna away from her research as well, and believe me, that’s not a risk that a sane being would take lightly."
A’ktnnzzik’tk chuckled deep in his lanky throat. “I’m retired now. This is a personal project.” he said.
“Collecting Deathworlders? Most beings start smaller, with Gricka, or perhaps a pet Vulza.”
“It’s an entertaining hobby. I recommend it.”
Lesry allowed himself the luxury of a stab of amusement. “Well, the most we have here is an unaccountably sturdy Gaoian who wears concealing robes.” he said. “She’s our chef. I do hope she doesn’t turn out to be a human in disguise or something tiresome like that, this expedition will be far less pleasant without her culinary talents.”
A’ktnnzzik’tk blinked at him. “Information so freely volunteered?” he asked. “My thanks.”
“I suspect that you would have found her more or less instantly anyway.” Lesry said, and inclined his head towards 'Shoo’. “After all, she is brandishing a knife at that dark-skinned human you brought with you…”
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
UmOraEw-Uatun, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Xiu
"You stay the hell away from me, Zane!"
He started to babble at him in that same dense Patois and Xiu’s temper eroded even further. "Shut up! Shut up and fuck off!" she screamed.
The blonde woman - and oh God was Xiu happy to see a fellow female - stepped forward and said something a little too quietly for Xiu to catch, but it did the trick. He paused, then stepped backwards, eyes still fixed on her, then spat in the dirt, spun and stalked off between the scattering aliens.
The blonde woman exhaled, then turned to her. “Xiu Chang, I presume.” she said. It was so weird hearing somebody pronounce her name correctly.
Xiu put the knife down. “Uh… hi.” she said. It wasn’t what she’d imagined saying when she finally got back in touch with the human race - the real human race, not Zane - but then again nothing in the last four years or so had gone like she had imagined, so why should greetings?
“You’ve got to be sweltering in that disguise.” said another voice, a male one, from slightly behind her. She grabbed the knife and spun, prompting the man who had snuck up on her to back off, raising his hands defensively. “Woah, woah!” he protested. “Easy!”
Xiu lowered the knife, cautiously. This one was hot. Okay, she’d thought the same thing about Zane when they had first met, but this guy…
She shook it off. Handsome didn’t mean trustworthy. Nor did female, come to think of it, but…
But if she was ever going to get home, she’d have to trust somebody a little, wouldn’t she?
She put the knife down again, and Mr. Handsome nodded and circled around to join Blonde Girl. “Just making sure you didn’t stab him.” he said.
That didn’t exactly endear him to Xiu, but she understood. "Sho wia yu, uwa wa me Xiu." she said.
That earned her a pair of blank looks, until she realised that she’d spoken in Gaoian rather than English. “Uh… yes. Yes, my name’s Xiu.” she said. “Sorry, it’s been… since I last…”
“Five years? Not counting that guy?” The blonde said, smiling. “It’s okay, I understand. My name’s Allison. This is Julian.”
Xiu blinked. “I… had a friend called Allison.” she said. “Back on Earth.”
That detail seemed more relevant in her head than it did in the conversation, but she really was out of her depth here.
“Would you like to see her again?” this Allison asked her.
“I…” Xiu looked at the ship they had arrived in, and it finally hit her.
A ship. They had a ship. And these were humans, from Earth. Who had come here in that ship. From Earth.
Suddenly, she couldn’t see a thing through the tears.
They had a ship.
She could go home.
__
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Adam Ares
" ’Eeey, Adam!"
Legsy always had a friendly manner about him, which Adam liked. He’d shown plenty of intensity while training the militia, but outside of that role, Legsy was pure earthy charm and humor. It made militia training a charm, and while a lot of the colonists preferred not to use the gym at the same time as the soldiers, Adam found he really didn’t mind being outperformed by them. They served as examples of what he might one day be able to manage himself.
It also meant that he and Legsy practically had the gym to themselves, which was perfect for what he had in mind.
“Hey Legs.”
Adam watched the older man swing his kettlebell around. Legsy trained for endurance, and while Adam had seen people like Mark Tisdale working with more impressive weights, Legsy could apparently go all day, working his way steadily up and down through the set until he was red and reflective with sweat, but never seeming to tire.
Adam himself was still working up to that. He elected to use the cross-trainer instead. Legsy gave him an encouraging grin and nod as the device swirled into action.
“So uh… I’ve got a question.” Adam asked, after what he judged was a decent interval.
“Go for it, pal.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“…How d’you mean?”
“Home, Sara… how come they’re not pressing charges? There’s a pattern there, I can see it.”
Legsy didn’t answer at first, just continued to swing his weight, but his expression had clamped down beautifully.
“Yeah, I reckon you can.” he decided. “I can’t tell you though.”
“No, I know.” Adam agreed. “but Dad said if I want to know what’s going on then I need to talk to Captain Powell.”
Legsy really was an open book - he had so many different blank expressions. This one said that there was something serious going on with Powell at the moment that he, Legsy, was not comfortable discussing.
“I’d give him a few days.” he said at last. “It’s rough on an officer when an op he commanded ends that way, right? He gave me a bit of a row the other day.”
“Did you deserve it?” Adam asked. Legsy laughed, but his heart wasn’t as in it as it usually was.
“Maybe. He was tampin’.” he said, using a Welshism that Adam had deduced meant something like ‘furious’. “I’d give it a few days, butt. Let him simmer down, I’ll get you in to see him when the time’s right. Fair?”
“Thanks, Legs.”
“No worries, pal. Now come on, I know you can go faster than that!”
Adam quickened his pace and settled his mind, enjoying the heat building in his muscles.
He felt like he’d just set his first foot out the door on a journey.
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Starship Sanctuary, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Allison Buehler
“What do you think?”
Xiu had been introduced to a vacant room - on the opposite side of the ship from Zane’s, and next door to Allison’s, and was, from the sound of it, busy taxing the abilities of Sanctuary’s water recycler with a hot shower. Julian and Allison were, by mutual unspoken agreement, hanging out at the junction down the deck where they could make sure Zane didn’t try to get at her, be on hand should she need them, and converse unheard.
“About… what, now?” Julian asked. “About Xiu herself, or about whatever went down between her and Zane?”
“Xiu herself, for now.”
Julian thought about it. “At first glance, I was thinking 'damaged goods’." he confessed, and pressed on when Allison made a “hmm” noise and nodded.
“But here’s the thing, though.” he said. “She’s in great shape. She’s kept up her exercise and ate right, and that puts her a cut above most everyone else out here. Physically, she’s perfectly fine, give or take a few scars. Mentally? I dunno, what does five years alone with nobody but raccoon people to talk to do? She was nineteen when she was abducted. Then there’s the…” he checked to make sure nobody was listening, then lowered his voice anyway even though none were. “the Hunters. And the nervejam.”
“Yeah, I read her file.” Allison agreed. “She saved a whole starship! Took on one of the big Hunter ships solo! That’s… shit, that’s big damn hero stuff." she frowned at him. “But, you’re one to talk. What does six years alone with nobody but trees to talk to do?”
“It fucks with your head.” Julian said, honestly.
“You’ve always seemed… fine to me.”
“We’ve not slept together yet.”
“You mean actual sleep, right?”
“Yeah. Can’t even do it without an axe next to my hand.” Julian told her. “And I wake up at the slightest noise, reaching for it. Do you snore?”
Allison shook her head. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“Lewis does. That’s why I moved away from his room. I kept thinking there was a Murderpig near my camp.”
“Murderpig?”
“This big.” Julian held out a hand at rib height. “This long.” He stretched his arms as wide as they would go. “Teeth like this." he drew one of his knives “and it hates you. Murderpig.” He put the knife back in its sheath.
“You came up against shit like that?”
“Yeah. Lucky for me, it’s all nose with a Murderpig. Their eyesight’s fucking awful and they snore when they breathe, like a fat guy asleep on the bus. Getting the drop on them’s easy. Good eating on them too. But if there was one near the camp I needed to be up and armed like that." he snapped his fingers.
“What happened if you didn’t?”
“I never didn’t. If I ever hadn’t, then we’d never have met.”
“Oh. Damn, Julian.”
“Eh, it was only for like four months out of the year. Rest of the time, Nightmare was nice and quiet. I used to- hey, she’s done.”
Xiu had poked her head out of her room, wearing a towel and a blush. “Uh… hey, are my new clothes ready?” She asked. “I just realised how nasty these robes are…”
“I’ll go check.” Julian told her, and trotted down the stairs.
Allison turned to talk with Xiu, and noticed that their recent rescue was watching Julian with catlike fascination as he went, her blush deepening and spreading to her ears. Allison couldn’t blame her - Julian had an amazing ass - but that couldn’t be allowed. “Sorry, girlfriend. I’m not into sharing.” she said, not unkindly.
“Uh…” Xiu blinked, then coughed. “Sorry. You guys are…?”
“We’re…. yeah. We are. How are you feeling?"
“Clean!” Xiu said, rebounding. “I mean, my own actual shower. With real shampoo! And conditioner!"
Allison laughed. “Hah! With hair like yours, I can see why you’d miss those.” she said. “Don’t expect miracles with the clothes, though. It’s all practical stuff, not decorative.” She grinned. “Unless you can rock a pair of yoga pants.”
“If it fits properly and breathes, I’ll be happy.” Xiu promised. “And we’ll be going back to Earth soon, right?”
“We don’t need to. All we need to do is get to a station with an FTL relay and schedule an Array send with Scotch Creek.”
“Huh?”
Allison paused. “Okay, so, I’m not exactly Miss Technobabble.” she said. “But… did you ever see this old TV show, Stargate?"
“Sure. My brother Wei brought all the DVDs on eBay.”
“Well, we’ve kinda got one of those downstairs.” Allison said. “but, like, less dramatic. It’s called a Jump Array. Neat piece of kit!”
Xiu gaped at her. “Wait, so… you could send me home right now?" she asked.
“Not right now, no. We need to get to a station with an FTL relay, send a message to Earth via Cimbrean, wait for-”
“Where?”
“Cimbrean. Humanity’s first colony world. You didn’t hear about it?”
Xiu made a strange ducking motion with her head, then blinked and carefully shrugged while shaking her head, as if remembering the gesture. “I… didn’t really pay attention to the news.” she confessed. “It just got me down. There’s not much about humans in the news, and it’s never good when there is.”
“Yeah?”
“It was always about how we would bring the Hunters down on them and get them all killed.” she elaborated. “But how does this Cimbrean place protect itself?”
Allison grinned. “You know that big forcefield protecting Earth?”
"Protecting it?"
“Yeah! It sure as hell isn’t containing us, but it’s stopping the bad guys from getting in. Anyway, Julian stole one.”
Xiu blinked. "That Julian?" she asked, pointing after him.
“Yep. Actually, he stole two.”
“Wow. So, uh, where’s the other one?”
“Kirk won’t say.”
Xiu sighed. “So we need to send a message to Earth.”
“Via Cimbrean. And then we have to wait for them to get back to us and say 'Sure, send on this date at this time using this code' and then… bam! You’ll be back in Canada."
“Just like that?”
“Unless you decide to stay, yeah.” Allison told her.
“Why would I want to stay out here?”
“Why would you want to go back?” Allison retorted.
“Wh-? It’s home!" Xiu said.
Allison nodded, a little sadly. “That’s fine. And if that’s what matters to you… Sorry, I shouldn’t have even mentioned it, it’d just be nice to have another girl on board.”
“I guess…” Xiu said. “but… I had my dreams. I was going to be an actress. I still could be, if I go home now.”
Allison kept to herself the fact that Xiu was going to need a lot of post- production and makeup to cover all the scars she seemed to have picked up during her time away from home. There were a lot of them. The ragged tears down her forearm were the largest and most disfiguring, but the one that kept drawing Allison’s attention was a little raised inch-long mark on Xiu’s neck, dangerously close to her carotid artery.
She was spared the discomfort of the conversation tailing off by Julian’s return, as he handed across the clothes the nanofactory had printed to Xiu’s measurements - four simple black sports t-shirts, two equally simple navy blue fatigues, four changes of undecorated but comfortable underwear, a dark grey fleece sweater , four pairs of thick socks and a pair of hiking boots.
“Here you go.” he said, handing them over. “Not exactly red carpet stuff, but it’s warm and comfortable and you can clean them real easy. Just rinse ’em and hang ’em up. Lewis can show you how to program the nanofac later if you want a bit of variety.”
Xiu took them gratefully. “Thanks.”
“So you want to be an actress?” Allison called through her door after she had shut it.
“Yeah! That’s why I took up Gung Fu, I wanted to be in martial arts movies!" Xiu called back.
“Not drama or anything?”
This was met with a bitter "Hah!" from behind the door. “Have you ever heard of a Chinese version of Downton Abbey?" she asked.
“Not in America.” Allison confessed.
“Exactly. Hey, these are a good fit!”
“Lewis figured out how to lift your measurements from the biofilter field.” Julian said. “Bespoke tailored printed clothing. Neat, ain’t it?”
“Do they have stuff like this back on Earth now?” Xiu asked
“Not yet. I mean, four years and change isn’t that long anyway, and this is alien technology.”
Xiu opened the door so she could finish talking to them unimpeded as she pulled on her boots. “Yeah, but… we’ve got spaceships and a colony and stuff now.” she said.
“I think a lot of what comes out of Scotch Creek is just copying and pasting.” Julian confessed. “We’ve been bit in the ass a few times by now, especially with the first-generation translator implants and what happened to San Diego.”
Xiu stood up from tying her laces, frowning. “Why?” She asked. “What happened to San Diego?”
“…Ah.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Starship Sanctuary, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Lewis
“Hey, Amir?”
“Yes?”
“Whaddya think went down with Xiu and Zane, anyhow?”
Amir sighed and set aside his checklist. Self-maintaining and robust though Sanctuary’s systems were, he felt safer for manually checking them while landed.
“Why the fascination?” he asked. “It seems cut and dried to me.”
“You think?”
“I knew men like Zane back in Birmingham.” Amir said. “All ego, very intense. Charming, if they liked you, but if you irritated them…”
“You did?”
“Sure.” Amir replied. “My cousin was married to such a man.”
Lewis nodded sagely. “Good looking dude turned on the charm, huh? Got her wrapped around his finger before he turned it off again?”
“Sort of. Arranged marriages didn’t go away just because my grandparents left Pakistan, you know. They just brought them to England.”
“Wait, shit, your cousin had to marry some dude?” Lewis protested. “That’s not cool!”
“She didn’t have to." Amir corrected him. “That would be forced marriage. But the marriage was arranged between his parents and my uncle and she…” He coughed. “Well, she didn’t think too hard about it.”
“Were you cool with that?”
“Oh, it happened after my abduction. I had the pleasure of meeting the husband after getting back. I didn’t like him. And Maleeha was a different person to what I remembered, very subdued. I’m sure she even flinched a little bit when he raised his voice.”
“So, not cool with it then?”
Amir sighed. “It’s… a good arrangement.” he said. “He’s a dentist, she cooks, cleans, looks after the three children… a traditional marriage. Her parents are very happy."
“So, you’re not cool with it, then."
“…She was sixteen.” Amir admitted.
“Ah. Shit, is that even legal?”
“Oh, yes. Perfectly legal.” Amir said. “English law only requires parental consent for sixteen year olds, even if the husband is more like thirty.”
“Damn…”
“I get the same vibe off Zane as I do off my cousin’s husband. ” Amir said. “That same… Pride. Is there anything in his file?”
“Lemme check…” Lewis said, followed seconds later by: “Huh… Hey, Kirk encrypted it.”
“He what?”
“Yeah. Locked this shit down tight, too. No breaking it, no way no how.”
“How do you know it was him?”
Lewis gave him a tired 'please' look. “I’m the only other dude on this boat who could, and I didn’t.”
Amir got out of the flight chair and went to look over Lewis’ shoulder. “Why would he encrypt Zane’s file?”
“I’m gonna ask him.” Lewis said. “Worst case, he says he’s not telling us.”
“Go for it.”
Kirk responded to Lewis’ summons a few minutes later. “Something come up?” he asked.
“Sort of.” Amir said. “You encrypted Zane’s file?”
“It seemed like a good idea.” Kirk replied. “I didn’t want people to read it and become prejudiced against him. This is supposed to be welcoming ship.”
“Like, uh, why would we be prejudiced?” Lewis asked.
Kirk made the noise that was his species’ version of a resigned sigh. “The Corti experiments of the last fifty years or so were beginning to focus on human weaknesses.” he revealed. “Genetic disorders, mutations, personality disorders, mental illness…”
“So our Zane’s got a… maybe a personality disorder of some kind?” Amir asked.
“I’m not saying. I don’t want to exacerbate the friction between him and Xiu by prejudicing the rest of you against him.”
“All well and good, but if he’s dangerous…”
“You’re proving my case.” Kirk pointed out. “You all took an instant disliking to him. That’s acceptable, I don’t much like him either. But he still deserves his privacy and unbiased treatment. He’s not actually done anything other than be unpleasant."
Lewis and Amir shared looks that mutually said 'He’s got a point’.
“Alright, cool. You’ve got a strong argument there, boss.” Lewis finally admitted.
“Thank you. Where is Zane right now, anyway?"
Lewis ran a search script. “Not aboard. Last seen… like, ten seconds after we landed…”
He tapped again. “Neither’s Vedreg.” he added.
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
The Tisdale house was a mess. Ava couldn’t blame them, in fact she knew exactly how they felt. After the bomb which killed her parents, it had taken weeks before she began to notice things like mess, rumpled clothing and the state of her hair again. The first night she had run a brush through it had been a painful one both physically and emotionally, extracting a tangle that had been well on its way to becoming a dreadlock.
Doctor Hayley Tisdale at least was fortunate enough to have straight hair, which would help there. But she was still a mess when she opened the door, wearing food-stained pajamas and red eyes.
“Ava?”
Ava lifted the box she was holding. “I… Gabriel was able to get Sara’s stuff back from the military…”
Hayley stared at the box like it was simultaneously the most beautiful and the terrifying thing in all creation.
“Oh…”
“Can I come in?”
Hayley nodded quietly and stepped inside.
The clutter about the place was just… stuff. Things that had been left where they were no longer useful: clothes, mugs… a few bowls and plates, but not many. They weren’t eating much. Ava knew how that felt - you just weren’t interested. You’d grab books then discard them, pick things up just to put them down again.
There were a lot of wine glasses around though and the house reeked of alcohol, plus another scent that she hadn’t smelled since high school back in California. She didn’t know how that one felt. Ava didn’t know how they had even managed to get cannabis on Cimbrean, but she wasn’t about to comment. The smell was stale, as if they hadn’t indulged for some time.
Hayley swept aside an arrangement of small crystals and semiprecious stones on the table to make room for the box.
Sara hadn’t had much on her when she died, and her bloodstained clothing had tactfully been omitted. What was left was a tiny assortment of jewelry - Sara had been addicted to rings, and had always worn her birthstone, an Emerald, as a necklace. There were a trio of the same kind of crystals that her mother had just swept aside, her phone, spare batteries and a MicroSD card for her camera, and the camera itself.
Hayley didn’t say a word, she just picked up the camera with trembling hands, turned it on after a second’s investigation to figure out how it worked, and started to scroll through the pictures her daughter had taken.
Ava grabbed a brush and gently started to sort out the worst of Hayley’s hair, watching the screen herself.
It was a catalog of the changing face of Folctha, playing backwards. Brown dirt, tree stumps and grey construction sites gave way to a bloom of life here and there. Sara had been gifted with an eye for finding beauty, and for showing it off to its best advantage, finding the little flowering plants that were still struggling gamely against the Deathworld invasion, or the forester, whose high-vis jacket and yellow hard-hat practically shone against the lifeless stack of felled logs he was leaning against.
Things got greener, more alive, and Sara had continued to pick out whatever was *most *alive in each scene. A cloud of little iridescent shimmerflies. A creature that lived somewhere halfway between squirrel and lizard, stuffing nuts into a pouch on its back. The curve of Ava’s own naked back, the little hairs and the bumps of her vertebrae luminous with the light of a setting sun that was framed by her coiled lock of wet hair. She hadn’t even noticed Sara take that picture.
There were no pictures of Sara herself, though. She had only ever used the camera to record what happened around her, never turned it on herself.
Finally, Hayley set the device aside with a sigh. “I still… I don’t believe it.” she confessed.
“I know.” Ava replied.
“How do you cope? How do I…? I think the only thing that keeps me going is that I’ve still got Jack to look after.”
Ava’s brush never stopped, but the rest of her did, for a second. “I think… I think you just have to keep the people you’ve lost alive.” she said. “Live for them. Carry on their work.”
“Have you?” Hayley asked. “You lost your parents, do you think you’re keeping them alive?”
“I hope so.” Ava said. “I try to be somebody they’d be proud of. I tried to get better and move forward because… I guess because I knew it’d hurt them to see me in pain.”
“D’you think Sara…?” Hayley aborted the question, half-formed. Ava gave her a little hug.
“She loved you both.” She told Hayley. “She talked about you a lot, about the things you said, about what you taught her.”
“She did?”
“Oh yeah.” Ava laughed slightly. “It was hard to get her to stop.”
That prompted a miserable laugh from Hayley too. “She always was a motor mouth…”
Ava smiled, and put the brush down. With the tangles gone and some of her hair’s shine restored, Hayley was already looking much improved. Hopefully, she’d see that in a mirror and it would help her, just a little. It had for Ava.
Hayley picked up the camera, and then unexpectedly she turned and handed it to Ava. “Keep it.” she said.
“Me? I…”
“Please? It’s… a way to keep her alive.”
Ava took the little black device nervously. “Are you sure?”
Hayley nodded, and then gave Ava a kiss on the forehead. “Honey.” she said. “You’re a wiser girl than I am. Maybe you can…”
She trailed off, then just looked down and shook her head. “Just take it. Please? I think she’d want you to have it. It just feels right. Carry on her work."
Ava considered the picture on the screen at that moment - Cimbrean sunlight, somehow turning the industrial devastation around Folctha pretty just by being framed a certain way - and doubted that she was up to the job.
But she had been wondering where to take her life, now that movie makeup wasn’t an option. Maybe…
Maybe…
“I’ll… thank you, Hayley.” she said.
She meant it.
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Starship Sanctuary, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Xiu
Hitting something felt good. Gung Fu was a martial art after all, and while practicing the movements had (she hoped) allowed Xiu to keep her form, you could repeat the bao hu gui shan all day but it couldn’t duplicate the feeling and experience gained from landing actual physical blows. The best way to practice punching was… well, to punch something.
The fact that it was cathartic had nothing to do with it. Really: Nothing.
The Sanctuary’s punchbag was therefore getting the most brutal workout of its existence. While the Gaoians could easily have built one for her, she had never asked for one. It would just have been too embarrassing to break the first few, and too… impolite to flaunt just how much stronger she was than them by doing so to a bag it would have taken three of them to lift.
Now, though, she could feel just how long it had really been since she had last received proper guidance in her form. Her wrists and forearms hurt, and in the first few minutes she threw a few strikes where she misjudged the distance and either punched the air just short of the bag’s surface, or else overextended herself striking a point somewhere inside it. She wasn’t off by much, but she was still off, she could tell.
She only finally ended her workout once she was satisfied that she had restored some of her muscle memory and that her form had healed a bit, by which point she had spent nearly an hour focused on that one task, giving her brain time to process the news about San Diego and the devastation that its destruction had wrought on the entire Pacific coast. Nobody had been directly hurt in Vancouver thank goodness, but the ash from Mt. Rainier’s sympathetic eruption, caught by a prevailing wind from the desert, had dusted across British Columbia and even reached as far as Alaska, causing respiratory distress, clogging air filters and lightly polluting the water across thousands of square miles.
She hoped that it hadn’t set off Wei’s asthma.
Julian and Allison had admitted to both knowing the specifics of what had happened, but had also said that, so long as Xiu intended to leave the ship and return home, they weren’t in any kind of a position to discuss it. It was a mystery, but one that Xiu would happily forego illumination of for the sake of going home.
As for all the dead…
Well, it didn’t register. It wasn’t that it didn’t seem real, they had shown her the footage and news reports, too many and varied to be fake. It was definitely real. But it was also abstract. She didn’t even know what two million living people looked like, let alone two million dead. The mind simply couldn’t get a grasp on ideas that big.
She jogged a few laps around the gym to warm down, then collected her boots and headed upstairs, wondering what kind of food they had on board. The clothing she’d been given was really impressive, made of some high-tech performance textile that had kept her cool and dry and not noticeably aromatic. And it was made by humans, for humans, understanding human needs. Luxury! With luck, the galley would be similarly impressive.
Upstairs, however, the crew were talking quietly and their expressions were worried. When she entered, Allison stopped speaking mid-sentence and gave her a gently apologetic smile that said that while she, Allison, was glad to see her, Xiu had managed to arrive at an inopportune moment.
“Is everything alright?” Xiu asked.
“Sunset was half an hour ago, and we’ve not seen Zane since you came aboard.” Kirk told her. She hadn’t had the opportunity to get to know the tall white being, yet. It wasn’t that he had ignored her, but he seemed to be extremely busy with something or other and had given her only a polite welcome aboard and his assurance that they would become acquainted later on, if she liked.
“Pff, Zane? Leave him behind.” Xiu said. It came out as more of a snap than she had intended, but she had to stop her hand from touching the mark on her throat.
“Even if I were inclined to do so-” Kirk said, making it very plain that he wasn’t, “we just found out that Vedreg isn’t aboard either.”
“Vedreg?”
“You ever met a Guvnugundragonbunny?” Lewis asked.
“Oh! You have a…?” Xiu asked, ignoring Kirk as he tried to correct Lewis. “I didn’t see them…”
“He went straight into the city when we landed. Said that he was testing a theory.” Amir revealed. “You were too busy waving knives at Zane and Julian to notice.”
Xiu blushed. “Julian snuck up on me! And Zane…” she paused.
“Is missing.” Kirk reminded them.
“Well, what do we do?” Julian asked.
“We search for him.” Kirk said. “Julian, you and Amir can sweep the north quadrant. Allison, you and Lewis take the east. Miss Chang-”
“No.” Xiu folded her arms.
Kirk blinked. “I see…” he said. “Not to press the issue, but I understand that you’re rather physically formidable yourself and…”
"No."
There was silence as everyone glanced back and forth at one another, which Lewis broke by clearing his throat. “Uh… Hey, the hell happened with you two?”.
“That’s between me and Zane.” Xiu told him. “If you need me I’ll come running, but that…” She shook her head. “Just… No.”
Kirk lowered his head, exhaling slowly. “I can see that is the end of it. Very well, Amir, if you could accompany me instead?”
Amir finally stopped giving Xiu a calculating stare and nodded. “Okay.” He agreed, though reluctantly.
Allison stood. “Sooner we get moving…” she said.
“I’ll… be in my room.” Xiu said.
She held it together until the door was closed and locked behind her before the shakes started.
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Classified Facility, Earth
“Steve”
“Shitty luck. You got that right.” somebody said as he entered.
Steve sighed and grabbed a coffee. “It was a fucking understatement.” he replied.
Christof Lehmann - the poor bastard who’d been puppeted into shooting a girl on Cimbrean - had not taken the explanation of his situation well. There had been shouting, there had been crying. Both had been easier to bear than the dreadful, broken silence.
“I think it’s pretty clear he needs to be on the suicide watchlist.” Carl said.
“Pretty clear, yeah. Fella looks like he took a dump and found his liver in the bowl.”
“Give the man some respect, Simmons. News like that’d be rough on anybody.”
“Sorry, Boss.”
Boss nodded. “Guess he’s headed to Alaska then.”
“Oh yes.” Steve said. “That implant the Corti shoved in him may have cured his epilepsy, but it’s too deep and invasive to remove. He’d be a lobotomised vegetable once the surgeons were done, assuming he even lived through the operation.”
“Then there’s his reputation.” Simmons pointed out. “Poor bastard was used to murder a little girl. No way to explain that one to the public without ruining him or blowing the lid on the Hierarchy.”
Boss shifted in his seat. “I’m going to be advising the director that we can’t keep that particular secret much longer.” he drawled. His Georgia accent always got stronger when he was feeling emotional, thought that was the most sign he gave. “There’s too much pressure now. The seizure all the people with translators had, San Diego, now this… the Internet’s already working overtime.”
“Isn’t there some plausible deniability, there?” Balistreri had always fallen comfortably into the role of devil’s advocate. She wasn’t actually an argumentative woman by nature, but she had a knack for spotting the alternatives and presenting them. “If the story leaks then we can just claim too much time spent listening to the Internet conspiracy theorists.”
“Nope. Only a matter of time before Herr Lehmann gets his case taken up by a journalist or a human rights lawyer. The cat’ll be out of the bag before long, you mark my words. But if we let it out ourselves, then the details of Operation Exorcist can remain secret.”
“You’re the boss, Boss.”
“Yep.”
“What happens if the Hierarchy do panic and step up their plans?"
“At least we’ll have taken the initiative.” Carl said. “Rather than playing catchup.”
“Best we can do.” Boss agreed. “Alright folks, get some rest, do your paperwork, whatever, I’ll see y’all when I get back from DC.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
UmOraEw-Uatun, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Allison Buehler
If there was one thing Lewis was terrible at, it was taking a hint once he was fixated on a train of thought. “Seriously though, what do you think? ’d he rape her or something?”
“She doesn’t want to say and that’s the end of it.” Allison told him.
It was cold in the desert at night. She’d known that, but still hadn’t quite registered that the temperature would be in freefall within minutes of sunset. She was almost mentally counting down until the first fog started to appear on her breath.
It didn’t help that the deserted city had an eerie, unsettling quality to it. If the place had been truly abandoned - plants growing all over everything, walls falling down, that kind of thing - then it wouldn’t have been so bad, but the place was still slightly alive, thanks to the automated maintenance and civil engineering systems that the OmoAru had laced through the ancient conurbation at the height of their power. Everything was still clean, still standing. Just… empty. It was almost like walking through her own home city of Phoenix, except that the road signs were alien, the proportions wrong, and the silence…
It was cloying. It stuck to everything. The desert breeze and the hiss of sand only seemed to amplify the silence, rather than dispel it, and when occasional little animals or robots moved around in the dark, it set every ancient monkey danger instinct in her body off.
She’d always hated the dark.
“You gotta speculate though, right?” Lewis persisted.
Allison stopped and grabbed his arm, hard, prompting a wince and a noise of complaint. “Lewis: Shut. Up.”
She let go and listened, ignoring Lewis as he rubbed his arm and made irritated subvocalizations.
There was definitely noise and a glow coming from a nearby building
“Zane? That you?” She called, grateful for a chance to have something other than Lewis’ insensitive speculation to break the silence.
It wasn’t Zane. Instead, an OmoAru shuffled out into the street, raising a glowing white stick.
Aliens came in all shapes and varieties, and the temptation was always there to compare them to mixtures of human species back on Earth. Blue giraffes, white zebra-giraffes, raccoon persons and so on. It was always an unfair and inaccurate comparison - they were their own species, the products of evolution that had nothing to do with Earth - but comparisons with leopard geckos and big-eared bats sprang to mind anyway when considering an OmoAru.
This one was about twice Allison’s height and shrouded in robes against both the sand and the cold night air. Its skin - dry, tough and scaly - was the colour of the desert, mottled here and there with patterns of a surprising turquoise and ochre hue that became thicker and more vivid around the base of its huge furry ears. The tufted end of its tail ticked back and forth behind its back, folding over into a question mark.
"UmUa WenUatu WoUem WioYuwu?" It asked.
“Bah wheep grahnah wheep nini bong, man.” Lewis replied amicably, and offered the alien a Vulcan salute for good measure. Allison rolled her eyes and put a hand over her mouth to cover her smile.
"WumuaAmo SuOumu?"
“Sure dude. Whatever… Guess there’s no point in asking if you saw a big black dude who talks even weirder than you go past, huh?”
"Huh?"
“Huh. Guess ‘huh’ is a universal, huh?”
"Huh." The alien disappeared into the building again.
“Lewis, you’ve got a talent for communication there.” Allison quipped.
The sentence was barely out of her mouth when the OmoAru returned and handed Lewis a little dull grey metal ball about the size of an apple.
“Huh?”
"Huh!" The tail lashed and its ears perked up. Allison got the distinct impression that a human would have been nodding vigorously and smiling.
“…Oh! Huh! Well thank you very much, my man."
"WemUei!" the alien agreed.
“Ming mang mong, dude.” Lewis told it.
Allison watched the alien return, apparently happily, to its domicile “…the fuck?”
“Hell if I know.” Lewis said, pocketing the gift. “Nice guy, though.”
“What do you think that thing is?”
“You heard the dude. It’s a huh."
“Lewis…”
“Well how the fuck am I supposed to know? Could be the dude’s car keys, could be his porn stash, could be his grandma’s ashes.”
Allison sighed. “Okay, okay…”
She raised her torch and looked down the street, expecting and receiving no sign of any living thing beyond the pool of light where the giver of the Huh was living.
“No sign of anything where we’re at, Kirk.” she said, activating the contact microphone by pressing lightly on it where it was stuck to her throat.
"I was just about to let you know: we found them." Kirk replied.
“You did?”
"Both of them, yes. Vedreg believes that he may have uncovered a breakthrough in the mystery of elder species decline."
“He has?”
Vedreg’s simulated voice - the translators always rendered him with a gentle Received Pronunciation accent for some reason - came on the line. "Oh yes. Do you see the large, lit building at the apex of the oxbow lake?"
Allison looked around. It was hard to miss in the dark. “Sure. You’re there?”
"Indeed. If you could collect the others and bring them here, they may wish to see this…"
“Julian?”
"I heard. Xiu’s lurking in her cabin, so I’ll meet you ther- ah, shit."
Allison frowned. “Problem?”
"Yeah, my foot broke again."
Allison sighed. Julian insisted that the prosthetic was perfect for his needs in terms of moving around and stepping silently, but it achieved that by being a near-exact replica of the human foot made using carbon-fibre “bones”, and its “flesh” was a synthetic muscle tissue that Julian called “myopolymer”.
It worked just fine, when it worked. Unfortunately, the same alien materials science that made Kirk’s prosthetic by far his strongest limb didn’t quite match the performance standards of a healthy human body in terms of both weight and strength. Julian’s decision to go for accurate movement and mass rather than high performance, so as to minimize his rehabilitation training time, meant that he periodically suffered the equivalent of tendon ruptures and stress fractures. “D’you need us to help you back?” she asked.
"Nah, it’s a field repair. Price I pay, I guess." The advantage to a prosthetic foot, of course, was that he could perform the equivalent of surgery on it himself with glue.
“See you soon, then.”
"Sure."
Lewis spent most of the walk examining his "Huh“, poking it and turning it over and over in his hands. Allison was pretty sure he surreptitiously licked it at one point, all with no apparent effect. It was an improvement on his speculating about Xiu.
Kirk, Vedreg, Zane and Amir were waiting for them in the street. Both the humans were hunched over and shivering from standing around in the plummeting temperature with nothing to do to keep themselves warm, and Kirk was fidgeting in the cold, but Vedreg’s species had evolved to spend a week every year standing around in the driving rain of the World-Storm: He seemed perfectly comfortable, producing great monsoon clouds with every exhalation.
“Ah, there you are!” he exclaimed upon laying eyes on Allison and Lewis. “Come and see!”
Allison looked upwards. “It’s… a building.” she said. Though it was an admittedly impressive one, taller and more sprawling than any other around it, and looking quite clean, well-maintained and lit compared to its neighbors.
“It’s a hospital." Vedreg corrected her.
“And we’re going to find the secret to species decline in there, are we?”
Vedreg turned and spread his arms to indicate the city and its surrounding sprawl of infill as a whole. “A hospital this large has catchment for the entire river valley.” he said. “It should be absolutely thriving with activity, should it not? Despite the much reduced population, some hundred thousand souls still live inside this hospital’s coverage.”
Allison nodded yes, then remembered that without translators she had better do Vedreg the courtesy of speaking aloud. “Sure.” she said.
“And yet… no ambulances are landing.” Vedreg indicated the dormant landing pads. “The ground vehicle parking area is all but completely empty. No pedestrians are coming or going. The Injury and Emergency department is silent. Clearly, the OmoAru who live around here don’t care in the slightest about their own health. And yet the building remains open, the power is still on, and the reception drone is ready to receive and help.”
“Automated?” Lewis asked.
“The staff parking.” Kirk chimed in “Is not vacant. Somebody is still at work inside."
“Who?”
Kirk’s imitation of a human shrug was getting better with practice, but his extra limbs still made the gesture look strange. “Unfortunately, I don’t read OmoAru.”
“Huh.” Allison mused.
Lewis laughed. “Don’t start that shit again.” he warned.
His admonition earned a wry huff from Allison, and baffled expressions from everyone else, so he explained, producing the "Huh" to show off, passing it around. Vedreg and Kirk promptly fell to debating its meaning and significance, while Zane just inspected the little object, turning it over in his hands.
Allison sidled over to Amir, who had been silent so far, staring up at the hospital. “Thoughts?” she asked.
“Fifty quid says the cybernetics ward turns out to be open and the Hierarchy’s behind it all.” Amir challenged her. “Wiping out whole species when they start to become a threat seems like their style, doesn’t it?”
“And with an advanced species whose heads are going to be full of implants like the OmoAru…” Allison mused, following his line of reasoning. “…No bet. Have you-?”
Something very painful happened to the back of her head.
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Captain Owen Powell
“Hello, captain. Major Tony Ford, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Major.” Powell looked around the office as he shook the psychiatrist’s hand, finding it uncomfortably familiar to the other ones he had visited for counseling in his career. The couch was different, though. Long, low and square. A sofa, rather than a psychiatrist’s couch. He appreciated that. “Guess I sit there, do I?”
Major Ford smiled slightly and shook his head. “If you want. Or over there, on the floor, walk around… you can even sit at my desk and I’ll sit on the couch if you like. There’s coffee and tea if you want them.”
“I’ll… take the couch, thanks. And, uh… yeah, a cup of tea would go down about right.”
Ford nodded. “A Yorkshire man like yourself I’m thinking… strong and sweet?” he asked, smiling.
Powell produced a very, very little tired laugh through his nose. “Aye, you’ve got me bang to rights there.” he said.
Ford made the drinks quietly, giving Powell time to settle in and get the measure of the room a bit more. On second glance there were personal touches everywhere, not least of which was a dog basket in the corner, in which a dark little terrier was sat, watching him with wide-eyed interest. Her tail flopped over uncertainly in response to the attention.
“Oh, that’s Peggy.” Ford said. “Don’t worry, she’s as good as gold, won’t even leave the basket without permission.” he added fondly, smiling at her as he handed over the tea.
“I’m not going to wind up talking to the dog, am I?” Powell asked.
“Not if you don’t want to. But she’s half of the partnership, and there if you need her.”
“…Aye, let her out.”
“C’mon Pegs! Say hi.” Ford ordered. The dog bounced happily across the room and sat in front of Powell, giving his hand a little lick as he scratched her ear.
“Were you always a psych, Major?” he asked, noticing a few other personal effects around the office, one of which was unmistakably a large piece of shrapnel.
“No, I cross-trained.” Ford said, settling back down at his desk. “I was escorting EOD teams on my first two tours.”
“Nice one.” Powell said, genuinely impressed. “But why the move?”
“We lost a man. They never did figure out exactly why that carbomb went off, they thought the robot had made it safe but… well, everyone took it hard. I coped best by helping the others, and from there I decided to switch career paths.”
Powell nodded.
“What about you, did you sign up intending to go into the SBS from the beginning?”
“Aye, I did.”
“What attracted you to it?”
Powell sipped his tea. “My old man’s sister was an A and E nurse at Sheffield Teaching Hospital. She had these stories about when they sent the SAS lads along there for medical training in the ’70s.”
Ford listened, drawing him to continue. “Okay, so… this is all second hand, but apparently one of them was really fond of his motorbike, and one day after shift he went out there and found it’d been stolen.”
“Oh dear.”
“Aye. Apparently he turned up on it next day and all he’d say on the subject was 'he won’t do that again’." Powell chuckled, then paused and scratched Peggy’s ears some more. “…When I were little, I used to think that was well cool. Fookin’ unprofessional is what I’d call it nowadays.”
“Is that what attracted you to the Service? Stories like that?”
“At first, aye. I wanted to be hard, you know? Be a tough bastard. That’s what got me in the Cadets. Then I saw all me mates getting in trouble with the law, all their parents losing their jobs, and I could see this career ahead of me if I stuck at it. It was only really later that I started to believe in the message, right? Keeping our country safe, making the world a better place…”
Peggy gave him a lick as he looked down at her and scratched at her ear again. “…Shall we get started?” he asked.
“If you like.” Ford said. “What happened?”
“What happened?” Powell exhaled. “A kid died. You’re… briefed, right?”
“About the Hierarchy? Yes.”
“Right, well… emergency mission. Hierarchy in the colony, doing summat dodgy down the starport construction site, one of the kids had snuck in there to try and take a picture. We mobilized, were there in less than two minutes. Swept the site. We nearly had the bastard when he shot her.”
Peggy made a little noise and shuffled a touch closer to him, warm against his leg. He couldn’t resist the urge to pet her some more.
“Ten fookin’ seconds.” he said. “Less than. Seven, maybe. If we’d been there ten seconds earlier…”
“Could you have done anything differently?”
“No.” Powell shook his head. “I’ve gone over it. We did everything bloody perfect. I can’t bear to tell ‘em this, but my lads pulled out the best day’s work they ever done, there’s not a single fookin’ learning point in the entire bloody operation. Perfect."
He sighed. “And we still got there ten seconds too late.”
“I’m interested… why can’t you tell them?”
“Well what’s that going to achieve?” Powell asked. “Sometimes there’s not enough silver fookin’ lining in the world.”
“And that’s hard to accept?”
“No, that part I can accept. Failure’s always an option, no matter how well you do. That’s not what hurts.”
“Hurts?”
“Ah, I’m injured.” Powell replied. “Sure as if I’d been shot in the gut. One of my men had to chew me the fook out to make me come in here.”
“Do you think he was right to?”
“Abso-fookin’-lutely.” Powell asserted. “I’ve been beating myself up, losing sleep, takin’ it out on the lads. I’ve been a bad commander the last few days, and that’s got to fookin’ stop.”
“You sound angry at yourself.”
“Yeah, I am. I thought I was just angry at the Hierarchy, but… no, fook that, I am angry at them. And at myself. And at…"
He fidgeted, then patted the dog when she whined at him.
Ford gave him a minute, then suggested, softly. “Anger can be constructive.”
“Yeah.” Powell said. “I know that. Me and anger are old friends, we get on just fine, mostly. And I reckon that’s what’s giving me trouble, is that it’s not constructive to be angry with the person I’m most mad at."
“Who?”
Powell picked the dog up. “The girl.” he told her, very softly. “I’m angry at the victim.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
UmOraEw-Uatun, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Allison Buehler
"Uwsm!"
Blurs. Noise. A warm hand on her cheek.
“A-sn!”
Julian.
“Allison!”
Now, how did speech go again? Oh yes.
“Aaargh…”
“Oh, shit, you’re awake! You had me scared there.”
“…hurts…”
“Hey, look at me, okay?”
Allison forced herself to focus on his eyes. He shone a light into her face and stared intently at them for a second, checking the dilation of her pupils, before finally nodding. “Okay. You’re okay… I hope.”
“…happened?” She tried to move, then collapsed as nausea washed over her.
“You tell me. I got here, you and the guys are all unconscious. Kirk and Zane are missing and Vedreg…”
He indicated a breathing mountain of dark fur that was crumpled at the foot of the hospital stairs with shoots of dark red moving up and down it. “I think Zane was just planning to knock him out as well, but… I think he’s really hurt. I can’t get him to say anything.”
Allison squinted at him. While she knew every word in what he had just said made sense, and so did the arrangements too, for some reason she just couldn’t quite…
It clicked. “Shit! Vedreg…” She stood again, squelching the nausea this time.
“Woah, hey, maybe you shouldn’t…”
“Maybe I should.” She grunted, teetering on her feet as she staggered towards Vedreg. “The hell did he hit me with?”
“Looks like… a steel ball of some kind.” Julian held it up.
“Oh. The… Huh. The Huh.”
“What?”
“Forget it. How… how are the guys?”
“Alive, but barely responding. You’ve all got serious concussions, I don’t know…”
“Nothing we can…” the word she was looking for was a fuzz that just wouldn’t resolve, so she aborted the sentence and concentrated on remaining upright just long enough for her legs to gratefully give out and dump her by their Guvnurag comrade’s head.
“Vedreg?”
It was hard to tell, but she thought he moved slightly.
“Vedreg I… guess you don’t handle pain like we do, but I need to know if you’re conscious. Just do anything, okay?"
One of Vedreg’s huge bloodshot blue eyes rolled open from behind three layers of nictitating eyelids and looked right at her for just long enough to confirm he was still among the land of the living, then screwed shut again in agony.
Allison knew how he felt. “Come on, I can’t stop the pain if I don’t know where you hurt.” she said, grateful to have something to focus on. It was helping her work through the concussion.
“…chest…” the big alien coughed, eventually, moving his hand where it was cradling his flank. There was an obvious dent there.
“Shit, no wonder you’re like this…”
She was carrying two medical kits. The smaller one, the green bag on her belt, was made by and for humans, any one of the painkillers and treatments it contained might kill Vedreg outright. The other - a metal box about the size of her forearm - was intended for use on aliens, and came with the major advantage of being pseudo intelligent, capable of diagnosing, prescribing and prognosing injuries and ailments in all known interstellar species. Humans, sadly, weren’t in its database yet, and probably never would be. Allison knew from past experience that most ET drugs simply didn’t work on Deathworlders.
“Guvnurag patient, fractured ribs.” she informed it, and held the device’s black end - a low-powered, short-range medical scanner - over the break.
She held her breath as it took the measure of the damage, and exhaled happily when it reported that the injury, while undoubtedly agonising, was not life- threatening, and ordered her to apply its injection end to three spots around the wound.
It hissed alarmingly as she did so, but Vedreg seemed to appreciate whatever it did, as he relaxed and made a noise very like "Aaah…"
“Painkillers?”
“A local anaesthetic and a regenerative, most likely.” Vedreg replied, returned to his usual communicative self. “Thank you, Allison. I fear had he punched me much harder then I would no longer be with you.”
“You rest. Look after Amir and Lewis.” She told him. “We’ve got… uurgh…”
She had stood up, and had to steady herself on Julian.
“Allison, you need bed rest.” he told her.
“Fuck that, we’ve got to get back to the ship.”
“…of course. Xiu.” Julian said.
“Right. He’s obsessed, I knew it. He saw his chance and took it.”
“You should be flattered.” Vedreg commented. “He rendered you unconscious first.”
“And I doubt he’d have done it at all if Julian’s foot hadn’t broken.” Allison retorted. “Come on, let’s get after him.”
She was damned if she was going to let a few spinny buildings and the way her own limbs felt blurry stop her from getting payback.
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Captain Owen Powell
“I first… We were…”
Powell exhaled, and started over. “We spent a month on Cimbrean getting set up, just me and the lads, getting things ready for the civilian colonists. Day they arrived, I remember she… the girl fookin’ rampaged down the ramp the second it was down. She was racing her brother to be the first civilian colonist to set foot on a new world. She won. Right proud of it, too.”
“You have a soft spot for children, don’t you?” Ford asked.
“Never met a soldier who doesn’t.” Powell retorted. Peggy seemed to have fallen asleep on his lap. “You were at Camp Bastion, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, you’ve got to remember the kids around the camp, right? The locals? They become mascots, don’t they? I always remember how jaded some of them were, though. They got it, aye?”
“It?”
Powell grimaced and scratched the back of his head. “It’s… this is going to be a bit hard to explain.”
“Don’t worry about explaining it to me. I think I know what you mean, but for your own sake just… think out loud.”
“I think the other two teenagers around Folctha get it as well. Adam and Ava. S- The girl’s… Her friends. They’d come from San Diego, they were out of town when the bomb went off. Lost fookin’ everything. Their homes, friends, schools, family… and they got it, they understood what S-she didn’t."
“Which is?”
Powell exhaled. “Okay, right. So…” he thought for a second. “People say 'life is unfair’, right?"
“Yes…”
“Bullshit. Complete fookin’ rot. Totally backwards. Life is fair. Terribly, terribly fookin’ fair. Life doesn’t give a shit if you’re a forty-year-old soldier or a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, it’ll kill you like that-" he snapped his fingers for emphasis. “-and not even give a shit. The stars keep burnin’, the worlds keep turnin’, but that’s it. That was your fookin’ lot. It’s fair because it treats everybody exactly the same, that way.”
Ford remained silent and kept eye contact, letting him say more.
“I get that.” Powell continued. “Adam and Ava get that. The kids in Afghanistan and Iraq got that. This gi-” He paused, then frowned at himself and gathered the strength to say her name. "Sara… didn’t."
“And you’re angry at her for that?”
“No! Not…” Peggy made a protesting noise as Powell set her aside and stood up to pace the room, hunting for the right way to start a sentence. “She was the… I mean… You’d…”
“Describe her.”
That stopped him. “What?”
“Who was she? What did she look like? How did she behave?”
Powell looked back at the couch, and smiled faintly when the dog gave him an uncertain tail-wag.
“I don’t… no, wait, I’ve got it. You ever go round a council estate, Major?”
“Occasionally…”
“They’ve always got those same kids on ‘em, don’t they? Like there’s a fookin’ machine somewhere, stamping out exact copies. The scrawny skinhead boy who thinks he’s hard, the pretty girls who’ll be pushin’ prams and chain-smoking before they can drive. You know the ones. I should know what that kind of kid is like, I used to be one.”
“I think I follow you.”
“Imagine… the complete opposite.” Powell said. “Somebody who fookin’ broke that machine. Somebody who’d never in their life wind up mooching around by the Co-op trying to talk strangers into buying them fags and vodka. Somebody… Different. Better."
“And Sara was such a person?”
“All three of them, her and the two others. They’re… She was… Alive. Living in the moment. Real people. They know who they are, which I sure as fook didn’t at that age."
“And who was Sara?”
Peggy licked his hand as Powell picked her up and sat down again. “Like something out of a bloody Enid Blyton book.” he said. “You know, the plucky children investigating fookin’ mysteries, thwartin’ gangs of gun-runners and what have you?”
“I’ve never read them.” Ford confessed.
“Not worth it, mate. Naive fookin’ horse shit, every word of the fookin’ things.”
“You said that you’re angry at her though. Why?"
“That’s just it, I don’t fookin’ know!” Powell seethed. “I wasn’t mad at that kid in Kenya, or at those Yezidi girls in the Persian Gulf, so why should I be angry with Sara? She’s the fookin’ victim here!”
“Well, turn the question around. If you can’t figure out why you are angry with Sara, perhaps it will help to think about why you were not angry with the others."
That seemed reasonable.
“Well… you know about what happened, right? In those other two cases?”
Ford nodded that he did. “I’ve read the notes, but it’s probably best if you recount them in your own words.”
Powell sighed. “Karatina market, Kenya. There was a little boy. Like, five or six? His parents had given him…” he laughed a little at the memory. “I remember it was this really cheap fookin’ knock-off plastic 'Ben 10' backpack… and the fookin’ thing was full of C4 and ball bearings…"
He patted the dog’s side. She had her chin on his lap and was looking up, listening. “His Mum and Dad were sitting in the car with one of those old Nokias. We saved the kid that time, and a lot of other people too, but he didn’t see that. All he saw was the nasty white men who’d come and killed his Daddy. Never fookin’ mind that we’d shot the evil bastard to stop him from calling the bomb and blowing up his own little boy, we were the bad guys.”
“You don’t blame him for that, though?”
“‘Course I don’t. He was a little’n, didn’t fookin’ understand what was happening. Never crossed the poor little bugger’s mind that his parents might murder him like that. It got to me, but… y’know, that’s dealt with. I can deal with being the bad guy if he’s alive and doin’ summat with his life. Who knows, maybe after all these years he’s figured out what happened and forgiven me.”
“And the Persian Gulf?”
“Different story. That one were a freighter involved in slave trafficking, they’d got a handful of Yezidi girls in a shipping container, going to some buyer in Thailand. There was a cockup at the Thai end, the buyer spooked and the freighter chucked the container overboard. Worthless cargo, now. All the drone operator could do was fookin’ watch.”
“You were angry then?” Ford asked.
“Fookin’ raging.” Powell nodded. His expression darkened. “We boarded the ship, had all these bastards sat in a circle, and they were jawing and joking and asking for cigarettes - they thought we were Americans - and all acting like they didn’t know what had been in that container. Like they hadn’t heard the banging and screaming from inside. Like they weren’t slave-trading fookin’ scum who’d just murdered five little girls. I wanted to bundle every man of ’em into a crate and tip ’em over the side myself. But that wasn’t the hard part.”
He paused. “No, the hard part were that the container burst. Pressure difference, right? So all the bodies came back up. We had to fish ’em out, these skinny little blue-eyed girls, and there were tiger sharks following the ship. They eat whatever falls overboard.”
His fists clenched. “Aye. I was angry there, but, at the right people, you know? Only reason we didn’t shoot those cunts in the kneecaps and throw ‘em to the sharks was pure bloody professionalism, and I still think it’d have been no less than they fookin’ deserved.”
“What do you think the difference is between those cases and this one?”
Powell thought about it for some time, petting Peggy as he did so. “I think… I think I’m angry at her because she got herself into it." he said at last. “Like, this brave, beautiful, stupid fookin’ girl had to go in and help when the cavalry was already on the way. Like, if she’d just been smart about it, she… I…"
He swallowed, then started to shake. “I never looked in a child’s eyes while she was dying before.” he croaked. “She said her last word to me. She was scared. She… When I closed her eyes, her- she’d been crying, she was so afraid, and the tears made my glove wet…"
He stared at his hand. “I couldn’t bear to take it off for hours…”
He sat, staring at his fingers for a few moments until the dog, very gently, inserted her nose under his palm and hauled herself into his lap, wagging sympathetically. He laughed a little, grabbed her and hugged, sobbing into the fur.
Ford let him get it out of his system. Finally, the captain made a weak "woo- ugh" noise and sat up, wiping his face dry.
“Fookin’…. I never cry.” he said.
“You needed to.” Ford observed.
“…You know, I think you’re right.” Powell agreed. “I’ve just not done that since I were a kid. Sorry.” He wiped his face again.
“Don’t be. In fact, I’d have been worried if you hadn’t.” Ford reassured him. “…Are you really angry at her, do you think? Now that you’ve had time to think out loud?"
“…No. I don’t think so, not really. Not any more. She’s like that poor boy in Kenya, isn’t she? She didn’t know any better, it never crossed her mind that maybe her parents had led her wrong.”
“Her parents?”
“Aye. These Dippy-Hippie tree-hugging free love pagan parents of hers. Her dad’s got these tattoos - 'an it harm none, do as thou wilt’." He gestured along his forearms to show where the two halves of the phrase were inked into Mark Tisdale’s skin. “Sexually open, no boundaries, no rules, no fookin’… sense of consequence. I’ll just bet you they never once told her that no, there’s things that you can’t do. You know? Like, they’ll have told her 'you can do anything“, trying to empower her and that, and it got her killed.”
“How do you feel towards them, then?” Ford inquired. “You’ve compared Sara to the child in Kenya, but what about the parents?”
“It’s… not the same.” Powell mused. “The bastards in Kenya, they had the phone in their hand. May as well have dug the little guy a trench and put a gun to the back of his head, they were going to murder him just as dead either way. But the Tisdales loved their daughter, so fookin’ much. They’d have never deliberately hurt her, but they coddled her so much that she never learned one of the most useful survival skills in the world.”
“Which is?”
“Knowing when it’s time to stop fookin’ playing.”
He sighed. “What’s saving them is that they didn’t know they were doing it. They’re as fookin’ ignorant as their daughter was.”
“Do you think you can forgive them for that?”
Powell inhaled and exhaled deeply through his nose, but didn’t answer, beyond shaking his head and stroking the dog.
Ford nodded. “Why not?”
“I can forgive a child for not knowing how the world works.” Powell replied, after a moment’s thought. “It’s bloody cruel, but there it is. She didn’t have time, and the first chance she got to learn, it killed her. She could have been smarter, should have been, but… y’know, she was just fourteen. A girl. Part of the cruelty of it is that we want them to be innocent at that age, don’t we? We don’t want to spoil their fun."
“But adults should know better.” Ford finished the thought for him.
“Fookin’ right.” Powell sniffed and shook his head. “I’m not sadistic, I’m not going to rake ’em over the coals for it, they’re suffering enough. But…”
He shook his head again, breathing out. “…But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at either of them without thinking, y’know… 'You’re the reason I had to watch your daughter die’."
“What are you going to do?"
Powell finally made eye contact, and there was a hardness in his gaze now that had been absent throughout the interview, one that looked quite natural and comfortable there. “I’m going to find something important of the Hierarchy’s, and when we’re done with it I’ll use the largest piece that’s still intact for a fookin’ paperweight.”
Major Ford smiled appreciatively. “I think this session has been good for you.” he opined.
Powell nodded. “Aye, I think it has.” he agreed. “I feel sharp again. More myself.”
“I would still suggest you come back for at least a couple more sessions.” Ford added. “After that, it’s up to you, but at least two more seems prudent.”
“Aye. At least two more.” Powell agreed, and stood, putting Peggy down but pausing to scratch at her ears one last time. “Don’t want to undo all our progress, do we?” he asked the dog.
“Indeed not.” Ford agreed. “We’re available any time, Captain. You let me know if we’re needed.”
“I will.” Powell shook the major’s hands “Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck.”
“Don’t fookin’ need it, mate.”
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
UmOraEw-Uatun, Planet Aru, Elder Space
“Kirk”
“This isn’t going to work, you know.”
“Hush ya.”
“I’ve read your file. Narcissistic Personality Disorder. A terrible thing. You were receiving a lot of therapy back on Earth to help you cope, weren’t you Zane?”
“I say hush!"
Kirk wriggled a little as Zane’s grip tightened around his upper arm, feeling the bone creak alarmingly in the Deathworlder’s grip. “Not had any since you left Earth of course.” He continued. “But you could do. We can still take you back, you can still get the treatment you need. If you keep behaving this way, though, that may not happen…”
Zane broke his arm. Kirk fought down the rattling creak which was the Rrrrtk equivalent of a scream, while Zane just cursed and shifted his grip to the lower, sturdier arm. “Blood clot, why ya ET bruk so easy?!”
Kirk turned his pain into a slightly hysterical laugh. “Evolution!” he replied. “Different worlds different -” he creaked in pain again “- bones.”
“Hush, ya.”
“Even if you do get us to the ship and we take off, Xiu isn’t fragile like me.”
“Oh, she be. Dawta care, yah know. The I’s me leverage- she too soft let the I come ’arm.”
They were nearly at the ships. As they entered the area lit by their industrial lights, alien workers turned to watch the sight of a human dragging a Rrrtk three times his height towards them.
“You’re not well! You’re not thinking straight!” Kirk protested. “We’re offering to take you back to - aah! - to Earth. Other women! You don’t need this one! You’re acting out, this is a crisis!”
"HUSH. Ya."
“You’d better let him go, Zane.”
Allison stepped out from among the packing crates, aiming her sidearm at him. She was clearly in a bad way, squinting against the glare of the floodlights and swaying a little bit, and her aim was not up to its usual rock-steady standard.
Zane twisted around, dragging Kirk into the line of fire. “Ya cyaan shoot, seen? ‘Less ya wan’ hit ya boy.”
“True. Julian?”
“Ah, ah!” Zane chided, raising his hand to wrap around the base of Kirk’s throat. “I know ya creechie tumpa-foot man a’ try dat. I make a move and me break ya boy here, sight?”
“And then what?” Kirk rasped around his hand, as Julian stepped into Zane’s sight-line and hefted his hatchet warily. “You kill me and you’ll lose your advantage. Your plan leaves something to be desired, Zane.”
“The I still be dead.”
“I admit, the prospect doesn’t thrill me, but you’re threatening to make the situation worse for yourself, not better."
“Hush, ya!”
Kirk waved an arm, beckoning Julian and Allison to fall back. Over the dermal patch microphone on his throat, he explained his reasoning, subvocalising so low that even Zane couldn’t hear him, and the translator certainly couldn’t.
"He’s histrionic. He was so convinced of his superiority that now we’ve punctured it he’s liable to panic."
“What do we do?” Allison replied, murmuring so that Zane wouldn’t hear.
"If we give him the chance to calm down a bit, we can build him back up. Get him to calm down. Get him to think that doing what we want is his idea."
“And if we can’t?” Julian asked him. “He seems pretty close to breaking point, boss.”
"If it comes to violence, it comes to violence." Kirk said.
“Greeaaat…”
"I’ll try to leave him alive."
They were passing through the middle of the field of equipment and crates surrounding the Corti research craft, when the Corti in question decided to interfere.
“You appreciate of course that there is a third option.” the male - Lesry - observed. He and Knadna were in Zane’s way, and they ignored Kirk’s attempts to signal for them to move.
“Get away.” Zane ordered.
“Rather than resort to violence…” Lesry said, stepping forward, “you could sign on with us. A bit of muscle would be useful, and we have the means to deliver you back to Earth, without your being a prisoner in the ship you arrived on. What say you?”
“I want.” Zane growled. “Xiu.”
“And ask yourself if that scenario seems likely right now, hmm?” Lesry pushed. “Be realistic.”
He stepped forward again. “I’m offering you the chance to part ways peacefully, as a free man. That seems like the most rationa-”
Zane backhanded him. It was a casual, almost gentle motion, but it highlighted the huge disparity between Human strength and Corti mass by flipping Lesry head-over-heels over a crate with a sickening noise like a baseball being thrown at a sack full of cockroaches.
It was all the distraction Kirk needed. He twisted, turned, darted sideways and his prosthetic arm lashed out, extending its concealed fusion blade.
Kirk went one way. Zane reeled the other. Zane’s left forearm left a crater in the sand where it landed between them, smoking, glowing and bloodless at the cut end.
Rrrrtk had a decent turn of speed over very short distances, but Kirk knew Humans well by now. Zane’s scream may have been of agony, but there was a very large component of adrenaline and rage in there as well, and no short-term turn of speed was any good at all when a pursuit predator was angry at him.
The only recourse open to him was to turn at bay and get ready with his sword, prepared to strike a lethal blow if he could, but that much mass, travelling that fast, would quite probably end very badly for him even if he did.
Facing the Hunters had been bad enough. Facing the murderous fury in Zane’s eyes was worse. Julian and Allison had retreated on his orders, and were now sprinting to catch up, but they were too far away, on the back foot. Zane was going to beat them.
Xiu got to him first.
If Zane’s casual backhand had hinted at the disparity between Deathworlder muscles and Corti bones, then what Xiu unleashed on the enraged Jamaican was an object lesson in just how physically far ahead of the rest of the galaxy humans truly were. Zane had time enough only to register her presence as she rose up in his path before she delivered four blows, any one of which would have exploded through Kirk’s body like heavy pulse-gun fire.
The first exploited his missing arm, driving into his chest, knocking him off- balance and driving the wind out of him. The second was laser-targeted on his jaw, stunning him. As he staggered, the third blow was delivered to his left eye, and the fourth to his right.
Her precision flurry of violence took less than a second.
Zane’s headlong berserk charge turned into him staggering, dropping to his knees in the sand, wheezing, and falling over when he tried to support himself on a hand that was lying several meters away.
He wasn’t out, though. Running on adrenaline and anger, he still tried to haul himself to his feet, swinging wildly with his remaining arm even as his eyes swelled up and blinded him.
Xiu just stepped and flowed, and wherever the flailing limb went, there she wasn’t.
She was angry too, Kirk decided. Furious. But it was a different kind of fury. Zane in a rage was a bellowing beast, roaring and thrashing around like a wounded Vulza.
Xiu on the other hand became a machine. Her face locked down, her eyes locked on, everything about her unified into a cold and methodical instrument of violence that simply took the most efficient path to avoid harm and then, when the opportunity presented itself, she stepped forward and delivered a straight punch to Zane’s skull, just behind the ear.
The delicately balanced tug-of-war that kept bipedal humans upright and moving ceased instantly, and Zane crashed into the dirt, unmoving.
In the stunned moment of stillness that followed, Xiu made hardly any noise, simply allowing her breath to hiss out from between her teeth, and then she straightened, inhaled through her nose as she touched her fist to her palm in a Bau Quan, then exhaled as she let her entire body relax. Only the hardness in her eyes remained, though even that thawed a little when she glanced at Kirk.
“Are you okay?” She asked.
“He broke my arm, but I am alive, thanks to you.” Kirk said, and meant it. “I am… impressed.”
“Understatement central there, boss.” Allison chimed in. “Holy shit, girl!"
“You cut his arm off…” Xiu observed. She didn’t sound happy about it.
“Necessary, I’m afraid.” Kirk replied.
“Yeah, but… oh, God." A distinct green colour rose in Xiu’s face and she turned away, breathing heavily. Allison rubbed her back, making soothing noises.
“Allison, can you tend to his injury?”
Allison looked up at him, then reluctantly nodded. “…Sure. Julian?”
The pair of them hoisted the unconscious Zane onto their shoulder and dragged him - and Allison herself, Kirk suspected - in the direction of Sanctuary and her medbay.
That left Kirk and Xiu alone. The Corti team were tending to their wounded shipmaster, who seemed to be alive, thankfully.
“Are you alright?” He asked.
“Just…” Xiu slowed her breathing. “…I’m okay. Oh God, they left his arm…" She turned away again and bent over, trying not to vomit.
“Are you sure?” Kirk asked her, as soon as she seemed to have recovered a little.
She laughed a little. “I never thought it’d be like this.” she complained, and wiped at some tears that were threatening to form. “Monsters and fighting and cutting peoples’ arms off.”
She sniffed, and after a few more cleansing breaths she stood up and raised her head, staring at a night sky and stars that only six specimens of the entire human race had ever laid eyes on. “I want to go home."
“And what do we do with Zane? Does he get to go home as well?”
Xiu blinked at him. “You’re the shipmaster, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I am, and I say as shipmaster that it’s your decision. To hell with my arm, you’re clearly the one he really hurt. Whatever it was that happened between you."
“Then he…” Xiu began firmly, but paused. “I…” She sighed. “Let me give him one last chance.”
“By all means. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in rather a lot of pain, and we need to send Julian back for the others…”
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Starship Sanctuary, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Zane
Zane had been knocked out in bar fights in his time, but returning to consciousness this time wasn’t like those other occasions had been. It was just like… waking up.
“What…?”
"You were drugged, and treated. You’re actually in pretty good shape, Zane."
It was Xiu’s voice, sounding oddly tinny, and that suddenly made Zane aware of his surroundings - he was curled up on the floor of one of Sanctuary’s airlocks. Big enough for a Guvnurag to use, it was a large room by human standards.
Xiu’s face was at one of the windows. So pretty. So… cold. That same look that had made him angry at her. Didn’t she know who she was dealing with?
The stump where his arm ended just below the elbow felt cold, and beyond that was a strange numbness. That should have bothered him more, but his ego ratcheted into gear, redirecting all the grief and insecurity that somebody without his personality disorder would have felt into pure grim anger. There would be a reckoning.
“Ya gonna let me out?” he asked.
"One way or the other." Xiu replied, speaking through a microphone. "Look behind you."
Zane blinked, and did so.
There were stars beyond the opposite window. It took him a second or two to make the connection between that fact, his being in an airlock, and what she had said.
Please. Who did she think she was bluffing?
“Ya wouldn’t.” he declared. “Me know I, Xiu. Ya don’ do that kind of badness.”
"To be rid of you?" She declared. “What happens when we get back to Earth, huh? You come after me again? You hurt more people? You hurt me again?"
He laughed. “Gwan, then.”
Bluff called, he congratulated himself. There’d be a showdown with Kirk, he’d have vengeance for his arm. And the others would fall in line. They’d see what kind of a man he was.
The howl of the alarm and the sound of the doors whining into gear when Xiu pressed the button drove all of his confidence out of him in a rush of cool air threatening to escape.
“Xiu! Xiu, no! Ya can’ do this!” he rushed the door she was behind, knocking and shouting. “Xiu no! I’m sorry! I hurt ya, that was wrong o’ me, me leave ya ’lone! Just let me go back to Earth!"
The alarms didn’t stop, and her hand on the release didn’t fidget.
"You want to go home too, huh?" She asked.
Those eyes were so cold. He’d hurt her. He’d hurt her, and now she was going to murder him. He couldn’t believe that she would. He couldn’t believe that the others would let her.
But there were the hungry stars, waiting for him.
“Yes!” he screamed "PLEASE, Xiu! I’m beggin’ you, PLEASE!"
She paused, her eye contact drifted away. Her hand moved away from the final release. She softened, and the relief trembled down him. He meant every word, she’d be left alone if only she-
"Walk home, asshole."
She hit the button.
The overpressure in the lock flung him shrieking out of the ship… and into the river Uatun, a mere four meters below.
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
“Legsy” Jones
“Alright…”
Legsy Jones took a minute or so to check he was in absolutely pristine military trim before knocking. He knew the captain had actually gone to counselling, but after the last meeting with Powell, he was damned if he was going to be on anything but his most perfect behaviour.
“Come in.”
Moment of truth. He poked his head into the captain’s office.
Powell looked rested. The darkness around his eyes was gone, he’d tidied up the drifts of paperwork into a more organised system, and his camp bed was made. The captain himself was standing at the washbasin, rinsing shaving foam off his face.
“Latest from Intelligence, sir.” Legsy said.
“Cheers. On the desk, please.”
So far so good. But he wasn’t about to relax just yet. The dossier joined some of its fellows on Powell’s desk.
“Do you need anything, sir?”
“No thanks, I’m good. Carry on.”
“Sir.”
He was halfway through turning and leaving when Powell suddenly threw his towel onto the bed. “Sergeant.”
“Sir.” Legsy turned around. The captain blinked at him, expression unreadable, then crossed the room and stood in front of him.
He wasn’t a large man, Legsy realised. He just seemed that way.
“I, uh…” Powell began, then fell silent. His clock ticked out six seconds before he shook his head. “Ah, never fookin’ mind, Legs. Keep up the good work, mate.”
“Yessir.” Inside his head, Legsy wanted to punch the air and grin.
Powell snorted “Well go on, carry on then!” he said.
Instead, Legsy grabbed him in a bear hug.
“-‘Ere, what’re you- fookin’ - let go!” Powell protested, and Legsy did so. Powell straightened his jumper and frowned at him. “The fook was that about?" he demanded.
“Sorry, sir.” Legsy straightened to attention. “It’s just… good to have you back.”
Powell hung his head and shook it, smiling. “Get out, you big fookin’ softy.” he ordered, kindly.
“Yessir.”
Once Legsy had gone, Powell retrieved the towel and hung it neatly to dry, checked the room for any other signs of things out of place, and allowed himself a satisfied nod.
“It’s good to be back." he agreed.
Date Point: 4y 9m 3w AV
UmOraEw-Uatun, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Knadna
Knadna squinted at the figure staggering towards them out of the dark. It had been only a few minutes since the Sanctuary had taken off, vanishing over the horizon with all the power that its gargantuan power core could produce, and she had watched the evicted psychotic Deathworlder struggle ashore with some interest.
Not to mention satisfaction.
“You have to admit, they are extremely tough." she observed. An amputation, a concussion and a four-meter fall into the water only seemed to have annoyed the dark-skinned human, really. He was, if anything, probably as dangerous now as he had been a few hours ago. More so, possibly.
“Are we taking him with us, ma’am?”
“I think not.” Knadna replied, not even bothering to show her contempt for the moronic inquiry. “Get the last of the equipment stowed, I want the ship locked up and ready before that human gets here.”
The Kwmbwrw crewman rushed to obey. Knadna herself enjoyed the leisurely stroll back to the ship, arriving just in time to turn in the airlock, check everybody and everything was on board, and then activate the ship’s primary shields right in the approaching Deathworlder’s face.
This move did not seem to please Zane, who sprinted the remaining distance in an eyeblink, and Knadna had to clamp down hard on an instinctive reflex to flinch, cower, or run.
“Let me in.” He demanded, his tone of voice promising all of the impressive capacity for violence that his species was capable of unleashing, should she fail to comply.
“Now, why would I do that?” Knadna asked him. “You rather badly injured somebody I quite like. You seem to have an alarming inclination to use viol-”
Zane interrupted her and proved her point by slapping the forcefield, which rang and flashed alarmingly, but Knadna kept calm.
“Not even a human can punch through starship-grade weapons shielding, you barbarian idiot.” she told him, keeping a tired inflection in her tone.
“LET ME IN!” He roared.
Knadna mentally sent a few commands over the ship’s control circuit, telling the pilot to begin the launch sequence.
“Frankly, the only thing stopping me from using one of this ship’s plasma guns to vaporise you where you stand is because I think leaving you all alone here with a dying species seems more… poetic.” she said.
“I can be useful.” he said, changing tack. “You want a nice strong human on your ship, I can do the heavy lifting, fight off pirates.”
“You already rejected that offer.” Knadna pointed out, but she made a show of mulling the suggestion over. “Besides, you would be a lot more useful if you still had both arms…”
She let him rant for a few seconds, ignoring the content, and interrupted him after a careful internal countdown.
“I tell you what.” she offered. “You can come aboard if you help me expand the limits of Corti scientific knowledge.”
“…What?”
“Well, I have this hypothesis that what happens to a Deathworlder when he’s standing directly beneath the primary kinetic engine of a starship at takeoff-” she made a meaningful upwards glance. The engine in question was beginning to whine, barely audible to Corti hearing but presumably quite clear to a human’s more acute senses. “-Is much the same thing as what happens to everything else in the galaxy.”
Zane stared upwards, swallowing and breathing heavily. There was an alarming blue glow beginning to manifest somewhere inside the device.
“If you’re not willing to test my idea,” Knadna told him. “Then you can always run away. You have… oh, eight seconds.”
He looked back down at her, plainly afraid now.
“I’d start running.” she said, sweetly.
Once they were airborne, she dusted off her hands, shrugged out of and hung up her sand robes, and visited the ship’s medical bay. Lesry was sitting up, expression taut as he endured the procedure of having regenerative medicines injected directly into the extensive damage at his shoulder by the surgical robot.
“I saw how you got rid of him.” He said, waving his undamaged hand at a floating projected monitor. “Nicely done.”
“I took the liberty.” She agreed. “I assume you don’t disapprove?”
“Oh, no.” he said. “If he was too ignorant to know that absolutely nothing happens to a being standing beneath a kinetic thruster when the ship takes off, then he would have been of no real use anyway."
“Besides.” he added, grimacing as a fresh needle delivered a shot of Cruezzir deep into his flesh. “I believe your own words were something like 'Never underestimate a Human’."
“Absolutely never.” she replied. “Predictable though his attempt to take over the ship and chase after them would have been, it would also have been alarmingly plausible that he might succeed.”
“Best to leave him behind.” Lesry agreed. The surgical robot finished its work, leaving his arm bound up and immobilized, but the pain had clearly faded. “You continue to impress me with your competence, Knadna.” he said, easing himself down off the medical bed.
“I think we work well together.” She replied, internally glowing at the compliment.
“I think we do.” He agreed. “Shall we continue our association?”
“Make it more formal?”
“Indeed.” Lesry said. “A DNA exchange, perhaps?”
“I’m agreeable to that.”
They widened their pupils at each other, a rare Corti expression of genuine warmth and affection not dissimilar to a human shy smile, and Knadna congratulated herself.
Today had been a good day.
Chapter 24
Chapter 21: “Dragon Dreams” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Black soil. Not peat-dark or wet from rain, but the black of carbon and nighttime, visible between clumps of grass so rich and dark and green, the green of leather on an antique desk.
The smell of rain on the air, lightning sulking among the peaks of distant blue mountains, bringing life to a dead, grey sky. Moisture on the breeze, tickling every inch of Xiu’s naked body as she walks nude beside a hip-high dry stone wall, enjoying the feel of damp earth under her soles.
A meditative moment, so real that the past and future are irrelevant. She isn’t even interested in recalling them. Where has she been? Where is she going? It doesn’t matter.
Here and now, everything is both too detailed, and yet lacking in detail.
She pauses by a giant stone man, buried up to his waist next to a tree at the crossroads. She is not alarmed by his presence, nor by the fact that she hasn’t seen him until just now. He looks down at her and smiles, even though his face is made of grey limestone, stubbled in lichen and moss. She is not not alarmed.
He gestures to the tree that he has been half-buried alongside. Objects hang in that tree: impossible ones, clearly too large and heavy for the boughs to support. Wooden cartwheels, huge stone tablets, enormous steel swords and more.
She points. “That one.”
The stone giant bows with a hand over his heart, and selects the enormous bronze coin that she has chosen.
He raises it above his head. She spreads her arms, tilts her head back and smiles, welcoming what he is about to do. He brings it down hard, and she woke in the instant before it crushed her_._
“And then I said - ”Walk home asshole!" and hit the button!"
“Oh man!" Allison giggled, then winced as the laughter sent a fresh stab of pain through her abused cranium. When she raised her hand to the pain, it met cold metal instead. She had endured an uncomfortable and boring night in the ship’s infirmary wearing a large and dorky helmet that Kirk had printed which used some form of applied alien science magic to clear up the lingering effects of being beaten in the head with a Huh. It looked like something out of a 1960s SciFi serial.
“Are you okay?” Xiu asked, concerned.
“…Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, really.”
Xiu frowned at her. “Are you sure?"
Allison nodded. “This thing’s really working. I was so woozy last night, and now I’m feeling sharp again.”
“Yeah but…” Xiu’s smile was mischievous as she indicated the medical contraption that was clamped around her head. “You look like you’re having your hair permed.”
Allison pantomimed dismay. “Oh God, get me out of this thing! I don’t want to look like my Mom!”
Xiu flicked her own hair where a few strands had come loose of their ponytail. After years of having to make do in alien civilization while pretending to be Gaoian it had lost a little of its lustre, but she’d still done what she could to keep it healthy. “Too late.”
“Yeah?”
Xiu paused. “I… I guess so. I mean… I haven’t seen her in like five years.”
The deep therapy machine beeped in protest as Allison tried to lean forward and put a hand on her shoulder. “OKay, yeah. That’s rough.” she said. “I guess I can see why you’d want to go home.”
“You still want me to stay though, don’t you?”
“Girl, after the ass-whupping you just handed out? Hell yes!" Allison enthused. She settled back again “But five years is rough, you need to see your folks. I get it.”
“Don’t you want to see yours?”
“Oh hell, no.” Allison grimaced. “My folks and I… we never got along. I cut them out of my life a long time ago.”
“Oh.” Xiu cleared her throat and tried her best not to blush awkwardly. “Sorry.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Ancient history. But you can’t live at home forever, can you?"
“With Mama’s cooking?” Xiu demurred “Oh, I could. I know exactly what she’s going to make for me, too, when she sees me.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmhmm. It’ll be her special Paigu bazaifan, with Doufuhua for dessert." She drifted off into a culinary haze. “She thinks they’re my favorites…”
Allison laughed. “She thinks?"
Xiu made a curious head-ducking motion again, then caught herself and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m still doing Gaoian body language. Yeah, she thinks that and… well, she’s not wrong. It’s just that those were my favorites when I was ten.”
“I get it. You could do with being ten years old again for a little while.”
Xiu smiled, whistfully. “Oh, I could…”
Julian poked his head around the door. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.
“Good!” Allison confirmed, beaming at him. “Much better than last night. Amir’s still out of it though.”
Julian checked on their slumbering pilot. “He’s fine. Just asleep.” he reported, reading off the display above Amir’s bed.
“Didn’t Lewis get hit in the head too?” Xiu asked.
“Honestly? It’s kinda hard to tell with Lewis.” Julian shrugged as he began to help Allison unplug. “He seems okay. He keeps playing with that ball thing.”
“The Huh? Fuck sake, I had my fill of that thing when Zane hit me in the head with it." Allison griped.
“Yeah, why do you guys keep calling it the Huh?" Julian asked, releasing the catches on her helmet and gently pulling it off
“It’s a weird story.” Allison swung her legs down off the bed and ruffled her own hair. “Wow, I feel way better.”
“Short version?”
“Short version is, that’s what the word for that thing is in OmoAru. Huh."
“…Oh. Right.” Julian removed the last sticky patch from her forehead and helped her to her feet, where she swayed alarmingly.
“Woah. Oh, okay. Still kinda… no, no, get off guys, I’m fine.”
Xiu let go of her arm where she had caught it. “Are you sure?”
“You go with Julian. I didn’t sleep well at all last night, so, I’ll be in my bunk."
Reluctantly they let her go, though she had obviously recovered most of her balance and focus. She only touched the door frame lightly on the way out.
“So uh… when are we heading for a station with a relay?” Xiu asked.
The door and deck both being sized to admit a Guvnurag, they had no trouble walking side by side towards the flight deck, but it was still just narrow enough for her to be acutely aware of him walking beside her, and that awareness was engendering some acutely hormonal feelings. If he was at all conscious of the effect he was having, though, he didn’t show it.
“Kirk and Vedreg are keen to explore this whole hospital angle.” Julian told her. “Wish I could tell you how long that’s likely to take.”
He smiled at her crestfallen expression. “Hey, I’m sorry. But we’ve got other missions too, you know? It’s rough, I know, but we’ll get you back as soon as we can.”
“I guess… it’s just, you said this ship is really fast right?”
“Probably the fastest in the galaxy.” he confirmed “But it’s still a week to the nearest station from here. The galaxy’s a big place, and this is one of the empty bits."
“Right.” she sighed. “I can’t ask you to take a whole fortnight out for me, I’m not that important.”
She realised that the sentiment had come off as bitter. “I mean! Um… That came out wrong.”
Julian chuckled. “It’s fine.”
“Allison wants me to stay.”
Julian stopped as they were about to cross the threshold into the common area. “So do I.” he confessed.
“Y-you do?”
He nodded.
“Why?” she asked
Julian didn’t even need to pause to think. “We’ve rescued people that the galaxy totally broke.” he said. “I remember one Polish lady called Maria, she never learned to speak a word of any alien language, never even figured out the whole… Deathworlder thing. She was pretty much starving and out of her mind by the time we got to her.”
“You’re different.” he continued. “You’ve learned the skills to survive out here, you speak Gaoian, you’ve kept fit and well fed and you did it by earning your keep. There’s a whole long section in your file written by somebody called Ayma which is just… Glowing."
Xiu hesitated, suppressing a surge of guilt on hearing Ayma’s name. “Glowing?”
“Nonlethal takedowns of alien species, even some of the flimsier ones. Boarding one of the big Hunter ships solo to save a diplomatic vessel. Integrating into Gaoian society and making yourself useful. Surviving - thriving - incognito around the galaxy for three years… It all speaks to a skillset that this ship and our mission would find very useful, and I’m not talking about your ability to beat stuff up. You’re a competent woman, Xiu."
Xiu blinked at him. “I don’t feel competent.” she said.
It wasn’t adequate, but… where did she begin? That she didn’t recognise the person he’d just described? That, okay, she may have done those things, but she’d been this close to throwing up the whole time? That she’d cried herself to sleep more nights than not? That she had felt alone, so alone for all of those years, and that even Ayma, Myun and all the others had been… well, they’d been great, but no substitute for home?
Julian smiled sadly. “Neither do I.” he confessed.
Xiu changed the subject. “We’d better… uh, what are we doing?”
“Nothing, really. I’m just heading up to the flight deck.”
“Oh… Uh, I didn’t exercise yet today. I’ll go get on with that, I guess.”
“Sure. But… if you’re interested, later on? Ayma left a message for you in your notes.”
Xiu’s heart manage the interesting trick of simultaneously rising and sinking. “She….? Oh… Have you-?”
“Nope. It’s a personal message.”
“Oh… uh, is there one from my family?”
“There’s a letter, yeah.”
“Oh.” She… actually didn’t know how she felt about that. Scared and excited at the same time.
“Why don’t you go read them? The gym can wait.” Julian offered. “See you at lunch?”
“Oh! Yeah. Sure. See you.”
“Duuude.”
“Lewis, are you ever going to stop playing with that thing?"
Kirk’s upper upper arm was encased in something that was a fair bit more high- tech than a cast, which served to immobilize the broken bone and deliver regenerative medicines through dermal contact. Having his coat shaved to apply the cast had been embarrassing enough, but now the damn thing itched, which was making him cranky.
“No, Kirk, dude, it’s… look at this shit, man!”
Kirk glanced at it. As far as he could tell the little object was still as grey and uninteresting as the last time he’d looked. Lewis’ expression, however, was rapt. “Put it down." he ordered. Lewis made a complaining noise but obeyed, tucking the Huh into the pocket of his jacket, which was hung on the back of his chair.
Kirk grimaced as another eddy knocked Sanctuary off course. Amir would have handled the buffeting effortlessly, but even Deathworlders needed time to recover from being knocked unconscious, it seemed. They healed absurdly fast, with or without the ministrations of a deep therapy machine, but that was of small comfort when it left Kirk to deal with clear air turbulence.
“How big is this cell?" he demanded.
“Wish I could tell you man, but I’m still looking for a satellite that works. They didn’t build these things to last.”
“Well, where are we? We’ve got to be close to AmoUetu-RumuAo-Eiru by now.”
“Right above it, dude.”
Kirk frowned through the flight deck’s transparent surface. All he could see below him was a flat expanse of beige.
“Are you sure? I don’t see the river.” he said.
“That’s because of the sandstorm, man.”
Perspective clicked in. “Oh…” He said. “…We’re not landing in that.”
“Figured as much, bro.” Lewis laughed. “Survey says the turbulence shouldn’t go higher than twenty clicks if you wanna wait it out.”
“Yes. Let’s do that.” Kirk agreed. He punched the commands in and Sanctuary stood on its tail to ascend above the weather, eventually getting to the point where the autopilot was happy to take over again. Nobody on board noticed - ‘down’ was still defined by the gravity plating in the deck, rather than by the planet
Kirk set the ship to hover once they were clear of the turbulence, and relaxed.
“Fucking Class Nines…” he muttered. “Any luck with those satellites?”
“Nah man. Half of them just aren’t there any more and half the rest ran out of power years ago. Must be bits of space debris all over this desert.”
“What’s left?”
“Some of the stuff that’s in geosynchronous or higher.” Lewis said. “That’s about it, man. Best one I’ve got is… I dunno, a telescope of some kind? That one’s still kicking just fine, the rest…”
“Right.” Kirk settled back. “I suppose there’s nothing to do now but wait.”
“You mind if I…?” Lewis indicated his pocket.
“What’s so fascinating about that damn thing?”
“See for yourself, bro.”
Lewis dug out the Huh again and handed it over. Kirk sighed, and inspected it.
The Huh really was nothing more than a metal ball that fit well in his hand. He turned it over, looking for any sign of adornment, finding none.
He turned it over again, puzzling over it. Why should something so small be so fascinating to Lewis? It was just… smooth. What mysteries could what looked and felt for all the world like a big ball-bearing possibly hold?
No matter what angle he inspected it from, it was so round and so uniform in appearance. It managed the strange trick of being metallic and perfectly, featurelessly smooth, but yet it reflected nothing. He knew he was turning it over - he could feel the friction on his fingers and palm - but it seemed to hang motionless, an anomaly in his hands, as if it wasn’t moving, but the rest of the universe was.
Lewis snatched it out of his hands. "DUDE!"
“What? What?”
“You’ve been staring at it for like five minutes, bro.”
“Nonsense, I only just-” Kirk glanced at the timepiece and stopped mid- sentence. Nearly twelve Ri had gone past. “…I could have sworn…?”
“Nah man, you zoned the fuck out. Like, way worse than I do."
Kirk shook his mane, trying to shake off a lingering feeling that he could understand what was going on if he just held the Huh some more. “Can I look at…? No, what am I saying? Lock that thing away!”
“Dude, it’s just another drug. You’re not used to it, that’s all.”
“Lewis. It’s dangerous.”
“For you maybe!"
“Humans have more sensitive neural structures than my species, you know that!”
“Maybe, but I’m the one who heard you and stopped when you said stop, man. You didn’t even hear me!"
“What in the hell are you two arguing about?"
Julian looked back and forth between them as he hauled himself into the flight deck. Lewis simply handed him the Huh.
Julian frowned at it. “You’re arguing over this?”
“Just… have a look at it man. Turn it over.”
“What, this thing? It’s just… I mean… well…”
Julian tilted his head back and forth and frowned at the object in his hands as he turned it over a few times, then blinked and shook it off. “What about it?”
Lewis aimed a triumphant smirk at Kirk. “See?”
“That proves nothing. It still mesmerised him, too.”
“Yeah, but only for like… seconds!” Lewis protested, and knocked on Julian’s upper arm. “Right?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Julian looked back up from the ball. “I dunno, that’s kinda weird. Maybe we shouldn’t be messing with it.”
“Why?”
Julian’s expression was patient in a 'you’re being kinda dumb' way. “Well, I mean… we are investigating why ancient species go extinct…" he pointed out.
Lewis paused “…Ah. Yeah. Right.” He frowned at the Huh. “Okay, yeah, maybe lock that thing up somewhere.”
“Allison can look after it.” Kirk decided.
“Good call.” Julian agreed.
“Don’t let her study it. We don’t want its keeper to be under its spell as well.”
Lewis scoffed. "’Under its spell’? What is this thing, a fucking Palantir?"
“You know what I mean.” Kirk replied, patiently. “It’s clearly affecting and influencing us somehow: best to put it in the care of somebody who is as-yet unaffected and uninfluenced.”
“Aside from being beaten around the head with it.” Julian noted. “Right.” He took his T-shirt off and knotted it around the Huh.
“Swole as fuck, dude. I’m ’mirin, no homo.” Lewis snarked, earning a middle finger from Julian in response to the old meme.
“When are we landing, anyway?” Julian asked.
“When I know, you’ll know dude.” Lewis assured him. “Soon, trademark.”
Kirk made an interrogative noise. “Trade-?”
“Old in-joke. Nevermind, dude.”
Julian and Kirk shared a glance that they had shared many a time over Lewis, then Julian shrugged. “…Right. I’ll, uh, go give this to Allison then.”
Allison gave him a sly grin and an appraising up-and-down when she answered the door, despite her obvious tiredness. “Damn, Julian.” she drawled. “You know how to make a girl feel better.”
He stroked a strand of blonde hair tidily behind her ear and they shared a little kiss. “Sorry, this is business.” he handed over the shirt. “Can you lock that up? Don’t look at what it’s got wrapped up in it.”
She frowned at it. “Sure, but you wanna explain why?”
“It’s the Huh. If you study it, it seems to just… fascinate you. We thought it’d be a good idea to leave it in your care seeing as it hasn’t affected you yet. Until we know what it is and if it’s related to the OmoAru dying out, you know?"
“I follow.” She took the object and vanished into her room to lock it away as requested. “You want the shirt back?”
“I’ll just print another one.”
“Coulda just printed a bag for it, you know?” Allison pointed out. She reappeared at the door and leered at him. “Not that I’m complaining about you turning up at my door shirtless.”
“It was easier this way.” He shrugged.
She made an appreciative noise. “Mmm, works for me. Just don’t let Xiu see you, she’ll catch fire.”
“You think?”
“Girl’s had a five year dry spell, and… call it a hunch, I don’t think she was getting any before then, either.”
He leaned against the door frame, folding his arms. “And how long’s your dry spell been?” he asked, enjoying the way she looked down at his upper arms and started to breathe a little quicker.
“Too damn long.”
“Just say the word.” He grinned.
“I told you, Julian, we’re not having sex.”
“There’re alternatives to sex.” he said, slipping his hand around her lower back and pulling her out of the room slightly, pelvis to pelvis.
She met his gaze with a cocky smile, draping her arms over his shoulders. “Got something in mind, Etsicitty?”
He glanced up and down the quarters deck to make sure that they were alone then leaned in and murmured “I know my ABCs…”
She laughed, but bit her lip and took another good look at him. “Mister 'Six Years Alone' knows that trick, huh?"
Julian’s confidence stalled and entered a tailspin. “Well, uh… I know of it…"
Allison giggled, but her lip-bite intensified. She checked up and down the deck herself, and then grabbed his belt buckle and pulled him into her room.
“Alright, Mister Smooth. Show me.”
“Well this is fucking boring…”
Kirk shook his mane in irritation. Lewis always got restless when he had nothing to do. “How long until the sandstorm abates?”
“Told you dude, weather sats are fried. Could be five minutes, could be five months, could be there’s a second storm five hours behind this one. I’ve got a bot watching out for a working sat.”
“So, you’re not actually doing anything right now?
“Oh, don’t say it dude…”
Kirk snorted at him. “An hour’s exercise every day, Lewis. You biologically need it"
"Like fuck I do…" Lewis grumbled, but he stood up anyway, stretching and groaning as his spine popped in three places.
“You see? Your species isn’t meant to sit still for long periods.”
“Hey, I’m going, jeez…”
Shipboard gear was gym clothing anyway, so he didn’t need to bother with changing until after he was all sweaty, so that was one upside.
The second upside to today’s gym session turned out to be Xiu, stretching against the wall to the point that her ankle was higher than her head and damn was that an easy sight for the eyes. He picked the multigym and sat down, less interested in doing his mandatory workout properly than he was in having a good view.
“Shouldn’t you warm up properly?” she asked.
“This is a warm-up." he replied, setting the resistance-based machine to its lowest setting. “I fucking hate exercise…”
“Yeah?” She grimaced slightly as she hugged her leg and held it as close to her torso as she could for a three-count.
“You can’t tell me you enjoy that shit? That looks uncomfortable as fuck."
"This bit sucks." she agreed. “But it stops me from aching all over when I’m done.”
“This going to be your regular exercise slot?” He asked as she changed legs. He’d make a mental note if it was.
“No, I usually do mine - rrrgh - before breakfast."
Well that killed it. Exercise might be bearable if he had a gym-buddy like Xiu, but the only known force in the galaxy that could drag Lewis out of bed that early in the morning was a quarter of a pig, a gallon of coffee, and waffles with enough syrup to launch a yacht on. He hauled down on the bar in what he thought was a preacher curl. “So why’re you here now?” He asked.
“I was going to go back to my room and listen to my messages.” Xiu said. “But… um… Allison’s room is next to mine and, uh…” Her face went a brilliant scarlet. “Never mind.”
“Hey, what?”
“Julian’s in there…”
Lewis blinked. “No shit? Shit, did they get loud?”
Damn the girl could blush. If there’d been a world championship, Xiu would have taken the gold, easy. By incinerating the competition with her glow. “Little bit.” she squeaked the words in a way that suggested they were understatement.
She dropped her leg back down and bounced on her toes a few time. Lewis lowered his head slightly to give the impression that he was working the machine, hoping to ogle without being caught ogling.
“Uh, you’re… not doing that right.” she pointed out after a few seconds.
Lewis just shrugged. “You grab the thing, you pull on the thing, right?”
"Hǎo shāng xīn…" she muttered. “No wonder you hate exercise.”
“You saying I don’t enjoy it because I’m doing it wrong?”
She beckoned with one hand. “Come on, get up. I’ll show you.”
Lewis shrugged and did so. “Okay, what are we doing?”
"Taiji."
“Tai Chi? I thought that was for, like, old people in the park!”
“It keeps you fit and strong.” she said.
“Moving all slow? Pull the other one.”
She rolled her eyes. “Copy me.”
Lewis snorted, but did so to the best of his ability, imperfectly mimicking the slow sweep of her arms and feet. His muscles started to burn within seconds. “What the shit…?”
She paused mid-motion, at the most awkward spot - he felt like he was about to fall over. His leg was shaking from trying to hold him up. “You’re still doing it wrong.” she said. “Move your right foot back a little and try to balance your weight between both feet.”
Lewis grunted and shoved his foot back a bit and the precarious feeling and shake both vanished. The burn in his muscled faded a little. “Hey, what…?”
“Now you’re doing it right.”
“Okay… That’s cool, but… no pain no gain, right?”
“My ballet teacher used to say that being strong is no good if you’re wasting half that strength with bad form.” Xiu said.
“I… guess?”
She laughed. “I had this trouble with my brother Wei. Uh… it’s like if you have a really fancy, shiny new computer but you’re running an old game on it. Most of that power gets wasted. Follow me?”
Understanding dawned. “Oh! I get you!”
Xiu started moving again. “It works both ways.” she said. “If you do it right it feels easier but you’re actually getting the most out of it. Doing it wrong feels harder and doesn’t do as much for you.”
Lewis was surprised to find that he was actually enjoying himself, and not just because of the company. Xiu was a patient teacher, happy to go at his pace, and the way she explained what they were doing drove home a point he had hitherto missed - that exercise didn’t have to be dumb, mindless repetition. That there was room for using your brain in there as well, thinking about it. Physical intelligence.
Maybe he had a reason to get out of bed early, now…
“Fascinating. I wonder what relevance it has to our search?”
Vedreg didn’t fit in the flight deck, but the corridor outside was capable of unfolding a bench from the deck for him to rest on, and it was from this that he was conversing with Kirk, sipping a surprisingly small glass of water considering his mass.
“Best not to speculate ahead of our evidence.” Kirk cautioned. “Lewis could be right, it could just be a drug of some kind.”
“True, though the whole concept of a drug was a completely foreign one to me prior to the arrival of humanity.”
“Likewise, and if ever there were fields where we were likely to learn of their existence, customs and legal representation aboard a major trade station would be them, even if they were perfectly legal.”
“And yet the OmoAru have been in decline since before the human World Wars.” Vedreg noted. “Tell me, do you think it a plausible possibility?”
“All too plausible.” Kirk shivered. “Even with that idea in mind, that this could be the object responsible for the decline and fall of their civilization, I still want to go down to Allison’s quarters and ask her for another look, and I was only exposed to its effects for a few minutes."
“And Lewis and Julian?”
Kirk turned and checked the tracking systems for a second. “Lewis is in the gym with Xiu, and appears to be rather happy about it.” he said. “Julian has… not left Allison’s quarters yet, though I expect that’s just sex.”
Vedreg pig-snorted a Guvnurag chortle, pulsing hyacinth. “So matter-of-fact.” he commented.
“Why shouldn’t I be? I have no reason to be squeamish about the sexuality of another species, especially one so driven by it as humans are.” he glanced at the monitor where Xiu was correcting Lewis’ posture. “And Gaoians.” he added.
A curious cocktail of intellectual pink and uncertain blue swept up Vedreg’s body. “She’s not Gaoian." he pointed out.
“Biologically? No.” Kirk agreed. “But concepts we have traditionally considered - for good reason - to be absolutes, appear to be more fluid for humans. Gender, mating proclivities… Species - purely as a mental and cultural construct - is on that list.”
“How can species be a fluid concept?"
Kirk just shrugged. It wasn’t a native gesture to Rrrrtktktkp’ch, and he knew that Vedreg was astute enough to get that subtle point. “It’s all visible in Xiu’s file, if you know what to look for.” he said. “There are a lot of… transition zones in her life. Places where she has straddled two things that would quite reasonably seem to be separate. They’re quite obvious from the elevated perspective that I enjoy, but humans have remarkable blind spots about their own motives and experiences.”
“Do they indeed?” The translation gave Vedreg a wry, ironic tone.
Kirk snorted, catching the thrust of Vedreg’s subtle jab. “I know who I am.” he asserted, and pointed at the screen with his mechanical arm. "They don’t."
“And is that what draws you to them?”
“What draws me to them is that they’ve got to become somebody, and I want to make sure that said somebody can coexist with my own people."
Vedreg rumbled, and a dark pink, almost purple, showed itself on his body.
“Suppose the Hierarchy are right.” he said, suddenly. “Suppose that’s not possible. What then?”
“Then by helping them escape the quarantine I’ve doomed my own species and several others.” Kirk said. “But I’ll fight to the last to prove that the Hierarchy are wrong.”
“Good. Then I think it’s time I put you in touch with Six.”
“Allahu Akbar."
Amir was standing in the middle of the common area, barefoot and wearing clean clothes, addressing a little speck of blue holographic light that was hovering a few meters in front of him.
He lowered his hands gently onto his thighs and spoke again. The words were quiet, but clear - Xiu could only hear him because the rest of the ship was quiet.
"Subhaanak-Allaahumma, wa bihamdika, wa tabaarakasmuka, wa ta’aalaa jadduka, wa laa ilaaha ghayruka."
She turned to Lewis and whispered. “What’s he doing?”
"Salat." Lewis replied, quietly. “Five times a day. It’s, like, super important to him, so I just let him get it out his system.”
“…I’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten?”
“Prayer. I forgot that people even do things like…” Xiu indicated Amir, who was now bent at the waist, muttering something. “…this.”
“He’s always done this.” Lewis replied. “Had me program that little light for him. It points towards Earth.”
Xiu stared at it. “That’s where Earth is?”
“Yep.”
“How far?”
“Uh… as, like, the crow flies?” Lewis tapped on a wall console and pulled up the navigation display. “Looks like… about sixty thousand light years.” He tapped something, and nodded. “Give or take a couple thousand.”
“…how long would it take if we flew there right now?”
Lewis looked upwards and his lips moved as he performed some mental calculations. “About… roughly, uh… seven weeks? Bit more than? But we wouldn’t be going as the crow flies.”
“Why not?”
“Well, A: the galactic core’s in the way. Black holes, exploding stars, radiation, really bad hair days. Can’t go that way. B: Interstellar dust and gas leaves a charge on the hull. Let it build up too much and eventually… ZAP!"
Xiu jumped, and Amir shot an annoyed glance in their direction. Lewis raised an apologetic palm at him.
Xiu swallowed "Zap?" she squeaked.
“Yep.” Lewis replied in a quieter tone. “Like a fuckin’ bug zapper, with you, me and the whole crew as the bugs.”
Xiu shivered.
“So, the ID and the CA both run these lane-clearing fleets who sweep a path through the dust, and that’s a spacelane.” Lewis continued. “They form a ring around the galaxy, through what’s called the 'Temperate World Formation Zone’. By spacelane, we’re more like three months from home, and this is a way fast ship. Like, zoom! And you can really open up on those spacelanes, too."
“How fast?”
“Dunno. Kirk reckons she can do upwards of a thousand kilolights on a really long stretch if we don’t mind wear and tear on the power core. A million times the speed of light. Usually we just cruise at about half that.”
“That’s…” Xiu wanted to say 'fast' but the numbers were purely academic, incomprehensible.
“Fastest ship in the galaxy, we reckon.” Lewis patted the Sanctuary proudly. “Course, we don’t need to fly back to Earth. We’ve got the Jump Array.”
“All that distance and I can just… step home, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
Xiu shook her head and watched as Amir turned his head left and right, speaking gently, and then stood.
“That’s going to be so weird…” she said.
It had been far, far too long since Allison had had the opportunity to enjoy the feeling of skin-on-skin contact along pretty much the whole length of her body.
It was made a little unusual by the smooth plastic of Julian’s prosthetic foot, but other than that…
Other than that, the sensations of his body warm and firm against her back and buttocks, of his right arm under her head and his right hand cupping her breast, of his left hand trailing lazily up and down the shallow, athletic curve of her flank were sublime. As were the kisses he occasionally placed on her shoulder.
As had been the… well. What Julian may have lacked in experience, he more than made up for in attentiveness and enthusiasm. The way he’d communicated, the way he’d eagerly let her teach him how to use his tongue, the way he’d listened to what she wanted as his fingers played inside her, the taste of his cock, the orgasms plural, his expressions, his moans and…
Generally the whole general everything.
Especially the way he’d kept his head and said “no” when she’d literally begged him to fuck her. That part, she really appreciated.
She became aware that his hand had stopped moving, and squirmed slightly to glance over her shoulder and check that he was still awake. He wasn’t.
She gave it a decent interval and then carefully extracted herself from her little-spoon position to go take care of the inevitable post-orgasmic ablutions, spin through the shower and put on some clean clothing. Sex - or the next best thing - had always left her energized and hungry.
Lewis and Amir were using the galley as well, and while Amir cleared his throat and pretended to not really notice her presence, Lewis’ grin bordered on being a leer.
Of course, on a ship this small there were no secrets, were there?
“Sleep well?” Lewis tried to make the question sound nonchalant and failed dismally.
“I had fucking amazing sex, thank you for asking.” she snarled, nettled. Lewis grimaced and focused on his food, ears going pink. “What’s that you’re eating?” she asked.
Xiu’s voice lofted out of the kitchen. "Zhēngyu!"
“Huh?”
“Fish!” Xiu poked her head out of the kitchen wearing the biggest smile Allison had yet seen on her. “This is amazing!” she enthused. “You have actual Earth food in here! I just had to make something."
“You love to cook, huh?”
Xiu ducked her head sheepishly, apparently failing to notice that the gesture was a Gaoian one. “Always have.” she admitted. “Besides, you’ve got to do something to help the ration balls go down, right?”
“Too true.” Allison selected a shred of white fish-flesh from the plate and sampled it.
A second later, half the fish was on her plate, prompting a chuckle from Amir. “That was my reaction.” he said.
"Damn girl! Mff!"
Xiu giggled. “You like?”
Allison nodded, masticating enthusiastically, "Thiff iff amaffing." she swallowed. “Best thing I’ve had in my mouth since, uh…”
Okay, now the awkwardness happened, especially when Lewis grinned like he was the Coyote and he’d just caught the Road Runner. “Half an hour ago? Yagh!"
His scream was in response to Allison rolling her eyes and dumping his glass of water in his lap. When Amir laughed, Lewis did the same to him, and a good- natured three-way scuffle broke out that only ended when Xiu exclaimed “Hey, watch the fish!”
The boys sheepishly helped straighten the table and then sloped off in search of dry clothes. Xiu snorted a little laugh. “Males,” she said. She apparently didn’t notice the mistake until Allison arched an eyebrow at her. “Uh…men! Boys! Ugh, damn it!"
“…You okay?”
“I’m… adjusting.” Xiu replied. “It’s so weird being around other humans again.”
“Spent too long with the raccoon people, huh?” Allison asked.
“I keep thinking in Gaoian.” Xiu said. “And thinking like a Gaoian." She scowled. “I just said that in Gaoian!"
“You did? I didn’t… oh, right, the ship’s translator.”
“Yeah.” Xiu sat down and sampled some of the fish for herself, breaking into a broad smile. “Oooh, this is nice.” she purred. “No more pureed bug guts.”
“Uh, ew?!"
"Nava paste. It’s an ingredient." Xiu explained. “It’s actually kinda nice but… yeah, ew."
They shared a grin, which turned into Xiu apparently thinking of something and abruptly going pink.
“What?”
“Uh, nothing.”
“No, what?” Allison pressed.
“Just… wow. Sex. I’ve never…” The pink turned to a brilliant scarlet.
“Got taken before you had the chance, huh?”
Xiu nodded, and ate some of her fish. “It’s… Mama and Papa were always warning me off boys.” she said. “’Wait for marriage, find a nice doctor or engineer. Chinese, of course.' You know: Asian parents." She laughed, and toyed with her food. “As if it’s the most special thing ever…”
“And the Gaoians?”
Xiu shrugged. “They were always very… matter-of-fact about it.” she said. “You always knew who had just arranged a mating contract and they were… very open about talking about it.”
“A contract?"
“Yeah.” Xiu wobbled her head. “Sounds cold doesn’t it?”
“Just a little.” Allison agreed.
“It’s not!” Xiu hastened to defend them. “Well… no, maybe it can be, a little. But with some of them you could see it was more like…”
She giggled at a memory. “There’s this one male, Regaari? He’s, like, Gaoian James Bond. Really cool, very handsome. So I’m told."
“Hard to tell under all that fur.”
“I think the fur is what they look at.” Xiu shrugged. “I don’t really know. But even the mother-supreme was like 'if I was younger…’"
Allison laughed. “Okay, so they’re not so cold after all.”
“No.” Xiu’s smile faded. “I just… wow. That’s an option now. I could… if I wanted, if I found… Wow.”
Allison put her fork down. “Honey, listen to me.” she said. “Julian and I took forever to sort our shit out, and we needed it. I’m telling you as a friend, you’re going to need time as well, or you’ll just wind up getting hurt."
Xiu sighed. “You sound like Yulna…”
“I hope that’s a compliment?”
“Yeah, it is.” Xiu nodded. “You could always count on Momma Yulna to tell you what you needed to be told, even if you didn’t want to hear it.”
“Well damn, there goes my party-girl image.”
Their conversation ended with the return of the freshly-changed boys. Lewis immediately noticed the lingering traces of blush on Xiu’s face, but glanced at Allison, saw her expression, and clearly decided that discretion was the better part of dry pants.
“Sandstorm’s clearing.” he said instead. “We should be landing soon. There’s another storm about two days out though.”
“We’ll need to actually land this time, rather than hovering." Amir said. “She’ll need to be properly battened down and anchored. Should take an hour or so.”
“I’ll… go wake Julian.” Allison stood. “You guys okay to clean up?”
“They can." Xiu said firmly, folding her arms when Lewis and Amir protest “Hey, I cleaned up as I went, so there’s not much.”
“What are you going to do?” Allison asked, as the boys grumbled their way into the kitchen.
“I’ve got mail.”
There were, as Julian had said, some messages waiting for her. Four, to be exact - one each from Ayma, Regaari and the Mother-Supreme, and a letter from her family.
She opened the message from Giymuy first. The Mother-Supreme was seated at her desk, and gave a warm expression to the camera.
"Where to begin?" she asked, rhetorically.
"I think as a leader and politician, I am better placed to understand you than many others. The life of the Mother-Supreme shares with the life of a human Sister the factor that we will both always be outsiders, however much we are embraced. I have to think for all the females, and all the males too. That is not an instinct that comes naturally."
“For you, however, I suspect the instinct is as natural as breath, and it is one that I think our species will need to learn to emulate if we are to thrive in interstellar society but… ah, forgive me. I’m rambling.”
“You are missed. I understand why you left our planet, and why you abandoned Ayma and Regaari, and I only refrained from asking you to stay because I knew it would be fruitless. Your protective instinct is as powerful as any Mother’s, and you have the insight to know when you yourself are the worst threat. I truly would have valued your counsel, but I would have valued it for the same reason that I could never have it.”
She paused, and changed tack a bit.
“There is a monument to Triymin, and all the other taken Gaoians now. I thought you would like to know that. The revelation of what her Mother did to “save” the other cubs has prompted much introspection, and something of a schism. We are all still Sisters of course, but… things have been difficult. There is something of a swell of opinion that welcoming you into the Clan was a mistake. Some Mothers who never met you are accusing you of having poisoned us with alien ideas. These are trying times for an old female.”
“Then again, they are trying times for a young female too, are they not? But you are strong enough to get through them, Sister Shoo. And you will always have a home on Gao. Remember that."
Xiu was still mulling over the Mother-Supreme’s meaning when Sanctuary shook and a dull note rang throughout its decks, followed by Amir’s voice. "We’re landed. All hands outside to batten down."
She stood up and let herself out, glad to have something to do. She really didn’t feel ready for the other messages yet.
The business of lashing down Sanctuary was a serious one. Huge though she was, and alien-tech thrusters that required no reaction mass notwithstanding, the realities of power-to-weight ratio still existed, and Sanctuary was designed to pull fierce acceleration even at sublight, relying on her giant core’s power output to keep the crew happy and healthy at 20G or more.
The result of that was that she was light for her size. In the high winds expected to come sweeping down the valley over the next few days, she would slide or even be picked up and thrown unless securely anchored.
Kirk, Lewis and Amir were on one side of the ship. Julian, Xiu and Allison on the other, firing cables across her hull using a modified kinetic-pulse weapon. One person to retrieve and hold the cable’s end, one person to crank it taut, the third to operate a compressed-gas gun which fired an anchoring peg into the bedrock, which Kirk had informed them would typically have been operated by a team of four armed with a lifter and a heavy stabilising frame.
Julian just carried it, leaning on it heavily to hold back the recoil. Each time it fired, the heavy 'Chunk!' sound it produced pulsed right through their bodies and produced a donut of airborne dust.
Xiu broke the silence after the third anchor was in and they’d found their rhythm. “So… Julian, do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“I’ve never heard a surname like Etsicitty before…”
Julian laughed softly. “Not a lot of people have. It’s Navajo.”
“You’re Navajo?”
“Grampa is.” Julian shrugged it off. “I’m not.”
'Chunk!'
Allison hefted their line launcher, checked that her feet weren’t caught in a loop of cable, steadied herself and fired. The line described a graceful arc over Sanctuary’s back.
“How does that work?” she asked
“Well Grampa went to prison for resisting the draft. When he got out he went to an anti-war protest where he met my Gramma and they settled in Clearwater county, Minnesota.”
There was a tug on the line, which meant that the other end was attached, so Xiu started to crank on it.
Julian grinned. “Think my Dad was a bit of an accident.” he confided. “And, y’know, interracial couple in the seventies, white girl and a 'redskin’…" He waved a hand, dismissing the bigotry of yesteryear. “Dunno if things were a bit more relaxed by the time I came along, or if it was just, y’know, 'Well, at least he’s HALF white…’"
There was a call on the radio. "Heads up!" and the line from the other side came over, Bouncing in the dirt a few meters away. Allison retrieved it just as Julian set the gun and fired the next anchor into the rock.
'Chunk!'
“Grampa wanted me to learn his people’s ways but…” Julian shrugged, massaging the shock of the recoil out of his hands. “They’re his people, I guess. I’m not really Navajo myself, I don’t feel that…" he waved his hands. “I dunno.”
“Kinship?” Xiu suggested.
“Yeah, that’s it. The bond’s just not there for me.” They’d gone along to some kind of a nation… thing at one point, and what had struck Julian hard was that he’d felt like a white guy and had been largely treated as one. That had disappointed Gramp Etsi, but it had at least persuaded him to just let Julian be Julian.
“Doesn’t that make you feel sad?” Xiu asked.
“Why should it?” Julian asked. “Maybe I never went down to New Mexico with the old man to learn the ways of my ancestors or whatever but we still had a great time. He taught me hunting, camping, fishing… yeah. I enjoyed it, so I became a park ranger. I used to spend five days a week out in the North Country, keeping tabs on the wildlife. Deer, birds, fish, bears, you name it.” He shrugged, watching Xiu wind the crank. “Guess the Corti thought I was impressive because they snatched me up gear and all and stuck me on planet Nightmare.”
“And your Grandfather?” Xiu asked him.
“Still going.” Julian smiled fondly. “Same old Grampa, with his dungarees and his robusto premium cigars… pretty damn strong for an old man, too.”
Xiu decided that the line was taut enough and plucked it, producing a bass note. “Is that all of them?”
“That’s all of them. Just need to head topside and make sure they’re on top of the steel plates so they don’t cut into the pressure skin and heat dissipators. Care to join me?”
Xiu nodded, apparently pleased to be invited.
“I’m heading inside.” Allison said. “Kirk wanted the airlock seals tested and he can’t open the hatch himself.”
Julian snorted. “Fucking class five species…” he teased, and grabbed her round the waist for a quick, romantic kiss.
When it was done, Xiu was awkwardly looking at anything other than him or Allison..
“So, how do we get up top?” she asked as Allison slipped away and jogged off in the direction of the larboard airlock. Julian just turned and folded his arms, smiling faintly as he stood below the rungs recessed into the side of the ship until she noticed them.
“…Oh.”
It was an easy climb in Aru’s modest gravity, but Julian had never exactly been thrilled by heights. Sanctuary was classified as a modestly-sized luxury yacht, but that still translated to being forty meters above the ground at the top, buffeted by the eddies that were bouncing back and forth between the two sandstorms like a puppy unable to choose between two tennis balls.
Xiu seemed to be just as uncomfortable with the winds and altitude as he was. Moderate gravity or not, a fall from that height would kill, and when she held out a hand for him to help her balance he grabbed it without thinking.
Her hand was surprisingly hard and roughened from work. Different to Allison’s. Allison had plenty of grip strength, but her hands were softer, colder and her fingers were more slender. Xiu’s hand was warm, and unconsciously solid. Feminine, but sturdy.
He tried not to notice.
“So, uh… what about your mother’s side of the family?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the air currents, clearly wanting to bolster her own confidence or distract herself with conversation.
“Gran-gran was Ojibwe. She never talked much about my grandfather, ’cuz he was, uh, never part of Mom’s life. All I know about him is he was Dutch…”
“How are your parents now?”
“Dad died of cancer when I was, like, six and Mom…left. Grampa and Gramma raised me.”
“Oh… I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Julian kicked a cable and gave a satisfied grunt when it didn’t move.
“Do you know where your mom is now?”
“Yeah. After Dad died she kinda helped his brother through it and…well, I’ve got two sisters in Holland I never met.” Julian shrugged. “She’s okay. But by the time she was ready to look after anyone again I was thirteen or so. Seemed easier just to stay with Grampa and Gramma.”
Xiu checked the cable nearest to her. “This one looks okay, I think…” she guessed. He nodded, trusting her judgement.
“What about your folks?” He asked her. “Five years is a long time, think they’ll have changed much?”
“I’d…” she hesitated, then gave him an embarrassed smile and a shrug, flicking wind-wild hair out of her face “…don’t know. I hope not.”
Julian nodded sympathy, but smiled. “I hope not too.” he said. “But… word of advice? You should probably brace yourself. Did you read your messages yet?”
She shook her head no. “Only one of them.”
“Cool. Well, you’ll have plenty of time while the sandstorm passes over.”
There was a lull in the wind and Xiu cautiously let go of his hand to straighten and look at the scenery. It was, admittedly, spectacular - the river was a malachite road, its forks and junctions winding down from distant brown mesas beneath a turquoise sky.
“Incredible.” she said, taking a step towards it. “We could almost be somewhere on Earth, couldn’t we?”
Julian nodded, though he wasn’t really listening: he was too busy admiring a completely different view. On autopilot, his mouth agreed with her. “We could, yeah.”
“Like… Monument Valley?”
She turned around and Julian realized where he’d been looking. So did she.
“Uh…” Mentally punishing himself, he took in the correct view this time while Xiu hastily turned her face back towards the landscape. Her ears were bright pink. “No, not like… Monument Valley’s more red, and there’s lots of green. This is more like… Argentina, maybe. More yellow and brown.” he said.
He checked the last cable. “And…” he cleared his throat. “…Uh, we’re as anchored as we’re ever gonna get, I reckon. May as well head indoors.”
Xiu just nodded without turning around.
Floundering for conversation, Julian hit on the first thing that came to mind. “It’s… my turn to cook tonight. You okay with a good steak?”
Xiu turned and gawped at him, blush forgotten. "Actual steak?" she asked. “Like… beef?”
“Yep, and I can’t cook anything else worth a damn, but my steaks? Oh, I can cook a steak alright.” Julian found his confidence again and grinned. “I can cook a damn good steak."
“Wow.” Xiu said. “Uh… medium rare, please?”
“That’s how I take my steak too.” Julian agreed. “Anything else is-”
“-An insult to the cow.” Xiu finished for him.
They beamed at each other for a few seconds before the same thought struck both of them at once and they lapsed into simultaneous, mutual awkwardness.
“We should, uh-” she began.
“-get off this roof.” He finished.
“Yeah. Before the storm arrives.”
“Right. Don’t want to get blown off… uh… I mean-”
“No, uh… Well. No. Um… after you?”
Julian was right. His steak was amazing. But the real pleasure for hadn’t been in eating it, but in watching him make it.
It wasn’t an eye-candy moment. It was a human moment. Julian seemed to turn off some of his defenses in the kitchen, claiming it as his own, putting some music on and spinning around it in a slow but efficient bustle. He didn’t clean up after himself as he went, just dumped everything in the sink. It was a messy and male approach to food preparation but…
But no Gaoian would have ever listened to Breaking Benjamin, or nodded in time to the music, or sang along just loud enough for her to hear that he was singing along in a surprisingly good singing voice, punctuated by the sizzle of skillet and the clatter of plates and seasonings as he worked on his masterpiece.
"♪♪…Holding on too tight… breathe the breath of life… so I can leave this…♫"
“Look but don’t touch, girlfriend.”
Xiu jumped. Allison smiled at her. “He’s taken, remember?” She asked.
Xiu remembered to shake her head rather than shimmy it like Ayma. “That’s not it.” she said, which was a bit of a lie, but not much of one so it didn’t count.
Allison tilted her head. “What, then?”
“Just… Humans."
“Hmm?”
“You, him, Lewis, Amir. The music, the kitchen, the food… Humans. Earth.”
Allison made an understanding noise and put an arm round her shoulder. “Making you homesick?”
“Actually… No. It makes me feel like… Like when I dreamed of home.”
She smiled at Allison and wiped away a tear. “This is what it felt like.”
In the kitchen, Julian’s playlist had changed tracks and took a dizzying detour into Johnny Cash. “♫…Well he must thought that it was quite a joke, and it got a lot o’ laughs from a lot o’ folks. Seems I had to fight my whole life through…♪"
Allison directed a sly smirk at Julian as he picked up the volume a bit. “He’s got an eclectic taste in music, doesn’t he?”
“Very varied.” Xiu agreed, covering her smile.
“Come on, help a girl set the table?”
A minute later, Xiu dropped the knives from giggling at the enthusiastic bellow of “MY NAME IS SUE! HOW DO YOU DO?!” that drifted out of the kitchen.
In the dark and quiet of the night cycle, Sanctuary creaked like a clipper at sea as her shields deflected the pelting sand outside. From without, the view would almost certainly have been spectacular. Forcefields tended to react colorfully with airborne particulates, spitting and sparking as the charge built and grounded itself, glowing all the colours of the rainbow and others besides.
Inside, the only hint of the raging outside forces was the occasional whine as the power systems intelligently redirected the power reserves and increased the reactor output to match them, and the odd structural creak as the shield emitters mounted on Sanctuary’s outer skin transmitted part of the huge forces they were emitting into the ship’s structural components.
In theory, those forcefields were more than up to the task of keeping Kirk’s ship securely in contact with the ground, but the humans always seemed to feel more comfortable with steel than with photons even though, technically, a forcefield was built to duplicate exactly the kind of electrostatic forces that gave steel cables or bulkheads their strength.
Still. Redundancy didn’t hurt and if it set the paranoid Deathworlders’ minds at ease…
Rrrrtktktkp’ch really didn’t need much sleep next to most species. While humans took a solid six to eight hours a night, and the Guvnurag needed a whole day every three or four days, Rrrrtk got by on quick, regular power naps. In fact, the Domain’s standard unit of time known as the Rik was derived from the average duration of the Rrrrtk sleep phase, though nowadays given a standard definition based on… something to do with hydrogen, if Kirk remembered correctly.
Not being able to summon random little facts like that at will was one of the few things he was finding he missed about having cerebral implants. He certainly hadn’t noticed any decline in his logical faculties or powers of recall since their removal. Not for the big stuff. Maybe mental mathematics was taking a while longer, and he wasn’t able to recall trivia, but the important activity seemed mostly unhindered.
The problem was that the disparity between his sleeping habits and those of his crew left long stretches of the night where the only available company was Vedreg. Kirk and Vedreg may have been old friends, but theirs was a relationship built on mutual esteem and shared goals, rather than actually having much in common as people.
Tonight, however, he had something to do, and was glad to be left alone to do it. The less his friends and crewmates knew about some of his plans, the better.
By Rrrrtk standards, the engineering access conduit which ringed the “poles” of Sanctuary’s reactor was a crawlspace, tight and claustrophobic. Vedreg would simply not have been able to fit into it. Humans, Gaoians and Corti, on the other hand, could have strolled down it, though they would have needed a stepladder to access some of the systems that lined the hemispherical conduit’s ceiling.
Kirk stooped underneath an environmental duct, stepped fastidiously over a neat bundle of high-capacity data cables, squeezed between two computer racks, and finally found what he was after at the apex of the conduit, immediately in front of the first of his ship’s seven huge sublight thrusters. It was mounted in a little pedestal which doubled as a superconducting power bus of peerless capacity, designed to shunt as much power as the huge reactor could generate straight into the seemingly innocuous little oblong of sealed technology that was Sanctuary’s Corti Black-Box Drive.
Without knowing how to open one, tampering with a Black-Box drive was a recipe for it blowing up in the would-be opener’s face, and not in a small way, either: The Corti had an unsubtle approach to copyright protection.
Kirk, however, now knew how to open it.
Fabricating the necessary tool had been trivial in fact. All it did was deliver a permutation of extremely precise electrical currents to thirty-two of the drive’s three thousand microscopic terminals.
That set of possible combinations was already absurdly vast all by itself, but when one factored in the need to deliver excruciatingly precise electrical currents to that correct combination, and the fact that the combination and required currents were changed periodically as a safeguard against simple dissemination of the information, then a value emerged that made the total quantity of subatomic particles in the whole of the visible universe seem utterly trivial.
Correctly guessing the combination was effectively impossible - If an enterprising scientist were to fire a neutrino in an entirely random direction and then guess at which specific atom it would eventually hit, then a successful prediction would still be tens of thousands of orders of magnitude more likely than a correct guess at the black box combination.
No wonder it had supposedly never been opened by an unauthorized user.
With the right key, however, the two sides shot outwards on rails with a snap! and the top hinged open.
Kirk reflected wryly that if life in the galaxy had taught him anything by now, it was that working technology simply never had shiny special-effects deep inside them. The occasion demanded a bottled singularity pulsing ominously inside a glass cylinder, or some other such wondrous artefact. Instead, he was looking at a circuit board much like any other. It was foolish to be disappointed.
Nevertheless, it felt like something of an anticlimax.
The modifications he read off a standard tablet computer were the work of minutes. Connect, load, copy-paste, run. Close the box, remove the key.
Back in the comfort of his quarters, he settled onto the bed, folding his legs underneath him, and bade the room load a text chat interface and connect via the newly established protocol under his name.
++Syst§m N♦tif>c■t?♦n: Us§r ???? h■s j♦in§d th§ <error: undefined exception>++
++Welcome User ????++
++0025++: This is getting ridiculous. That’s the second one this cycle.
++0007++: Working on it.
++0034++: Without apparent progress.
++0007++: By all means you are welcome to volunteer for debugging software that has existed longer than you have. For now, I’ll just kick this spurious “user” again.
++System Notif■■■■■■■ <Error>
<Error>
<Redirecting: Subnet Mask ????????? Port ?????>
++System Notification: Welcome to the Cabal.++
++????++: By “working on it” I hope you mean that you draw closer to a solution that will allow our meatspace guests to connect directly to the Cabal. Every time one of them logs into the primary relay is a potential security failure.
++????++: So long as “Seven” remains in charge of it…
++????++: I know for a fact that Fifty is working on the problem themselves.
++????++: Shouldn’t we be welcoming our guest?
++????++: You’re right. Please forgive us, ah… “Jim”.
Kirk snorted, amused.
++SELF++: Think nothing of it. I don’t wish to be a liability.
++????++: In which case the fewer the occasions on which you connect to this channel the better, at least until we can complete the task of securing it.
++SELF++: That seems reasonable. Please, brief me.
He sat back, and let the explanations roll in.
School is exactly as Xiu remembers it. But… isn’t she a little old to be back at school?
No, of course not. She’s sixteen. She must be sixteen because if she’s not sixteen, then she wouldn’t be in school. QED.
There aren’t many people around, though. They must all be in class. She’d better hurry.
Xiu’s locker is… number ninety-nine. She remembers that fact quite proudly. Top row, second from the right, in the long corridor near the changing rooms. She doesn’t remember walking to it, but there it is. She opens it, and grabs her bag.
It bites her.
Sharp teeth, so many teeth, too many. She flails and beats the Hunter around the head with her free hand, trying to escape. It emerges from the locker like a foul magic trick, like a blasphemous birth, but she manages to get her hand free and run.
Why is she running? Stupid question, this is a Hunter! It wants to EAT her!
But… she’s killed dozens of Hunters, hasn’t she?
Still she runs, though. Running, running, running, feet pounding the tiles, her hair streaming out behind her.
Except, she isn’t scared. This isn’t a chase, this is just her morning jog. She isn’t at school any more, she’s running along the waterfront in Stanley Park, enjoying the cool breeze.
There is a sculpture of a man sitting on the rock out in the water. He looks familiar, somehow. He winks at her and tosses her a tiny object, which she catches.
It’s a metal ball, about the size of an apple. Somehow, looking at it, she knows that the world is going to end, but that she can stop it from happening if she just-
She realised that she was dreaming, and woke up.
'Morning' was a concept that Corti, Gaoians and Humans held in common, and which had become enshrined - thanks to the Corti - in interstellar timekeeping. It had created a fortunate rhythm to the day that Xiu had been able to exploit, and she had grown into an early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine that was totally at odds with the nocturnal Vancouver nightlife of five years ago, and more in line with something her mother would have approved of. She was up well before everyone else.
Amir, it seemed, was an early riser too. He was just getting up from his prayer mat as she emerged from the gym into the common area.
“Five times a day, huh?” she asked.
He paused in tidying the prayer mat away. “Is that a problem?” he asked, proving that getting up early didn’t automatically make you a morning person.
“No! Just… making conversation.”
Amir softened and nodded, pinching his nose. “Sorry.” he apologised. “I’m too used to Lewis bickering with me over it, and he’s up early today for some reason.”
“Bickering?”
Amir nodded. “He keeps trying to deconvert me. It’s… obnoxious.”
“Oh.”
He puffed a little laugh out of his nose. “Let me guess. You think this is strange?” he gestured to the prayer mat.
“I… don’t want to argue with you, we only just met.” Xiu protested.
“Seriously, though.”
She hesitated. “I’d… kinda forgotten that prayer is even a thing.” she admitted.
He scoffed. “Right. The galaxy full of atheists strikes again…”
“Are you always this grouchy in the morning?”
Amir blinked, while Xiu folded her arms and channeled Momma Yulna, waiting for the verbal slap upside his head to do its job.
“Okay.” he said, finally. “You’re right, sorry. Lewis just… never mind, I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“No.” Xiu agreed, but smiled. “But it’s okay. Galaxy full of atheists?”
“Ah, that’s just Lewis’ new argument.” Amir dismissed it. “’If nothing else out there believes in God then…’ blah, blah, you get the picture."
“Doesn’t that make you wonder, though?” Xiu asked.
“Nope. Why should it? Look at all the gifts we have. We’re faster, stronger, smarter, tougher, more creative…” He turned to her. “Seriously, what’s Gaoian pop culture like?”
“Pop culture?”
“Yeah! Do they have… sports teams, rock stars? Reality TV? How about just commercial radio? Is there a Gaoian Banksy, or Coca-Cola? What about their phones? What’s their, uh, their version of iPhone versus Android? Do they have somebody like Arnold Schwarzenegger, or… who’s the Gaoian answer to Imran Khan?”
“I don’t… Who?”
Amir wound down a little. “He’s a… cricketer. A famous one, from Pakistan.” He explained
Xiu thought about it. “They have… most of that.” she said, though admittedly she had never really absorbed much of it. Perhaps the part of Gaoian pop- culture she was most familiar with was an edutainment show for little cubs called 'Yen Ni Wo!’, which was more-or-less the Gaoian equivalent of Sesame Street, minus the muppets. She’d learned half her Gaoian from watching that show with Myun and the cubs, though apparently it had left her with a childlike way of speaking for some time.
“Well, they’re doing better than most of the aliens then.” Amir remarked. “But I bet it’s not as rich as ours, or as varied.”
“If you say so.” Xiu said neutrally, too offended to argue with him.
“That’s my point though.” Amir continued. “Look at all the gifts we have. All the advantages. All the blessings. To me, it’s obvious."
Xiu was rescued from having to come up with a response to that by Lewis sticking his head through the hatch, looking frazzled and sleep-deprived. “Hey, Xiu, could you give me a hand?”
“Sure!” she sprang to her feet, gave Amir a little wave and a smile, and joined him. “What’s up?”
“Well, I could do with some more exercise advice, but I was mostly just rescuing you.” Lewis whispered, once certain Amir was out of earshot. “Don’t get him started on that shit, seriously.”
“He was okay.” she said, earnestly. “He’s just…passionate.”
“Trust me, you give him the chance and he’ll go way past passionate and into downright fuckin’ intense. 'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’, right?"
Xiu glanced back toward the common area. Amir had sat down and from his expression was plainly pissed off at himself. “Maybe.” she agreed. “And… wow, you quoted that correctly.”
“Hey, I’m not here to be the ship’s mascot!” Lewis smirked. “No false modesty, I’m, like, one of the smartest people you’ll ever meet. I know Hamlet. Not really my scene, but I still know it."
Xiu blushed a little. “Sorry, I didn’t meant to imply…”
“It’s cool. Where I went to school, pretending to be dumb was a survival strategy.” Lewis reassured her. “But yeah, it’s been a touchy subject for him this last week or so. Used to be it never came up. Now he gets all sharp real easy. Dunno if that means he’s getting more devout or if he’s having a crisis but it’s best to just, like, avoid the subject entirely."
They reached the flight deck, where Lewis’ usual nest was a riot of articles, videos and blogs on Tai Chi.
“…You have Internet?!" Xiu exclaimed.
“We’ve got, like, a backup copy of part of the Internet." Lewis said. “Godzillabytes of it. Pretty cool, even if it’s a couple months out of date.”
“But you’re researching what we did yesterday?”
“Yeah!” Lewis said, dropping into his chair. “I actually enjoyed myself, which is, like, a major first for me.”
“I’m glad.” Xiu replied.
“I have a good teacher.” Lewis told her, and grinned when she smiled at the compliment. “I got up early to try and join you in the gym, but then…” he waved a hand at one of his screens. “Looks like something came up overnight.”
Xiu looked at what he’d indicated, seeing only incomprehensible numbers and text. “What did?”
“Not sure, TBH,” He said, actually pronouncing the abbreviation letter by letter. He turned to that display and dragged it onto the big screen front and center. “I’ve got all kinds of monitor programs and bots installed in Sanctuary. This one logs power draw on the FTL." He poked a finger at the screen, which flashed blue where his digit passed through the hologram. “I won’t bore you with, like, the Starfleet technobabble here, but TL;DR? Those numbers are the wrong numbers.”
“Wrong how?”
“Couple hours of sporadic power draw, starting in the middle of the night. Not big draw, but we’re landed and powered down, the FTL shouldn’t be drawing a dang thing."
“Shouldn’t we… go check it or something?”
“No point. I’ve got the full diagnostic right here.” he waved at a screen. “Piece of shit alien engineering doesn’t log half of what it should, though. My bots log everything, but the modules themselves? Eh…" He shrugged. “All I know is, there’s nothing actually wrong with it, it was just drawing power at oh-dark-thirty last night when it shouldn’t."
“Still…”
“Yeah. Maybe. If it keeps happening, I guess. It could be the sandstorm for all I know, though.” He dismissed the program. “I’ll keep an eye on it. I should probably go do that exercise while I’m still fired up for it.”
“Give it a bit. I need to go shower and then I’m making pancakes for breakfast.”
Lewis perked up and imitated Homer Simpson. “Mmmm… Pancakes…”
She giggled. “I’ll give you a lesson afterward, if you want?”
Lewis looked like he’d been given an early birthday present. “Sounds good!” he agreed. “See you at breakfast.”
“See you at breakfast.” she smiled and left him, pleased with herself for navigating a whole conversation in English with human body language and no screwups.
Today was definitely off to a good start.
The sandstorm took nearly a week to clear. They had been, for Lewis, six very pleasant days. There was still the unsolved mystery of the power draw on the FTL, but that had only happened once, and came in a distant second place to spending time with Xiu.
Julian, however, had developed the annoying habit of warning him off. “Bad idea.” he was saying, for the third time that conversation. “Seriously.”
“You said yourself, you’d like her to stay on this ship and help out, dude.” Lewis pointed out.
“I would.” Julian agreed. “But she wants to go home."
“So, maybe if she’s got somebody here she’ll…”
“What, you want to make her change her mind?” Julian snorted.
“Everyone does that to everyone, bro. That’s what a fucking conversation is.”
Julian paused, tried to formulate a retort, and then aborted the attempt with a shake of his head.. “…Whatever. It’s still a bad idea.”
Lewis choked out an exasperated noise. “Why?” he asked.
“Damaged goods. Xiu’s been without healthy human contact for five years, man.”
“Great! Healthy human contact’s what she needs then, right?”
"Healthy human contact, yes."
“Asking her out is healthy, dude! Good for the self-esteem!”
“Whose, yours or hers?” Julian asked pointedly.
Lewis folded his arms and frowned at him. “Wh-? Hers! Both! It’s human contact dude, I thought you said she needed that."
“Yeah, but…” Julian flapped a hand as he hunted for the best way to phrase his thoughts. “Drip-fed. Gradually. You don’t throw a hypothermia patient straight into one of those really hot Russian saunas.”
“Dude, it’s not like being asked on a date is fucking hard mode. She says yes, it’s just gonna be movie night and dinner anyway, that’s about all you CAN do on this ship. She says no, cool. I can handle being turned down."
“Lewis, I spent six years alone, I know what I’m-”
“Xiu didn’t!” Lewis interrupted him. “She had the Gaoians and the aliens.”
“They don’t count.”
Lewis looked offended. “Aliens don’t count? Kirk of all people doesn’t count, huh?"
Julian stood his ground. “I like Kirk, I respect him. I’ve followed him through a lot. But he’s not human, Lewis. Alien company’s nice, but humans need humans, and it takes a while to adjust when you’ve gone without for that long.”
“She’s adjusted to Allison just fine.”
“Allison’s a woman.”
“Sexist, dude.”
“No, listen." Julian was getting irritated now. “She spent those years with Gaoians, and… you’ve seen her, a lot of the time she slips back into their language, their expressions and mannerisms. She’s gone native, man. And given what I know of Gaoian society, that’ll have primed her to connect better with women than with men."
“Guys…”
“Sounds like a fucking good reason to give her some human contact, then.” Lewis protested, his own hackles raising.
"Normal human contact! Slowly!"
"Guys."
“Being asked out is normal!"
"GUYS!"
Lewis’ arms paused mid-outraged flail, and both of them turned to Amir, who had turned in his chair to break up the argument.
“Lewis: Listen to the man. Julian: stop being jealous about Xiu.” he said.
Julian swayed as if he’d been punched. “…Jealous?” he asked.
“…Okay, that was maybe the wrong choice of-” Amir began, but was interrupted.
“Yeah, jealous. Overprotective. Acting like you think you’ve got a right to choose for her.” Lewis stabbed. “And you look at her pretty much the same way you do Allison, dude.”
Amir pinched his nose “Lewis…”
Julian gaped at him. “I- What!? No I don’t!"
“Leave some women for the rest of us!”
“Leave some-? How fucking medieval are you?" Julian stabbed back.
“Julian…”
“You’re the one who thinks he’s got a shot at a fucking harem, dude!”
Julian’s fist bunched and his tone got dangerous rather than outraged. “You wanna watch-”
“GUYS!”
Julian and Lewis paused again. The moment of tension rang like a dropped knife, and then Julian’s hand uncoiled and his shoulders dropped as he exhaled. “Sorry, Lewis.” he said. “That was…”
“Yeah, that wasn’t cool of me either, dude. I’m sorry.”
The two men cooled off in silence for an awkward minute until Lewis added. “But you do stare at her, dude.”
Julian glanced back down the bridge access corridor to make sure Allison wasn’t somehow there to overhear him, then nodded, sheepishly. “It’s…She’s got a shared experience with me, you know? We’ve both been alone for a long time. It’s nice to have somebody around here who really knows what that’s like.”
“In fairness, we all look at her. She’s bloody gorgeous,” Amir pointed out.
“Right,” Julian nodded curtly. “And don’t think I don’t notice when you two check out Allison, either.”
“Ah, come on dude,” Lewis said. “There’s a difference between that and bein’ a horndog. You don’t just check her out, you full-blown stare and it’s not fair on your girlfriend.”
“Okay, okay!” Julian put up his hands defensively. “Just…”
“Nobody’s in control of their lust, Lewis,” Amir opined. “Not really.”
“D’you mind not calling it 'lust’?" Julian asked, irritated. “That makes it sound so…”
“That’s what it is, though. Infatuation, if you prefer. And Lewis is right, it’s not fair on either of them.”
“It’s not exactly fucking fair on me!” Julian objected. “I’m not doing this deliberately!”
“She stares at him too, Lewis.” Amir pointed out.
“Wh-? No she doesn’t!” Lewis objected.
“Oh face it, she does.” Amir asserted. “And why not, he’s a specimen! But she’s spending time with you."
Julian scowled, but Lewis just looked pleased and smiled, giving him a defiant stare. “Oh… yeah! So she is,” he agreed.
“Guess she’s settling for second best.” Julian growled.
“Wh-?” Lewis’ arrogant grin evaporated. “Fuck you!”
“Get in line!”
“Okay, what is wrong with you two?" Amir stood up and stepped between them. “This isn’t like either of you, what’s going on?”
“Just sorting out the fucking pecking order.” Julian snarled.
“Alright, piss off out of my flight deck and don’t come back until you’ve got your head out of your arse.”
Julian rounded on him, but Amir stood his ground. “Go. Cool off. We’ll sort this out later.” he repeated.
Julian looked like he wanted to argue, but just made an angered sound, spun and vanished, his angry stride all but denting the deck as he went.
“And you!” Amir rounded on Lewis. “You’ve been insufferable these last few days! You’re picking fights with me, with Julian, what’s going on?”
“Maybe I’m just-” Lewis began, and then shook his head. “Agh, never mind. I’ll be in my cabin.”
When they were both gone, Amir sat and wiped off his forehead, willing his heart to stop pounding and forget the flash of violence that had risen in Julian’s expression for just a second.
It had been like staring down a dragon’s throat and seeing a glow.
He hit a button. “Hey, Kirk? There’s been a… a bit of a row up here, we should probably talk about it.”
“Jesus Christ, Etsicitty. That bag cheat on your sister or something?”
Julian laughed a little, bitter laugh and kept pounding on it. “Just working out some frustrations.” he rumbled.
“Mmm, after what we did last night I’m amazed you have any.” Allison purred, then wilted a little when this didn’t seem to amuse him. “Okay, what’s up?”
Julian stopped for a second. “Just… Ugh, I don’t know. Nothing.” He punched the bag so hard that it rattled the ceiling beam.
“Riiight. D’you, uh, want me to leave you alone until, say, you turn eighteen?”
He didn’t stop. “Yep.”
“Wow. Okay…”
She turned and was halfway out of the room when his apology exploded out of him. “I’m sorry!”
She turned back and arched an eyebrow at him. “Yeah?”
He unwound the tape on his hands and let them slither to the floor. “I’m sorry.” he repeated, not looking at her.
She crossed the floor, slid her arms around his hips and angled a kiss up into his face. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“Got into a shouting match with Lewis.”
“Really? Wow, don’t you usually get on okay with him?”
“Usually, yeah.” He agreed, still not making eye contact.
She put her head on one side, trying to catch his gaze. “So… what was the argument about?”
“…Xiu. He, uh, wants to ask her out.”
Allison considered this. “Okay? I mean, I can’t see that ending in her saying yes, but he’s a grown-ass man, I’m sure he’ll cope, and it might be good for her confidence. Why argue?”
“He might hurt her.”
She made an incredulous noise. “Are we talking about the same girl, here?” She asked. “Because I seem to recall the last man who hurt her, she whupped his ass and threw him out the airlock. So… why argue? She can take care of herself."
Julian wriggled out of her grip and picked up the hand tape. “I… don’t know.” he said, beginning to wind it back up.
“You don’t? You got into a shouting match with the guy and you don’t know why?”
“…Yeah.”
She blinked at him, then stepped back. “Why are you lying to me, Julian?”
He took a deep breath and released it as a complex sighing sound, full of noises that could have been attempts at starting a sentence.
“Well? Come on, give me real.”
“I-I was mad with him over… well, over Xiu.”
“Mad why? What are-” suspicion sniped her right in the forehead and her jaw dropped. “Julian, what…? Are you fucking *jealous?” *
The way he flinched and turned in on himself a bit more confirmed it. “You are? What, you thought you’d buy one get one free? You… you pig!"
“It’s not like that!”
“Oh, what IS it like, then?”
“What it’s like is that I’m down here beating the crap out of that thing-" he pointed at the bag “-because I’m super fucking angry at myself!” He finally made eye contact.
“As well you fucking should be!” she retorted.
“Well… I am!”
“Good!”
“I’m sorry!”
“You’re forgiven!”
The paradox posed by her still-angry tone versus her words shut him up long enough for the echoes caused by the gym’s hollow acoustics to die.
“I, uh… I am?” he asked, cautiously.
Allison coughed out a little breathy laugh and shook her head at the floor. “You are.” she said.
“You’re not mad?”
“Oh, I’m fucking mad alright.” She informed him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You lied to me, Julian. You tried to shut me out. That part pisses me off. Whatever’s going on in your head about Xiu? I can forgive that."
“You… can?”
“Sure. See, you got mad at yourself and came down here to work it out and you feel guilty about it. So, yeah. Fine. I forgive you. Heck I don’t blame you; I’m kinda fascinated by her myself, and I’m not usually into girls!” She jabbed him in the chest again. “But don’t ever lie to me like that again."
“…Yes ma’am.”
A sly smile spread across her face, and she looked him up and down. “…Ma’am, huh?”
“…Uh…” He scratched the back of his head “Well I mean… yeah, that’s what I said.”
“That’s kinda hot.” She mused, teasing him. “I could get used to that.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with this thumb, awkwardly, and looked away a little bit. “Well I, uh… I mean, I wasn’t really aiming for 'hot' but, um, I-if you want more of that, then… uh…"
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Hmm. Good boy.”
She watched his expression carefully. Noticed the way his breathing changed and the wariness in his eyes.
“Huh. You like being called a good boy, Etsicitty?” she asked.
He swallowed and nodded. “May-maybe a bit.” he confessed.
She ran a finger up him from belt buckle to chin, which seemed to paralyze him. “Hmm. Interesting…” she pondered, then looked up into his face. “Could be you’ve got a bit of a sub streak there. Wanna explore it?” She asked.
He licked his lips nervously. “You think? I mean, I’ve never…”
“Me either,” she confessed. “But the question stands. Wanna explore it?”
“…Yes ma’am.”
She grinned, and rewarded him with a kiss. “Good boy.”
Curiosity and mild alarm were dancing on Vedreg’s body as he considered what they had just heard. “That kind of argument seems out of character.” He commented
“For both of them.” Kirk agreed.
“Just a little.” Amir added, drily. “Julian’s scary when he gets angry, too, and Lewis just kept antagonising him. It was like watching a chicken try and pick a fight with a bear.”
“And all this over Miss Chang? Hmmm…” Vedreg lapsed into contemplation, slow bands of blue light rippling all over his body.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Kirk asked him, after a moment.
“Increased aggression, competition over females… If they were Vgork, I would think they were entering Musth.”
“Lewis has started taking his exercise seriously this last week, too.” Kirk mused. “Interesting theory.”
“Uh… For the Earthling’s benefit, please?”
Both aliens made apologetic gestures to Amir. “Vgork males of high rank periodically enter a state called musth where their testosterone levels soar, and they become violent, aggressive and, um… Amorous." Vedreg explained.
“Testosterone has a similar effect on humans, even though you don’t have Musth.” Kirk added.
“Okay, well… what about me and the girls? We don’t feel any different.” Amir paused. “At least, I don’t, and I think we’d notice if Xiu and Allison were both acting like Julian and Lewis.”
“So that rules out any environmental factors.” Kirk said. “Meaning this must have been triggered by a specific event.”
“Well, Lewis has always been… he’s always rolled his eyes a bit over my faith, but it started to get worse just after we left Umu-whatever. Where we picked up Xiu.”
“So, it’s an event within the past week. The Huh perhaps? None of the other humans studied it."
“Yeah, but you studied it too, didn’t you?”
“I’m not human. I’m not sure my body even produces testosterone. But even a week on, I still feel cravings to study that thing again.”
“You are not going to suggest we should get it out and examine it further, are you?” Vedreg asked.
“Don’t tempt me.” Kirk replied. “No, I think a simple trip to the infirmary for them both may be in order. If they are both experiencing a hormone spike, as seems likely, then that’s easily corrected.”
“I’ll call them.”
Xiu’s cabin was actually the most lavishly-decorated on the ship, despite her initial reluctance to put her stamp on it. Allison had pointed out that Xiu was "Going to spend at least, like, a month on this ship anyway, so why not get comfortable?"
The result was that she’d used up her entire month’s allowance of nanofactory time on fabrics, rugs, fairy lights, throw pillows and, with Kirk’s permission, candles. The result was that the cool default lighting of the cabins was warmer in her room, and there was a gust of scented candle on the wind when she answered Lewis’ knock.
“Hey.” She smiled, but he could tell that she was pretty frazzled. “What’s up?”
“Uh, I can come back if this isn’t a good time…”
“No, I’m fine, I just…” She yawned “…I didn’t sleep so well last night and I guess it’s catching up on me now.”
“Well, if you need a nap-”
She smiled. “I’m fine, really. What’s up?”
“Well…” he took the plunge. “Look, there’s not a whole lot to do on this ship, I know, but I’ve got some movies picked out I think you’d like, and I’m not a half-bad cook myself when I put my mind to it so, I thought… Y’know, we’ve been getting on pretty good, and…”
Her lips parted in surprise. “Are… are you asking me on a date?” she asked.
“Yeah! Or, like, on the closest thing we can manage to a date on this ship. If you want.”
“Wow, um…”
Lewis knew a rejection when he saw one coming and steeled himself for it, determined not to be disappointed.
“I mean… I’m flattered, but Lewis, I’m not ready to mate with anyone yet.”
All the steeling in the world couldn’t have protected his ego from that unexpected turn of phrase.
“…mate?!”
She hadn’t seemed to notice what she’d said until his outraged echo, but when she did her face went crimson. “Oh god, I’m sorry, that was in Gaoian, I…”
“No, no. Clearly I had the wrong idea here."
“Don’t be angry, I-!”
“Ah, go mate with yourself, Xiu!”
“But-!”
He was already halfway down the corridor, and pretended not to notice the sound of her door closing, nor the miserable shout of "God fucking DAMMIT, Xiu!" that drifted through it.
He barged past Vedreg on his way to his own quarters, ignoring the big alien’s concerned query, and threw himself into his bunk, fuming quietly.
The worst part was that he didn’t really know why he was so angry. The anger felt…wrong. Forced. He knew he shouldn’t be so mad, and that just made him madder.
He was still seething when the room chimed politely at him. "You have a message." it informed him.
“Ignore.”
"The message is flagged as urgent."
“I said fucking IGNORE!”
"Ignoring message."
“And hold all my messages until I say otherwise.”
The room chimed again, acknowledging the command, and fell silent.
He didn’t notice when he fell asleep, but he woke with a start some time later when somebody started banging on his door.
“Ah, yes. Testosterone levels at two thousand percent normal. Just like Julian.”
Lewis frowned at the readout. “The fuck?”
“Must have been the Huh. No wonder we’ve been acting like a pair of hyperthyroid quarterbacks." Julian told him.
“Fortunately…” Kirk said, touching something cold to his arm. “…It’s an easy fix. There. You should be back to normal in a couple of hours.”
“What about you?” Lewis asked of Kirk. “You played with that thing too.”
“And indeed, my own hormonal balance is off.” Kirk agreed.
Allison was leaning against the wall with her arms folded. “Really? I’ve not noticed you acting differently…?” she said.
“Human and Rrrtktktkp’ch brains are very different. Still, I suspect I too would have begun to show behavioral changes before long.”
Lewis sighed. “I guess I owe Xiu an apology, don’t I?”
“I am sure she will understand.” Kirk said.
“I’d better talk to her first, though.” Allison said. “What happened?”
“Oh, I… asked her out.”
“Yeah, I knew that. And?”
“Well, uh.” Lewis scratched at the back of his head. “She had one of those Gaoian moments. You know, she’s tired, she’s not been sleeping well? So she said she wasn’t 'looking to mate with anyone right now’."
Julian grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah, but it’s not her fault, is it? You said it yourself dude, she’s been without human contact for years. That’s got to fuck with your head.”
Kirk patted his shoulder. “It is not your fault either.” he assured him.
“Still.” Allison said. “I’ll go talk to her.”
“Sure.” Lewis muttered, as she kissed Julian’s cheek and left the Infirmary.
Xiu doesn’t remember having set up a hundred tea-light candles in her quarters, but she doesn’t question it: She’s making love to Julian, what better way to do that than by candlelight?
She runs her finger over his chest and watches his skin glow forge-red where she presses. The sight is entrancing, so much so that she forgets all about the sex and just watches the glow. When she taps his chest, coloured sparks fly everywhere.
She does it again, laughing, and again and again. She has always loved New Year, and the fireworks. In fact… why is she wasting her time here when she could be there, enjoying the celebrations?
She climbs off the stone man and steps out into the street, hailing a cab to take her to her parents’ place. There will be Nin Gou! And Luo buo gao! How could she have forgotten?
She’s still kicking herself for forgetting when she turned over and nearly fell out of bed, jolting awake in time to catch herself from falling.
She rolled back onto her pillow and stared at the ceiling, recalling the dream as the details evaporated, never to be recalled. What she could remember of it left her feeling hungry, horny and nostalgic all at once.
Cursing in a melange of English, Chinese and Gaoian, she dragged herself out of bed and into the shower, and cranked the temperature right down, and was still sluicing herself under the cold water when the door chimed.
“Just a minute!”
She scrubbed her limbs until they were merely damp and threw on her bathrobe, wrapping her hair up into a towel-turban. “Come in!”
Allison poked her head round it. “Hey, you okay?” she asked.
Xiu paused. “You heard?”
“Lewis is in the infirmary right now.” Allison said. “It turns out that fucking huh thing’s had the boys on a hormone rush all week."
“…Are they okay?"
“They’ll be fine.” Allison reassured her. “Lewis is probably going to come up here and say sorry later.”
Xiu sat down on her bed. “I don’t… really blame him.” she said. “I mean… okay, I do, but… I guess I mean…" she gave up and shrugged helplessly.
Allison just smiled. “I get you.” she said.
Xiu relaxed. “Thanks.”
“So… honey.” Allison sat down next to her. “Asking as a friend, and with no hard feelings at all…”
Not unnaturally, Xiu was immediately nervous. “Um… Yes?”
“What’s going on between you and my boyfriend?”
“Wh-? Nothing!" Xiu’s face was redder than her rug, and she stood up sharply. “Nothing! Really!”
“I know nothing’s happened." Allison reassured her. “I’m just asking… what’s going on?”
Xiu’s blush faded a little, and she dragged the towel off her head, bunching it up nervously. “I’m sorry, he’s just…hot.”
“Oh yeah.” Allison agreed, nodding, which drew a giggle out of Xiu. “And you’re lonely, aren’t you?” she added.
“…Yeah.”
Allison nodded. “And a bit confused, going by what you said to Lewis.”
Xiu sighed, and threw the towel into her laundry hamper. “I guess so.” she admitted. “It’s so much more… straightforward with Gaoians." She punctuated the pause and the word that ended it with her hands, then gestured towards the door and to Allison. “The whole 'he’s off limits because he’s with you' thing is… I mean, I know how it works, I haven’t forgotten, but it’s…" She tailed off and shrugged again, flapping her arms helplessly.
“Not what you’re used to?”
Xiu hissed an indrawn breath and flapped her arms again, shaking her head. “I guess it’s not.” she agreed.
“That’s gotta be scary.”
Xiu just nodded, staring at the floor, balling her fists. It was such a childlike pose that it yanked right at every motherly instinct Allison had, and she launched herself up off the bed to grab her friend in a tight hug.
She earned a soaking wet shoulder for her efforts as Xiu let go and shook, hugging back so hard that her fingernails broke skin even through Allison’s tshirt. “What if I can’t be human again?” she squeaked. “What if… what if I’m stuck? What do I do? Every time I think I’m doing well I relax and then I screw up again! What if I’m…. broken? Where do I go then?"
Allison said nothing, just held on and let her get it out.
“All I want to do is go home, but then I act like a Gaoian and I’m scared I’ll go home and people will think I’m a freak, and my family won’t recognise me and I won’t know them and I won’t fit… and… and it all feels like it happened to someone else, Earth, it feels like it wasn’t me who lived there, like I’m a Gaoian who had a dream about being human one time and… How do I cope? What do I do? I don’t think I know how to do anything human any more, but I’m not Gaoian… so… so… So where do I belong?!"
She petered out and just sobbed for a bit, while Allison rubbed her back and waited until she judged the time was right.
“You said all of that in English.” she said.
There was a slow moment, but the sobbing stopped, and another slow moment after that, Xiu pulled her head out of Allison’s shirt and blinked at her with watery red eyes. “I did?”
“Every word.” Allison promised.
Xiu relaxed a little, and stood up straight, issuing a bitter little laugh as she dried her eyes. “I’m so messed up…” she observed.
“Nobody wouldn’t be.” Allison said, brushing some of Xiu’s hair out of the way. “But we’re here for you. We get you, Julian maybe even more than I do. And if you’re broken, you’ll mend, or you’ll find somebody to mend you.”
Xiu was nodding, downcast, but Allison wasn’t quite finished. “And as for where you belong…”
“Don’t say here.” Xiu interrupted. “Please, don’t ask me again.”
Allison hugged her again. “I was going to say I don’t think anybody belongs anywhere." she said. “Except for where they choose to be. Wherever that is.”
Xiu finally smiled again as that sank in. It was a reluctant, unhappy little smile, but it was still like the sun rising. “I like that.” she said.
“Kind of my mantra, babe… You okay?”
Xiu scrubbed at her eye again, sniffing. “I don’t know.” she said. “I hope so.”
Allison nodded. “Good start.” she said. “And… about Julian?”
“Yeah?”
“I trust him, and I trust you. Whatever’s going on is, uh…you aren’t allowed to kiss him.”
That finally provoked a giggle. “I’ll try not to,” Xiu promised.
“Cool…Girl’s night? I’ve got Disney movies, wine, and a shirtless waiter. My treat.”
“Shirtl-? Wait, really?!”
“Well, he doesn’t know it yet…" Allison smiled mischievously “But… call it a hunch, I think he’ll agree to it. It’s just a bit of fun. You in?”
“…Can I make crepes? I’m kinda hungry.”
“Sounds good.”
“Then I’m in.”
“This, uh… this could get awkward…”
Allison paused as they were about to open the door to the common room. “Are you okay?”
Julian fidgeted. “I know I agreed to this, just…”
She smiled, and gave him a kiss. “It’s not like I’ve got a cattle prod, baby.” she said. “If you’re not totally comfortable, don’t even worry about it. I just thought it’d be a bit of harmless, sexy fun. But if you don’t want to…”
Julian considered it, then shook his head and smiled. “No, I’m in.” he said. “Comfort zones are meant to be pushed out of.”
“You’re sure?”
He grabbed her hand and put it on his chest, letting her feel his pulse.
“Wow… you’re getting off on this, huh?” she noted.
He nodded and looked down, fighting the half-smile that was crawling up one side of his face. “A bit, yeah.”
“Good boy.” Allison teased him, then opened the door.
Xiu was just setting down the crepes she’d made - true Canadian ones, laden with ham, cheese, sunny-side-up eggs and maple syrup - on the coffee table alongside popcorn and nachos. From the looks of things, she’d already helped herself to a glass of wine.
“Ooh!” she exclaimed. “You gave him a bow tie!”
Julian fingered the adornment in question. “These things aren’t made to be worn on bare skin.” he complained.
“It’s that or the cat ears.” Allison reminded him.
“Bow tie it is!” Julian rushed to reply, preempting the delight that had risen on Xiu’s face. She made a disappointed sound, but also took a second to unabashedly appreciate the view. Both women were clearly enjoying themselves.
“Well I’ll be kind.” Allison said. “You can pick three films out, we’ll eliminate two of them and watch the survivor.”
“Very kind.” Julian drawled, sarcastically. Allison held up a finger.
“Ah?” she cautioned him.
He sighed, but smiled a little and straightened, trying to will himself into the role. “Yes ma’am.”
Xiu giggled. “Good boy.” She’d clearly already relaxed considerably after just one glass, and looked on course to be a happy, bubbly drunk.
“So, what are your picks?” Allison urged him, pouring a glass each for herself and Xiu.
He examined the stack of Disney movies. “Uh… Dumbo…" He said, picking one they hadn’t watched yet.
“Ugh, not Dumbo. I hate those pink elephants." Allison objected. Julian threw the disc back onto the stack.
“Okay… Lady and the Tramp,and Mulan"
Xiu perked up even more. “Mulan’s my favorite!"
“Hmmm…It’s got better songs, too…” Allison mused.
“Let’s watch it!” Xiu enthused.
Allison winked at their waiter. “You heard her, lover! Jump to!”
He tried to be serious, but couldn’t quite contain a smile. “Yes ma’am.”
The girls chimed their glasses together. “Good boy.” they chorused.
"♪♫Tranquil as a forest, but on fire within! Once you find your center, you are sure to win!♫♫"
“Sounds like quite the party back there.”
“Yep.” Amir nodded. What the girls lacked in hitting the right notes, they were clearly making up for in tipsy enthusiasm.
“How come we’re not invited?”
“Allison called it a 'girl’s night’."
“So, what’s Julian doing back there?”
“Serving drinks, with his shirt off.”
Lewis paused. After being discharged from the infirmary, and using the fading dregs of hormonal aggression in his system to his advantage, he’d enlisted Amir’s help in solving the mystery of the FTL drive power draw. Now, he stopped and listened to two voices atonally chorusing "♫swift as the coursing river, with all the force of a great typhoon…♪“. The volume was impressive even through a closed pressure door and down the deck.
“Wow…” he managed. He wasn’t sure if he felt jilted, sympathetic or like he was hearing justice in action.
Amir nodded. “Yep.”
"♫…As the dark side of, the mooOoOoOon!!!♫♪"
“…What do you think would happen if we asked them to do a topless waitress night for us?”
“Broken ribs.”
“Fuck, man.” Lewis griped. “That’s just not fair.”
Amir smirked. “Nope.”
“….Change of topic, where’s Kirk at, anyway?”
“Think he’s up in the observation blister looking for signs of OmoAru life out there.”
“After that sandstorm?" Lewis looked skeptical.
“It’s their planet. They’re probably used to it. He said something about wanting to see what they do after a week of being forced indoors”
“Why’s that?”
"♫You’re unsuited for the rage of war, so pack up, go home: you’re through.♪"
Amir raised his voice over the song. “He said that anything they do straight away is probably something they’re still at least a little passionate about.”
"♫How could I make a man out of you?♪"
Lewis wobbled his head in concession. “Makes sense I guess.”
“Pardon?” The girls had launched into the chorus again, with even more cacophonous vigor than before.
“I said makes sense!"
“Yep.”
The volume increased dramatically as the door opened and Julian slipped out into the deck, holding an empty wine bottle, and vanished into the galley, from whence he re-emerged a minute later with a full bottle. To both Amir and Lewis’ astonishment, he seemed to be enjoying himself.
“…Are you sure we couldn’t get them to…?”
“Nope.”
"The Fifth Element and lingerie?"
“Go ahead and suggest it. It’s your funeral.”
“…Shit.”
Amir smiled grimly. “Yep.”
By the time the movie had finished, Amir had already declared that the limits of his technical expertise were reached, and that from here on out it was all up to Lewis, before retiring to bed.
For his part, Lewis was determined to pull an all-nighter, and the only thing that distracted him from his work was when he saw Allison and Julian on the security cams, en route to Julian’s cabin and all bar stripping each other on the way there.
He genuinely didn’t notice Xiu, or know how long she’d been waiting in the doorframe, until she spoke, but her greeting “Hey.” was so gentle that it didn’t even make him jump.
He turned. “Hey.” he echoed.
A good five seconds of mutual awkwardness ensued before he finally decided to break it. “I’m sorry.” he said. “I shoulda been more understanding.”
“I’m sorry too.” she replied. “I just… I guess I’ve got a long way to go.”
He nodded. “It’s okay. Still, even if it’s just a friend-date, offer stands.”
She smiled. He wasn’t sure if it was the wine that was making her so relaxed, or if she was just in a good headspace right now. "Xie xie."
“No Disney though, please.”
“That’s okay… Goodnight, Lewis.”
“G’night.”
Allison came down from her orgasm with laughter, the low and satisfied chuckle of the totally relaxed, and floated on bliss as Julian gently retrieved his hand and snuggled up beside her, interrupting her heavy breathing with a kiss and a gentle stroke on the cheek to get her hair out of the way.
“I think she liked it.” he observed in a sing-song whisper, his eyes twinkling in the dark. He was plainly very pleased with himself.
As he should be.
“Mmmm, yeah.” she agreed. “Oh, I definitely like it.”
“You like to be in charge, huh?”
She giggled. “Shut up and go get your mistress a glass of water.”
He laughed, but extracted his arm from under her head. “Yes ma’am.”
“Mmm…” She bit her lip and chuckled again. “Good boy.”
Xiu is sitting by a lake. Or by a river, maybe: the details are irrelevant. The sun is rising blue and cold over a landscape of white-foliaged trees and swirling distant shapes that might be birds, or maybe eels. She is wearing long skirts of white cloth. The mist should be chilly but she feels quite warm, watching a green fish swirl and mouth lazily in circles by the shore.
She catches it, reaching into the stream and pulling it out. It flips and flails in her hands and, to calm it, she opens it to page fifty-six and tries to read what is printed there, but she can’t make out the words.
As she bends to return the poor creature to the water, she catches sight of her own reflection and examines it, surprised to see a human face studying her. Where is her fur? What happened to her ears and muzzle?
But of course, she’s human.
…Isn’t she?
She turns to face the stone man behind her, seeking his opinion. This time he is taller than mountains, and he bends to offer her his hand.
She steps forward onto his fingertips, and he picks her up, and up, and up, past his knees, past a penis the size of a skyscraper, past square miles of muscular sculpture, to his face.
She speaks to him, but can’t remember the words, or even what she intends to say. She turns around, thinking about what to tell him, how to communicate her feelings, and looks over the side of the boat she’s on, double-checking that her reflection is still human.
The stone man comes up beside her and takes her hand.
He sings to her, but the song is piercing, terrifying. It sounds like… like…
She woke up and his “song” was still reverberating around her room. It was Sanctuary’s red alert alarm.
Kirk had beaten all the humans to the flight deck. “What the hell’s going on?” he was demanding.
Lewis was working furiously, selecting, drag-dropping and running programs as fast as his hands could move, “We’re compromised, don’t ask me how!” He said. “One minute I’m poking around the FTL systems, next-”
“FTL?”
“Yeah, there’s been some weird power draw on it this week, I was trying to lock it down. Next I knew we’ve got these motherfuckers crawling all over our systems." He waved a hand at the screen.
Kirk rocked back onto his hindlimbs as Amir squeezed past him and threw himself into the pilot’s seat, lending his own limited expertise to Lewis’ aid. “And what are 'these motherfuckers’?" he asked, quietly.
“Fuck if I know. They’re using system runtime like programs, but they’re acting like other users.”
“What exactly were you doing?"
“Now is not the time for a fucking powerpoint presentation.” Lewis snarled, dragging a program into the run list. It apparently didn’t function as he’d hoped, drawing an angry noise out of him. “They just got into navigation, they know where we are.”
"Did you run a communications protocol through the FTL?" Kirk spat.
Lewis paused, but rallied and threw another script into the line of fire. “Yeah, how did you know?”
Kirk ignored him and spun around. “Julian, yank the blackbox FTL, replace it with the backup warp engine,” he ordered. “Xiu, Allison, get outside and cut the anchor cables. Amir, prep for launch.”
“What the shit is going on?” Lewis demanded. Kirk turned back to him.
“I fucked up.” he said. “And now the Hierarchy have found us.”
Fusion knives made short work of the anchor cables, and the longest part of Julian’s task was the sprint down the ship’s central corridor, up the stairs and through the engineering access hatch.
“We’re a week from anywhere, we’re probably safe… aren’t we?” Amir was asking as the girls returned to the flight deck to report their job done.
“They have point-to-point FTL communications, something the Dominion has been trying to perfect for… millennia.” Kirk replied. “For all we know they’ve perfected single-end wormholes or gigalight FTL for good measure. Or maybe Aru is one of their projects and they have a ship or a staging post nearby. Our only defense at this point is to get the hell out of here and hope they’re too far away to catch up. Lewis, you’re sure you managed to clear them out?”
“Second the blackbox was yanked, I was able to nuke the whole system and restore from backup. Nothing’s come back to haunt us, so… yeah, we’re clean.”
“Amir.”
Amir nodded and stabbed the button for a shipwide announcement. “All hands, report in for launch.”
There was a chorus of “here”s from around the bridge and, after a few seconds, a rumble from Vedreg over the open line that he, too, was present.
“Right.”
Sanctuary went from resting on the sands, to hovering above them, then rotated around its stern until its nose was aimed skywards. Angry clouds formed in the displaced air around a cylindrical forcefield tunnel of vacuum that Amir created for them and then he punched to full thrust.
Allison turned faintly green as the ground just vanished, lurching away behind them with a violence that offended the senses, while nobody on the ship felt the slightest jolt. The sky faded to black in seconds.
“Jesus, this thing really moves." Xiu whispered, awe-struck.
“Out of the well in three… two… one… Warp.”
The planet Aru jolted away with just as much ferocity as its surface had done, as did all three of its moons. A second later, so did the Aru star.
“Redline it?” Amir asked. He sounded quite cool, considering.
“Redline it.” Kirk agreed. Amir just nodded and patted his console fondly, reassuring the ship.
“Seventy kilos.” he reported, watching a display that was blurring in his upper-right field of view. “A hundred. two hundred. Four hundred… we’re at blackbox cruise. Seven hundred kilolights… Bus maxed at seven hundred ninety thousand C and holding."
“Let us hope.” Kirk said. “That is enough.”
“We should be careful anyway.” Julian pointed out.
“Agreed. Grab your personal items and put any you can’t carry, along with a data backup and…. yes, the Huh into a cargo pod and program it for Cimbrean. I’ll go help Vedreg into a life raft. You all should get in one too."
“What about Amir?” Xiu asked.
“Don’t worry about me.” Amir said. “The flight seat doubles as a life raft. So do the beds in all the cabins.”
“Go.” Kirk urged. “I don’t want to trust to luck here.”
Julian turned to the girls. “You two get the Huh. I’ll prep the pod." he said.
They let Kirk go first: he trotted down the axial corridor and toward the lower cargo deck where Vedreg had made his home. Every emergency feature on the ship was outlined in blue lighting, from the hallway oxygen masks, first aid kits and fire extinguishers, to the life raft alcoves and decontamination showers. Kirk had spared no expense on ensuring that the ship’s occupants had every emergency tool they could want, cleverly hidden so that it only showed up when needed. Now they were all deploying, panels sliding back to reveal the functional features beneath.
“You got anything special you want to save?” Allison asked. Xiu checked her pocket, gripping the handful of personal items she’d brought with her. It wasn’t much - just the data chip Ayma had brought for her, and one of the smooth little stones that Myun had taken to sewing into her clothes.
“No, I’ve already got everything.” she said.
“Great.” Kirk turned off the corridor and Allison took off at a run, leaving Xiu to scramble after her. Down the ramp, through the common room, up the ramp, turn left past the engineering access, and Allison’s room was the second on their left. She punched in the door code, darted inside, and returned an instant later carrying a knotted bundle of T-shirt and strapping on her holster and gun.
She’d just done up the leg strap when Amir’s voice boomed over the intercom.
“BRACE, BRACE, BRACE!!”
They didn’t have time. He’d barely finished the third word when the ship lurched, flinging both of them down the corridor.
Xiu tucked in her head and limbs and rolled, not unfolding until she’d come to a halt, finding herself fetched up against the reinforced backplate of the engine that terminated the deck corridor. Allison had come to a halt a little earlier, and was hauling herself to her feet, swearing and cursing at the carpet burn all down her flank.
Somebody had clearly left the microphone on because the next thing they heard was Julian’s voice, sounding strained, saying. “Shit, that’s a lot of blood…”
Both women went still, looked at each other, and as one bolted back up towards the flight deck, Allison at a dead run. Xiu had the presence of mind to grab a medical kit from its previously-hidden recess on the wall.
Down the ramp, through the common room, up the ramp, along the corridor and… Xiu felt her stomach lurch. That was a lot of blood.
And beyond that… space.
“What the hell happened?” Allison was yelling. The bubble of glass that was Sanctuary’s nose was half shattered, the air held in only by forcefields. Amir was writhing in his seat, teeth gritted as he tried to press his hand to a horrible wound in his side.
“Gravity spike and mines!” Lewis replied. He’d hauled himself out of his seat and grabbed a medical kit of his own.
“Clear out!” Allison commanded, grabbing the kit. “Julian! give him a shot of this, right here.” she handed an injector to him and tapped a spot on Amir’s spine, then extracted something that looked for all the world like a sealant gun from the kit. “Xiu, get me a light!”
Xiu’s paralysed limbs moved without her conscious control, and she snatched an emergency lantern from the wall, holding it up and trying to ignore the… colours, and wet shapes she could see. Especially the white. Especially the way they moved as Allison pumped some kind of foam into the gruesome injury.
The injector beeped, and a second later Amir sighed, shook his head and collected himself. With a gasp, he lashed out and swiped his hands through the helm’s control field and the stars outside blurred sideways. Xiu screwed her eyes shut.
“That’s a lot of mines!” he grunted.
“You’re stable.” Allison declared. “Come on, let’s get you in a stasis pod.”
He shook his head, his face already pebbled with sweat. “Can’t.”
“Wh-?”
Everyone on the bridge flinched and averted their eyes as a line of pure heat slashed a blue-pink afterimage across the sky. Xiu felt the incredible temperature of it on her skin.
“What was that?!" Julian asked.
Lewis looked grim “Plasma cannon.”
“It’s a fuckhuge ship, is what it is.” Amir told them. “I stop flying and you’re all dead.”
“But-” Lewis began.
“Nah mate. Abandon ship. That’s a bloody order from your pilot.”
Another shot tore the sky open, much closer this time if the searing heat that bathed them like sunburn was anything to go by.
Julian, Allison and Xiu were all survivors. Julian just stood and put a hand on Amir’s shoulder, eyes damp. Allison kissed the side of his head, and the three of them cleared the bridge, with Xiu not even knowing what to say.
It was Lewis that was the holdup. “Dude…” he began, weeping openly.
“You don’t want to be here when I ram that thing, bruv.” Amir told him.
“You’re gonna-?”
Amir gave him a tight, pinched at him "Fuck off you idiot!"
Lewis nodded, grabbed the back of Amir’s head, touched forehead to forehead and nose to nose.
“Goodbye, dude.” He whispered.
Amir made a sound that might have been amusement and might have been frustration. Either way, he was smiling. "GO." he repeated.
Lewis finally obeyed him.
Down the corridor, down the ramp, through the common room, up the ramp. Xiu turned at the junction by engineering hatch. “Lewis come on!" she called.
He was halfway across the common area when something hit them, hard, and ripped a chunk out of Sanctuary’s living quarters the length of a shipping container. The destroyed section vanished in a whirl of air and pulverized metal, and only the millisecond timing of containment forcefields prevented the adjacent areas from decompressing… but they left Lewis trapped on the far side. He sprang to his feet, slapped the forcefield in frustration, then gesticulated back towards the lower decks, flipped them a salute and ran.
A second hit rocked them even harder than the first.
Xiu stared after him, praying silently that he’d make it, before remembering to pray that they would, too.
“Xiu! MOVE!” Allison’s desperate yell got through to her, and she scrambled upright. Julian was punching the door code with shaking fingers, missing the right keys, and Allison was fidgeting next to him. The gravity seemed to have gone wrong, and she felt like she was standing on a steep hill, which was probably why Julian and Allison were both holding on to the handrails.
Something smashed a hole straight through the ceiling and out the deck. Not a big hole. But one that killed their section’s power supply.
Without it the lighting, the gravity, and the atmospheric containment fields all failed, and that little hole got abruptly wider as all of their precious atmosphere tried to bully its way out.
It wasn’t a wind. Wind wasn’t an adequate word. Instead, the last sound those air molecules would ever carry was the rising howl of their own escape, and Xiu’s mortal shriek as the maelstrom decompression tore her loose and threw her toward infinity.
Allison couldn’t let go of the handrail without being dragged away as well, but she kicked out and with a frantic speed and precision that no snake had ever managed, Xiu snatched at and grabbed her ankle. From Allison’s expression the rescue clearly cost her a wrenched knee, but that was the least of their trouble right now: The rescue was only a temporary one. As the last of the air fled, their lives were now measured in seconds, if that.
'Hard Vacuum' had always seemed like an oxymoronic term. Now Julian understood it intimately. He tasted copper and pain as the saliva boiled in his mouth, and he could feel the blood under his skin threatening to do the same. Though his eyes watered to defend themselves against the desiccating void, the tears fizzed off of his eyeballs as soon as they were made. Burning frost formed on his ears, nose, eyebrows, fingers, lips. His ears, so recently abused by explosions and alarms, now rang in the silence to drown out the eerie way that his own heartbeat echoed around his body. His chest heaved and creaked, pressing down on unnaturally empty lungs that themselves were seething and screaming with boiling fluids and ebullism.
By some miracle - either by a happy accident of alien incompetence, or a rare moment of actual engineering ingenuity - the doors to the cabins had all flung themselves wide open the moment the power failed, clearing a way to the bunks, each one of which was a life raft.
Those open doors were the difference between life and death for all three of them. With only seconds at the outside until they passed out and died, having to punch in the door code would have killed them. Instead, they had exactly one shot.
He grabbed Allison’s wrist and heaved, flinging her through the nearest door and towards its bed with Xiu still trailing from her ankle, and hauled himself through after them. They crashed together into the bunk, and with what felt like it was surely the last of his strength, Julian grabbed the bright blue handle that had popped out of its covers, and yanked it down.
It broke.
It also worked. The bunk’s built-in quantum power core fired, and they collapsed onto the mattress as gravity reasserted itself. Forcefields went up even as the walls came down, and emergency air tanks explosively vented into the enclosed space, painfully slamming into every vacant bronchiole of their lungs.
Even Deathworlders could do nothing but lie there, convulsing weakly and coughing.
The life raft was built for flimsier beings, however. As delicately as a new mother afraid that her baby will break at the slightest touch, it enfolded them, wrapped them in layers of protection, slipped its moorings, and escaped.
There were lights in the top of his control interface that told Amir how many life rafts had launched, but he couldn’t spare the millisecond to glance at it. All he knew was that at least some of them were blinking. Which meant that at least some of his friends were safe.
That was enough. There was no time to wait for more.
He threw Sanctuary into something not dissimilar to a Herbst maneuver, modified in ways that only a high-powered spaceship could achieve in vacuum. A volley of coilgun and plasma fire that should have evaporated them on the spot missed several kilometers to the fore as what had been a transverse target became an oncoming dart, accelerating so hard that the ship’s superstructure creaked, even with the forcefield assistance.
“Ship.”
It chimed its readiness for an order, and he gave one, quite calm and quiet, despite the ragged difficulty he was having breathing.
“Show me Earth.”
The blue dot appeared in his field of view, and he thanked Allah that he had one last chance to look homewards before he died.
Time to say goodbye. He conjured what little strength was left in his aching ribs, and spoke the last and most important words of his life.
"There is only one God, and Mohammad is His proph-"
++0042++: "Signal Lost“? Did we just lose an experimental dreadnought to an unarmed yacht?
++0007++: It doesn’t matter. Priority Target One has still been killed. That’s worth the loss.
++0042++: Are you absolutely sure?
++0007++: Do you have a spare ship able to get there anytime in the next few months to check?
++0033++: That was the only free-point jump ship we had and you know it.
++0007++: Well, then.
++0012++: That seems… complacent, Seven.
++0042++: Not to mention being a non-sequitur.
++0007++: If PT1 somehow survived that and resurfaces, we will know about it instantly. He won’t be able to build a replacement ship without our knowledge. Even if he is not in fact dead, he is still neutralized.
++0042++: …Conceded.
++0012++: Conceded.
++0030++: Clearly the free-point jump project needs more work. We were exceptionally lucky. A margin of error in the exit location greater than three parsecs is just not acceptable.We had a three-in-four chance of being out of range to intercept.
++0067++: That margin of error is a product of quantum inherent uncertainty. I’ll await your success in overcoming that with considerable interest.
++0004++: And we have put paid to those unwelcome intrusions into our systems. Even with the loss of the dreadnought, this has been a successful day.
++0007++: Agreed.
++0012++: Agreed.
++0004++: Ending session. Good work.
<System Notification: Session Closed>
<Redirecting: Subnet Mask ????????? Port ?????>
++????++: So, what exactly happened, Six?
++????++: “Jim” didn’t see fit to brief his crew. Not a foolish idea, but from the looks of things his network security expert was tenacious and inventive enough to identify the link, and his probing it revealed the intrusion to Four, who ordered us in. For the sake of keeping the Cabal a secret, we had to play along.
++????++: At least your cover as Seven is still intact.
++????++: At least there is that, yes. I think we should put a moratorium on bringing meatspace agents into this channel from now on.
++????++: Seconded.
++????++: Agreed.
++????++: That seems sensible, assuming our own activity won’t generate similar errors.
++????++: It won’t. “Seven” managed to patch at least that little problem.
++????++: Good. What about “Jim”?
++????++: If he survived, we’ll be hearing from him soon. I hope.
<System Notification: Channel Closed>
Xiu is back in the commune on Gao.
She knows this, because she is dreaming, and it’s a familiar dream and a good one. A dream of warmth and safety, of a strong chest, and an arm around her. One where she always realises that she is dreaming about ten seconds before Myun begins to bounce all over her, summoning her to a new day.
Her eyes flutter open, and she frowns in confusion. There are a few extra details in the dream this time: The hand lightly hugging her waist. The breath rippling her hair. The leg that her own leg is thrown over, and the foot moving against her own foot. A dull, emphatic soreness in every cell of her body. The blonde head that’s asleep on the opposite side of that strong chest, also with an arm around her and with a little roll of T-shirt bunched in her fist.
The owner of that head looks in a bad way: her face is puffy and bruised and there is a tear-streak down the fold by her nose that has an alarming dried- blood hint to it. Her breath has a phlegmy, rough edge.
Why is Allison in my dream?
Weisheme wǒ name tengle?
Oh.
“We slept?”
Julian’s chest moved, and she enjoyed the sound of air rushing into it, and the way the word "Yeah" reverberated warmly within him, just below her ear. It distracted her from all the pain her vacuum-abused body was trying to tell her about. “We all did. For a couple of hours.” he murmured, almost whispering.
She looked up. They were kissing-close, so near that she could feel the warmth of his face. The inside of the liferaft was lit only by orange and blue lights which reflected in his eyes, though those eyes were bloodshot behind the reflections. “Guess getting spaced does that to you.” he added.
She shivered and tried to burrow into his side to escape the memory of the raping touch of nothing, fighting back a horrible flashback of being about to die and powerless to stop it. He gave her a little squeeze, and she whimpered a small pain sound as he accidentally massaged a muscle that had so recently been cramping from the Bends. He immediately flinched back from the hug with a whispered “Sorry.”
She tried to move to relieve the discomfort but found that she was practically paralysed, and that the pathetic range of motion she could summon the strength for was excruciating. Fishing for something to talk about to distract her from the gnawing concern for her own well-being, she alighted on an urgent question “The others?” She whispered so as to avoid waking Allison. “Have you heard from them?”
His chapped lips went thin and his jaw twisted as he answered by gently shaking his head.
“Oh…”
“On the plus side, It doesn’t look like the ship that attacked us had backup, so we’re probably safe to set course for civilization.”
“Hmm.” she agreed and lowered her head onto his shoulder for a second.
It occurred to her that he was holding her, in exactly the same way that he was holding Allison. “Uhm…” she twisted to try and look at his arm, which was resting lightly around her shoulders, his hand light on her waist.
“Hmm? Oh!” He started to remove the arm, twisting to extract his shoulder from under her head, moving awkwardly and clearly in terrible pain himself. “Sorry.”
“No! No… I-I don’t mind…” she stopped him by rubbing her head into his shoulder to drive home the point. Despite everything, despite what they had just been through, despite the crippling effects of vacuum exposure, having that arm around her felt safe, here in the quiet. “It’s just…”
“What?”
Xiu smiled sadly at Allison’s face, sleeping only inches away from her own. “She’s not into sharing…” she said, then added without thinking: “Unfortunately.”
Julian stopped breathing for a second. "Um…"
“Sorry.” Xiu said, then realised just what she’d said and rolled her face into his shirt, burying her sudden tears there. “I’m sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t… I didn’t mean… I mean, I did but… God, I don’t know where my head’s at right now. I’m sorry."
“Hey. It’s fine.” He said, and squeezed her again. “I get you.”
She looked back up at him. “I’m sorry.” she repeated.
Both of them jumped slightly when Allison made a noise that sounded equal parts amused, sleepy and agonised. “’s okay.” she murmured. “Just don’t kiss him.”
The joking echo of their earlier conversation at least allowed Xiu to quash her treacherous impulse to do exactly that. Instead she echoed Julian’s weak chuckle with a watery little laugh of her own and smeared her cheeks dry with the heel of one palm.
“So what happens next?” she asked.
“Head for civilization, I guess.” Allison replied, hauling herself up onto one elbow with a pained groan. "God. I feel awful."
“Yeah, well, we got fucking lucky.” Julian said. "One second longer, none of us would have made it."
“Jesus.” Allison rasped. She coughed, and frowned at the red spatter on her palm. “We’d better get our asses somewhere with a hospital, huh?” she croaked.
“Yeah, uh… I’ve got… bad news on that front.” Julian revealed.
“What?”
“This thing only does one kilolight.”
Allison’s expression fell. “Oh. Shit.”
Xiu looked back and forth between them. “That’s… slow, isn’t it?”
“It’s about five hundred times slower than Sanctuary’s cruising speed." Julian said. “And even for Sanctuary it was a week’s travel back to the nearest station with an FTL relay."
“So for us, that’s… oh.” Mental arithmetic caught up with what he was saying. “Ten years?"
“Should be less. Kirk told me once that the Dominion and Alliance both offer a big reward for picking up castaways, so we should be grabbed as soon as we’re back within a few hundred light years of a major spacelane.” He coughed, and there was a rattle in it. “’Course, that still leaves us God-knows how far from medical attention… ”
“Just give us the best-case, babe.” Allison groaned. “How long?”
“…About… five or six years.” Julian admitted. It wasn’t much of an improvement.
“Does this thing even have supplies for that long?” Xiu asked, not even wanting to think about trying to recover in that cramped little space without a doctor or room to exercise.
“It doesn’t need them. It has a stasis field.”
“So you hit the button and we’re either rescued instantly or we die instantly.” Allison said. “Great.”
He shrugged, eloquently expressing with just his shoulders that it was a better option than dying slowly in a little box with no room to even stand up. “Shall I?”
Allison hauled herself up with a little "nnngh" sound through gritted teeth and kissed him, just a one-second meeting of lips. To Xiu’s surprise, she leaned over and gave her a kiss too, on the forehead. “You ready?” she asked.
Xiu swallowed, and nodded. “I’m ready,” she lied.
Julian pressed the button.
Later in her life, Xiu often wrestled with the question of whether or not she truly experienced that moment stretched out thin like the universe had stuttered, or if it was just her memory playing tricks on her.
No sooner had he pushed it than there was a voice talking to them, in what was unmistakably real, spoken English rather than a translation.
"Hello in there. You’re being rescued by the United States Air Force." it said. "Before we pop the hatch, we just want to warn you guys that we’re humans from Earth, so if there’s any special precautions you need us to take to protect you from harm, you let us know."
Julian tapped their end of the comm. “No need, pal.” he grunted, stress and fear clearly falling off him, despite the tortured edge to his voice. “We’re American.”
“Hey!” Xiu objected, faintly appalled at herself for still caring about the difference right now.
“…Alright, two Americans and one Canadian.”
"Three humans? Jackpot! You all okay in there?"
_"_Three cases of recent vacuum exposure." Julian put it straight out there. “We really need a doctor, fella."
“Copy that. Sit tight folks, we’ll have you out of there in a minute."
The hatch opened sixty seconds later practically to the second, and a handsome face in some kind of pressure suit, minus the helmet, looked inside.
Even in her ravaged condition, Xiu found time to wonder whether every man in space was gorgeous or if she was just that starved, but this guy looked like he’d be able to wrestle Hercules with one arm and punch out Thor with the other. He was a long way shy of tall - in fact he was shorter than Julian - but the body under that pressure suit must have been pure muscle: Everything he lacked in height, he packed on in breadth and depth.
“Shit, you guys weren’t kidding about the medical attention,” he commented, revealing himself to be the same voice from the radio, and hauled himself easily into their capsule.
“You should see the other guy,” Allison quipped.
“Hah! Bueno." He turned and said something to whoever was waiting outside, then ran a practiced eye over the three of them and approached Xiu first.
“Hey, can you try and grip my hand for me?” he asked. When he took her hand, he felt strong enough to crush the bones to powder, and he put another hand on her opposite shoulder. She felt a curious coldness there for a second.
She tried. She really did. But her fingers barely twitched, and she swallowed down on her fear.
“Okay, that’s fine. I’m just gonna get this board under you and we’ll get you taken care of, alright?”
The easy way he inveigled a board under her body in the cramped space and strapped her to it proved it. This guy was strong, in a way that made Xiu reflect briefly on what it must have been like for the Gaoians whenever they got a demonstration of her own strength.
“What’s your name?” he asked, hauling her out of the life raft as easily as if she was made of packing foam and laughter, and managing to avoid exacerbating the deep ache in her bones.
“Uh…” It was hard to remember for a second, but the knowledge came back to her. Her vision was going funny, darkening at the edges. “I’m Xiu. Xiu Chang.”
“Nice to meet you, Xiu.” he replied, as somebody took the other end of her board and together they lifted her onto a gurney.
“A-a-and you?” she asked, though it was hard to find volume for some reason. “Uh… what’s your name?”
He took her hand, and there as a power in his grip that she used to anchor herself to the right here and right now. She was home. She was safe. She just had to hold on a little longer.
After all she’d been through, she knew she could do it.
“I’m Adam.” he told her, and his name carried her down into a place where dreams could never find her. “Staff Sergeant Adam Ares, USAF Pararescue.”
Chapter 25
Chapter 22: “Warhorse” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 4y 10m AV
Dominion Embassy Station, Earth/Luna L1 point, Sol system
Dr. Anees Hussein
Shaking hands with a Corti was an exercise in delicacy. Dr. Hussein thought of himself as an old and increasingly frail man, but he still had the grip strength to cause serious harm to the alien’s hand if he applied a little too much vigor. So it wasn’t so much a handshake as a hand_touch._
Still. It was a civil, civilized gesture, and that alone was a mark of just how much his relationship with the Directorate’s ambassador, Medra--and through them both, Earth’s relationship with the Corti Directorate--had evolved in a relatively short space of time.
“Thank you for seeing me.” he said, gratefully taking his seat when the Corti had gestured towards it with those long, fine-boned fingers that he could so easily have pulverized.
Medra affected a small, businesslike smile. “Thank you for asking nicely.” he retorted. “The Gaoians continue to think they can just barge into my office whenever they please.”
“The Gaoians don’t want something from you.” Hussein replied. He had quickly learned that the Corti truly loved the direct approach. If you irritated them, they could skate and slide around the issue and deal in lies and half-truths with the best of them, but if you cut straight to the matter at hand and phrased things bluntly, they responded in kind and pretty soon you had either a deal or an argument. It had been true of Medra’s predecessor, and it was true of Medra.
After the tangled web of his home country’s politics, it was paradise.
“Indeed? That seems like a deviation from your previous position.”
“There has been a change of strategy.” Anees revealed. “Opportunities that we are now considering the possibility of exploiting, to the mutual benefit of any species who partners with us in exploiting them.”
Medra sat back. “Please don’t be vague, Doctor.”
“All in good time. I would rather tell you what we need. I’m sure you will see our intent soon enough.”
“Please, do tell me.” Medra replied. That was another thing about Corti psychology. They couldn’t resist having both their ego flattered and their intellect challenged at the same time.
“Two things. We would like to purchase from you the technology to make a lightweight load-bearing exoskeleton that does not require a power source to provide assistance to a moving wearer.”
“Trivial. The other?”
“A drug. Cruezzir.”
Medra sat forward. “That is not going to happen.” he stated, bluntly.
“Why not?”
“Cruezzir has a history of interacting…dangerously with human physiology. It has created two of the most notorious and effective criminals the galaxy has ever seen, in fact.”
“Yes, I’ve read their files.” Anees replied. “I also know enough about Cruezzir to be certain that, in their cases, it was applied incautiously and incorrectly, and that the long term effects are devastating in terms of mental health, which would be detrimental to our plans.”
Medra stared at him, thoughtfully. “You’re creating super-soldiers.” he decided after a few seconds.
“An elite unit, certainly.” Anees conceded. “Possibly the most elite. But _ ‘super-soldiers’_ may be going too far."
“And what conceivable reason would we have for assisting the most dangerous species in the galaxy in creating the most dangerous soldiers they possibly can?”
“Ambassador, if we had designs on threatening the Corti, or anybody else for that matter, then I daresay we wouldn’t need an elite unit. Our regular infantry would easily suffice for any ground warfare conducted against any Dominion species, don’t you think? Why would we go to the expense and difficulty of creating a new elite?"
“In which case I’m intrigued as to the purpose of this hypothetical ‘elite’." Medra confessed. “What DO you intend to do with an asset like that?”
Anees allowed the inner ‘gotcha’ that rang triumphantly around his head to feed his best warm, closed-lipped smile. “Why, ambassador.” he said. “To clean up the mess we have made, of course.”
Date Point: 4y 10m AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Adam Ares
“You’ve got to realise you’re asking me about classified information there, kid.”
“I know.” Adam had declined the offer to sit down opposite Captain Powell. He preferred to stand instead, resting his hands lightly on the back of the offered chair. “I’m not asking you to just tell me. I’m asking you what I have to do to earn it."
Powell’s own chair creaked as he sat back and folded his arms, scrutinising Adam, who said nothing, trying not to fidget.
“Earn it.” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Right.” Powell unfolded his arms and rubbed a thumb on his chin thoughtfully. “Why?” he asked.
The question threw Adam a bit, outraging him. “Wh-? What do you mean 'why’?" he demanded. “My best friend is dead! So’s my mother! So’s everyone I went to school with. Millions of people!”
“Right.” Powell agreed, nodding amiably. “That rather proves that what you’re after, if it exists, is a big deal, doesn’t it? So…what are you going to do with the information, should you acquire it? Is it obsession? Curiosity? Revenge? What?"
“I want to do whatever I can to stop anyone else from dying!” Adam snapped.
Powell threw him again when his face split into a broad smile. “That so?” he asked.
“That’s so.”
The captain nodded, and sat forward. “Right then. If that’s your goal, then realistically, you’re looking at military service. And I don’t just mean becoming a jarhead or MP. I’m talking intel, special forces, something like that.”
“Not a problem.” Adam told him.
“Aye? Well, we’ll see. Now…” Powell rubbed his chin again. “Realistically speaking…the only two services that are doing anything in space right now are the Royal Navy and the US Air Force. Thanks to your Cimbrean citizenship, you’re eligible to join either service, but frankly you’re more American than Brit, so the latter’d maybe suit you a bit better.”
He sat back again. “As for what you do in your chosen service…well, that one’s your choice to make, I can’t advise you there.”
“How did you choose?” Adam asked him.
“Me? The motto.” Powell said. “’Through Strength and Guile.' I liked that, thought it sounded right fookin’ badass."
He noticed the change in Adam’s expression. “What?”
“I’ve…never heard you swear before.”
“I don’t swear around children.” Powell said, simply.
“I’m still only sixteen.”
“Maybe, but it’s not about how old you are, Ares. It’s about the choices you make and your reasons for making ’em.”
He nodded toward the door. “This isn’t a decision to be made here in my office.” he said. “Hit the library, do some research, think about it. My door’s open, alright?”
Adam nodded, still a little stunned by the show of respect. “I…Thank you, captain.”
Ava seemed to spend every waking second playing with her inherited camera these days, familiarising herself with its functions and the different effects she could achieve by varying the shutter speed, aperture size, focus and more. When she wasn’t studying the device itself, she was studying what Sara had done with it, examining the photos their friend had taken and making notes about their arrangement composition and more. She’d co-opted an entire wall of their living room in fact, covering it in post-it notes and colour prints, not to mention having borrowed every single book on photography that Folctha’s library had.
“The motto?” she asked.
“I guess. It seems like as good a thing to go on as anything else.” Adam replied.
She put the camera down. “But…special forces, Adam? Won’t that take you away for a long time?”
He stopped searching for a second and turned in his seat. “…Yeah, it will.” he agreed.
They hugged, melting into each others’ arms without either of them needing to invite the other.
“What are you going to do, do you think?” He asked after a silent minute or so. She ran a hand through her curls.
“I guess…I want to help people too.” she said. “I want to make some sense of all this. And now this camera’s been left to me, and Sara always talked about being a photojournalist…”
“How do you even get started on that? It’s not like they have recruitment…”
“I’ve been doing my own research there.” Ava told him. “I thought I’d try for City University London.”
“I guess you’ll be away for a long time too then, huh?”
She nodded, resting her forehead against his. “I guess…”
She caught sight of what was on his screen and looked up. “I like that one.”
“Hmm?” he turned, and read it aloud. “’That Others May Live’?"
“Yeah.” She said. “What do you think?”
Adam stared at it for a few seconds, repeating it under his breath. “I think…that’s the one.” he said.
“Pararescue?” Powell looked genuinely stunned. “Bloody hell, Ares. I can’t fault your ambition, but are you sure?"
“The motto speaks to me.” Adam shrugged.
“…Aye, alright. But not to try and talk you out of it or owt like that, you’re setting yourself up for a really fookin’ difficult couple of years.”
“I know the training will be hard, but--”
“No.” Powell interrupted him, standing up. “You don’t. You have no fookin’ clue what hard really is, I promise you that."
Adam was smart enough to shut up and let him say his piece. The captain dug into his foot locker and pulled out a small A5 notebook, which turned out to be pasted full of photographs and hand-written notes. He flipped through the first few pages until he alighted on a picture of a young, acne-scarred man who was gazing proudly out of the photograph. “This was me when I took the Potential Royal Marines Course.” he said. “Right dorky little shite, wasn’t I?”
Adam caught his eye, and realised Powell was amused at himself. “I fookin’ thought I was a proper Marine, I did. The PRMC is two and a half days, they test you in the gym and the assault course, take you on a three mile run…I thought 'if this is what it’s like, this is going to be fookin’ easy." He laughed silently, deep in his chest, and flipped the page “Then I went through the actual Royal Marines training.”
The next photo had less acne and a stronger, more Powell-like expression, worn by a young man in a black uniform and green beret, with a rifle held precisely by his side. "That was tough. The PRMC didn’t prepare me for it at all, it just meant I was tough enough to START the training without collapsing."
He closed the book.
“Every step along the way, I came up against limits I didn’t know I had and went beyond them. Marines Commando training was fookin’ hell, but I cleared it. Now: To apply for the Special Boat Service, you need a minimum of two years’ service as a marine commando. Did that. Got some medals, too. Figured I was doing well. Then I applied for the SBS, and that finally brought me up against the joint UKSF selection program."
He opened the book again, flipping to a series of pages filled with pictures of rolling, rugged mountains, many of them falling off to sheer drops. “The first phase of that ends in a test week: five back-to-back days of walking sixteen or so miles a day in the Welsh mountains with a fifty pound bag and a rifle, and on the last day? Forty miles, which you’ve got to finish in less than twenty hours."
He sat down. “And it just gets tougher from there. Much tougher. Men have died in that training. I failed the first time, only barely managed it the second but managed it I fookin’ well did. Right?"
Adam nodded his understanding. “Okay…?”
“From what I’ve heard of it, I honestly don’t know if I could have made it through the Pararescue pipeline.” Powell confessed. His face was the very picture of deadly seriousness. “They call it 'Superman School' for a bloody good reason."
“…But people do get through it.” Adam pointed out.
“Oh aye, they do. And if you think you’ll be one of them, then fookin’ well go for it. I just want you to have some idea of what you’d be getting yourself in for.”
“Let’s say I do manage it…” Adam said. “Will that get me in on the secret?”
Powell said nothing, but returned to his desk and sat down.
“Your first step,” he said, not answering the question, “…is recruitment. The nearest US armed forces recruiting center is technically in Seattle, ’cause that’s the easiest place to get to from Scotch Creek. If you’re going to walk in there and say 'I want to be a Pararescueman' then it’s going to take, oh…a week or so, total, so you’ll need a hotel room."
“That long?”
“You thought it was as easy as just 'Hi there, I would like to soldier please’? You’ll have to take a…" Powell looked up, remembering a detail. “…ASVAB, I think it’s called. Vocational Aptitude test. They’ll put you through a physical and mental evaluation, you’ll talk to a special forces recruiter, the works.”
He sniffed. “If they take you--though I can’t see why they wouldn’t--you’ll go straight on from there to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio for basic training. That’s eight weeks. You’ll graduate, see your family for the weekend, and then that’s it. You’re on to the PJ pipeline and you’ll find it a lot harder to see them again after that. Realistically? Christmas, and that’s about it. For two years, maybe longer.”
Adam went quiet and thought long and hard about that one.
“If that’s how I earn it, that’s how I earn it.” He said at last.
“Decision made, then?”
“Yes.”
Powell nodded, then stood and shook Adam’s hand. “Well then. I’ll be cheering for you.” He said.
“Could I…?” Adam tailed off then shook his head. “Never mind.”
“Spit it out, mate.”
“If this is going to be hard…could you help me get started? Give me a taster? Get me in shape?”
Powell paused. “I’ll have to discuss it with Legsy, he’s the one who specialized in training and instruction.” he said. “And he won’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“Well because he likes you, you daft bugger!” Powell said. “And while he’ll be happy to get you up to standard for Basic, if he’s going to give you even a fookin’ taster of Pararescue indoctrination, which is what I think you’re asking for…" Adam nodded “…Then he’ll have to go hard on you, right hard.”
“I guessed as much.” Adam said, patiently. He was beginning to grow tired of Powell driving the point home.
Powell noticed, and sighed. “I’ll…talk to Legs. Meet us in the gym tomorrow at 10:30, after a good breakfast. You’ll need it.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Might be a bit premature there, mate.” Powell joked. “But you’re welcome. I’ll…do what I can to help you along.”
“You will?”
“Aye. I’ll provide a reference, and believe me, that’ll count for a lot. But you’d better get on and have a good night’s sleep.”
“I will. Thank you, captain.”
Half of Powell’s mouth ticked upward. “Dismissed.” he said. “…trainee.”
Hayley Tisdale
The advantage to Cimbrean’s small, compact houses was that answering the door never took long, even if it was just yelling “I’ll be out in a minute!”
Hayley used that time to fill the kettle and started it boiling, take quick stock of the house to make sure it was tidy, and hide a certain little white box before she opened it.
Not for the first time, she reflected that with her heart-shaped face and curly dark hair, Ava was the very picture of the painfully pretty girl next door in jeans and flannel. Today, though, she was also painfully nervous about something, to judge from the way she’d been pacing little awkward circles outside, rubbing her fingers together.
“Ava? What’s wrong, honey?”
“Umm…” Ava gave her a nervy little smile. “Nothing’s wrong, it’s just I could…I could just use some advice."
“From me?” That was astonishing. Hayley wasn’t sure she was qualified to advise anybody on anything these days.
“Please?”
Hayley stepped aside “Come on in.” she offered.
Ava did so, and perched herself restlessly onto the edge of the couch.
“Cup of tea, sweetie? Or, I’ve got Ovaltine…”
Ava smiled, a little weakly. “Ovaltine would be nice.” she agreed.
Hayley let her relax as she bustled about, taking a little longer making the drinks than was strictly necessary. By the time she was done, Ava had sat back a little and released some tension in a big sigh.
“So…what’s up?” Hayley asked, though she had a sneaking suspicion.
“I, um…” Ava puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. “Adam and me, we’ve never…I mean…”
Okay, so Hayley’s suspicion had been wrong, but now she understood what this was really about. “You’ve not? Oh, honey…I kind of thought with you living together…”
Ava looked down at her hands, which were a frantic little knot of fingers. “Different beds.” she said, with a little laugh. “Are you…okay with me coming to you?”
“Well who else are you going to ask? Adam’s dad?” Hayley laughed, and Ava giggled. “No, honey, it’s…I’m actually kind of flattered. What do you need to know?”
“I guess…whether I should, really.” Ava said, relaxing. “I mean, Mom and Dad always said I should wait for marriage, and…”
“So did mine. I didn’t listen.”
“Yeah, but…”
“No, honey, listen to me a second.” Hayley shuffled forward on the couch and set her tea down. “I know you miss your parents so much it hurts. I can’t go two hours without remembering Sara and…” she closed her eyes and rallied. “But…Let me tell you what I wish I’d told her, okay? All your parents would want is for you to be happy, and to be safe. That’s all.”
“It is?”
Hayley nodded. “They told you to wait because they didn’t want you rushing in and getting hurt.” she said. “There’s nothing magical about your wedding day that’ll suddenly make it the right choice if it wasn’t before, and if it’s the right choice now, then…why wait?”
Ava was nodding along, but she frowned. “How…do I know when it’s right?” she asked.
“Well, you…” Hayley paused to think about it. “Okay, now here’s something I wish my parents had told me, okay?"
“Okay…?”
“Sex is…nice.” She paused, and corrected herself. “No, it’s great, even. But everyone seems to get this idea that it’s this precious, special thing and they say all kinds of stupid stuff about it. Judging you for having too little, too much, being a virgin, not being a virgin… "
“So…I shouldn’t care?” Ava asked.
“Exactly! Just be smart about it. Have as much or as little as you want, and don’t let anybody tell you when or with who or anything like that. That’s all your choice and nobody else’s. Just be smart about it.”
“Smart?”
“Well I mean, you know about…the pill, and condoms and everything, right?”
“Oh, that!" Ava looked relieved. “Yes I…I know that stuff.”
“Good. So be smart about using them, because…trust me on this, you really don’t want to be a mum yet.”
“No.” Ava agreed.
“Okay. So the question isn’t 'how do you know when it’s the right time‘, okay? The question is just…’Do you want to’?"
There was a long pause, during which Ava drank about a third of her Ovaltine. “Adam’s…going away.” she said, eventually and quietly.
Hayley shuffled around the corner and put an arm round Ava, rubbing her back. “He is?”
Ava nodded. “He turns seventeen a few days before Christmas, and he’s…joining the military.”
“Oh, honey…”
“No, no. I’m happy: I’m going to be doing something too. We both want to achieve something and this is the way he’s doing it.” She sounded like she meant it. “But…he’s going to be gone for so long, and…”
“You feel like you should give him a proper send-off?”
Ava nodded.
“That’s…for me, that wouldn’t be the right reason, sweetie.”
Ava wrapped both hands around her Ovaltine and sipped it. “In that case…what would be the right reason?" She asked.
“There’s only one right reason, honey: because you both want to. The list starts and ends there.”
They sat in silence for a bit until Ava had finished her drink.
“I’m leaving too.” Hayley revealed.
“…You are?!” Ava looked up, and Hayley internally winced at the desperation she saw in the younger girl’s eyes. “Hayley, why?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not because of Sara or anything. I’ll be coming back.” she promised. “I’m just going away for a few months.”
“Why?”
“I’m…Mark and I are having another baby.” She dug the pregnancy test box out from where she’d hidden it under a throw pillow. “We’re worried about the low gravity affecting the baby’s development, so I’m going back to Earth for a year…You’re the first person I’ve told besides him.”
“Oh, wow… ”
“I think I conceived a day or two before we lost Sara…I know Mark and I haven’t…we’ve not been together since then.”
“You’ve not?”
Hayley nodded. “I’m not ready.” she said. “I’m so scared I’ll treat the new child like a replacement for Sara. But…here we are. So, I’m going back to work with the Earth end of the Reclamation Project, and Mark’s staying here.”
It was Ava’s turn to put a hand on Hayley’s arm. “Are you two..?”
“We’re…” Hayley squeezed back some impending tears with a forced smile. “We’re fine. Really. He gets angry sometimes, I’ve said some things that…We scare Jack sometimes. But we always cuddle and talk it out afterwards. In a way, I’m glad the baby’s come along. It’ll give us both something to work on for the future. Maybe that and a little distance will help.”
She wiped her eyes. “Come on, you came here for advice. Is…did I help?”
Ava nodded. “You helped a lot.” she promised. “I just have one question left, really.”
“Sure.”
“How will I know if Adam wants to?”
Hayley giggled. “Honey, with boys? It’s so easy to tell."
“Be serious.” Ava protested.
“I was!” Hayley assured her. “But the simplest way is to just ask him. Failing that, if you want to be sure…well, if you make it obvious that you want him, then you’ll know soon enough either way.”
“So…how do I make it obvious?”
Hayley laughed. “Go into his room wearing some perfume and one of his T-shirts and nothing else, kiss him, then grab his wrist and put his hand on your butt.” she said. “He’d have to be dead not to get that message."
“But what if-?”
Hayley interrupted her, patiently. “Ava. Sweetie. Everything after that point is for you and him, okay? There’s no script. Just talk to one another. Tell him how you feel, tell him what you want to do, tell him what you want him to do, ask him what he wants…That’s the most important thing, okay? Communication."
“That sounds…awkward.” Ava was blushing.
“It will be. Forget what it’s like in movies, sex is always at least a little bit awkward. Your first time most of all. Just…live with that and try to have fun.”
“…Thanks, Hayley.”
“No; thank you. It’s good to…" she’d been about to say something about falling back into that mother role, but decided against it. “…to be able to give advice.” she finished.
Ava smiled and gave her a little hug. She left the house looking much more relaxed than she had entered it.
For her part, Hayley was surprised to find there was a little warm coal of happiness deep inside her again. As soon as Ava was out of the way, she sat down and wept, happily.
Owen Powell
“So…what am I going to be doing?” Adam was asking, as Powell entered the gym. Legsy hadn’t, as predicted, been happy about giving Adam a 'taster’, but the young man was persuasive and knew his own mind.
The sergeant just picked up the rucksack that had been leaning against the wall behind him, hoisting it easily in one hand. “You’re going to run around the gym wearing this.” he said.
“Okay…” Adam turned around. “How heavy is--oof!"
“Do up that one around your waist…and that one across your chest. Pull ’em tight…no, tighter than that, come on! There you are.” Legsy instructed, until the pack was strapped tight to Adam’s body. He gave it an experimental shake, yanking the teenager around. “Good?”
Adam nodded, though his expression had an edge of trepidation to it now. “Good.”
“…Well, what are you waiting for then?” Legsy demanded. Adam made an 'oh, right' face and set off at a jog.
“Is that what you call running?” Legsy shouted after him. “Come on, you’re here to train, boyo!"
Adam nodded and gained some speed.
"Your crippled old man runs faster than that, come on!" Legsy spurred him. Powell ambled across the gym as the kid found his third gear and started to actually run round the gym.
"That bag won’t get lighter if you slow down, pal!" Legsy called, then noticed his commanding officer and stood to attention. “Captain.”
“Not a bad start.” Powell observed, waving at him to stand easy. Adam was in athletic shape at least. He wasn’t a fast runner, and probably never would be, but after a little encouragement he was doing a pace that should at least spare him the indignity of being the slowest trainee when he got to basic.
“Don’t let him hear you say that, sir.” Legsy admonished him, then raised his voice again. "You’ll have to bloody SHAVE by the time you’re done at this rate, come on!"
“How heavy is that bag, anyway?"
“Fifteen kilos.” Legsy said.
“You’re starting the kid out on tab weight?”
“If he’s going for PJ, sir…faster boyo, come on!…then fuck aye I’m starting him there." Legsy told him. “Besides, he’s stronger than he looks.”
Powell watched Adam piston along, already drenched in sweat and red as a forge. “You know training better than me.” he conceded.
He lurked against the wall and watched as Legsy cajoled, spurred and berated Adam into keeping up the pace, verbally goading the boy to keep putting one foot in front of the other, clicking the little counter in his hand every time Adam made it back past the start line.
It wasn’t long before the exertion began to really catch up, though. Adam’s steps became wobbly, his rhythm faltered. He was practically on the edge of falling over when he passed the start line again and Legsy finally blew his whistle.
They let him rest and had a quick conversation.
“Well?” Powell asked.
“Look at this.” Legsy showed him the counter.
Powell arched an eyebrow at the number on it. “Really?”
“Stronger than he looks, like I said. And he’s got more in him, too. Reckon he could stand up and do maybe even half as many again.”
“You’re sure?”
“Fuck aye.” Legsy agreed. “Especially if we can find his superman button.”
“His…hmm.” Powell rubbed his chin. “Mind if I-?”
“Be my guest.”
They knocked fists together, and Powell took his time ambling over to where Adam was still lying spread-eagled on the heavy pack.
“Enjoying your nap?” he asked.
Adam’s breathing was much improved even by the time Powell reached him, though the lad was clearly in a lot of discomfort as he tried to raise his head. “How did I do?” he asked.
“Do? You’re not done yet, mate.”
“…you’re kidding?!"
“Nope.”
“But…how… ? Everything hurts!"
“Is that right? Fine, that’s nowt to be worried about.” Powell reassured him. “You can lie there a bit longer, but while you’re at it, I want you to imagine the future.”
“Okay…?”
“Imagine…Adam Ares, seventy years from now, dying peacefully in hospital, surrounded by his beautiful wife and beautiful kids and beautiful grandkids. Idyllic, right? A warm hand in his, and his family all about him, he closes his eyes and slips away…and there they are.”
Adam just gaped at him, confused.
“The ghosts.” Powell clarified. “The ghosts of all the people he could have saved but didn’t, because 'everything hurt' seventy years earlier. Every life lost because young Adam Ares didn’t have it in him to push on through the pain. Every soul he has to look in the eye and know that their lives mattered less to him than a little fookin’ comfort."
Adam’s breathing slowed hugely as he sat there for a second with his mouth still open.
Then, without a word, he rolled over, hauled himself to his feet, and began to run.
Date Point: 4y11m1w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches.
Adam Ares
"Happy Birthday!!"
The now familiar soreness and weakness in Adam’s legs were promptly forgotten when he found Ava and his dad waiting for him in the front room, and a wrapped present and some cards on the table. Not to mention the cake.
“Seventeen years.” Gabriel said, hauling himself upright and giving Adam a heartfelt hug. “It’s been a wild ride, amigo."
"Asi es la vida." Adam returned the hug. “I thought you were back on Earth for the Lehmann case?”
“And miss this? I’d have beat them out the way with my cane if they’d tried to make me stay.” Gabriel scoffed.
"Gracias." Adam meant it, too. He sat down next to Ava, who kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Presents? I’m not used to birthday presents.”
“You’re not?” Ava asked.
“Well, Christmas in three days, usually I just get a big Christmas present, you know?”
“Well, what do you get the man who’s leaving everything behind?” Gabriel asked.
“…good question.” Adam said, eyeing the gifts. Gabriel just grinned and lit the candles--two large numbers, rather than a field of seventeen small ones. “Blow them out and you’ll see.” he promised.
Adam dutifully did so, and Ava slid the gifts in front of him as Gabriel set about cutting the cake.
“That one’s from the school.” she said as Adam selected it. He fingered the odd, lumpy package for a second, then gave up on identification and ripped it open.
“Sandals and a…toiletries bag?” He opened it and peered inside, finding an assortment of hygiene products and some deodorant.
“They did some research and apparently you’ll need all of those in training.” Ava explained.
“Huh. Thoughtful of them.” Adam set them aside, pleased with the gift.
Ava gave him an embarrassed smile when he opened her gift. “You’re allowed so little and…y’know, the school had already got you everything, so, I, uh…kind of donated to charity in your name.” she confessed. “I’m sorry.”
“WaterAid?” Adam read the card.
“Yeah. They say the amount I gave should save a few lives…” she smiled nervously.
Adam kissed her. “Good gift.” he reassured her, and selected the card from Gabriel.
A photograph fell out of it when he opened it. When he picked it up, his mouth opened slightly. “How did you-?”
“Facebook.” Gabriel said. “Kind of a…reminder of more innocent days.”
Adam nodded, realising that it was the first time he’d seen his own mother’s face in months. Luiza Ares nee Ortega hadn’t been an easy woman to get along with. In fact some days she’d been the bane of his life. But the photograph really was a happy one, showing off an all-too-rare smile that made it very obvious why Gabriel had ever fallen in love with her, and it reminded Adam just for a second that he really did miss her.
He wasn’t sure how long he studied the print before he set it down. It was probably only seconds--it felt like weeks.
He reached over and hugged Gabriel. “Love you, dad.”
“Love you too, man.” Gabriel said.
Date Point: Christmas Day, 4y11m2w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
Christmas on Cimbrean seemed set to become something a little different to the small, family affair that Ava had been used to on Earth. Given that Christians were decidedly in the minority among the citizenry of Folctha, it was hardly surprising that there was a noticeable shortage of nativities and hymns, too.
None of the small congregation at that morning’s nondenominational mass had apparently minded. In fact, the sermon had stressed Matthew 6:5 and its implications for a Christian abroad in a predominantly secular galaxy. Not that you should keep your faith to yourself, as such, so much as that your faith was yours, your own little candle to carry. Giving you light and warmth, but also representing a burden of care, not to let it die and not to burn down your relationships with.
That…relaxed approach didn’t exactly gel with what Ava had learned in Sunday school. The ideas of Hell and Salvation had always scared her, while, insofar as Christianity as it was practiced in Folctha could be called a “sect”, their sect’s focus on personal fulfillment in this life through a loving relationship with God, rather than expectation of reward or a stay of punishment in the next through a regime of worship, spoke to her.
The consensus at discussion over coffee that had followed had broadly been that in fact a Christian on Cimbrean was free to have a much more personal relationship with God precisely for those reasons. Most of them confessed to feeling more spiritually fulfilled than they ever had on Earth. A few expressed doubts about “reinventing” Christianity, but even those voices were simply voices of caution, rather than rejection.
The hymns made her feel warm inside, as did Reverend Joanne White’s hand on the top of Ava’s head during the blessing.
It was like stepping into another world when they left the Faith Center to join in the secular festival outside. The size of the cargo jump array had limited the size of the tree they could import, but it still formed a towering centerpiece to the town park, decked in lights and ornaments fashioned from spaceship wreckage or from the by now thoroughly extinct Pinkwood tree.
There was no snow, of course. In fact, it was a warm Cimbrean summer’s day, hence the adoption of a number of Australian Christmas traditions, including bikinis, barbecues and Bacardi. A dozen engineers from the Byron motor pool--a motley bunch who had taken the name "The Alleged Orchestra" for their performance--were set up and vigorously arranging every seasonal tune they could think of on the fly, beating the music into shape until it vaguely fit their unique instrumentation, which included a Diddley-Bow, a metallophone made from a set of wrenches, and a Cello that had been recycled out of a couple of beer kegs. The result was amazingly musical, with a bluesy, jazzy, energetically raw twist that seemed to be going down well with the revellers.
The Gaoians were watching it all with plain and obvious bemusement, she noticed. There were a lot of them now, all males, and all seriously throwing themselves into the practice of meditation with the vigor of a man helping his child build sandcastles who’d suddenly uncovered a pirate chest. They were sipping mulled wine and probably enjoying themselves, though they were keeping out of the way.
There was so much to take in, none of it guided by any specific tradition, but informed by hundreds. People bringing out their presents to put them in little piles under the tree. The smells of the town feast being prepared, spices and dancing and an impromptu a capella rendition of “Fairytale of New York”, Sir Jeremy Sandy in a Santa outfit, the Soldiers versus Civilians tug-o’-war…
Hayley and Mark sitting in a corner, his arms around her waist from behind, watching their son--Sara’s little brother Jack--play with his classmates with strange expressions that were equal parts happiness and sadness.
There was a sudden pair of arms around her own waist. “Can I interrupt?” Adam asked her.
Ava glanced down at the camera. She hadn’t even been entirely conscious of taking the pictures. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” he took her hand and led her back towards the Alleged Orchestra, where people were whirling and skipping in circles to the music, linking arms, bouncing around one another and then spinning off to join up with a new partner.
She couldn’t keep up with him--over the last month he’d gone from quite athletic to military fit under Legsy’s watchful guidance--but she didn’t quit the dance when she couldn’t go on any longer. She just de-orbited to its outskirts, to clap along and cheer and whoop as he enjoyed himself, occasionally letting herself take a picture.
It was just the start of a day that lasted forever.
Date Point: Boxing Day, 4y11m2w AV
Adam Ares
Adam wasn’t yet asleep, but it still took him a couple of seconds to register the knock on his door.
He sat up a bit “Ava?”
She called through the door. “Can I come in?”
“Sure!”
She’d left the hall light on and leaned against the door frame, backlit by it, and Adam had to employ some willpower not to stare. She was wearing what looked a lot like one of his t-shirts, a thin white one. The shirt itself wasn’t blocking any of the light from behind her, and the varying depth of shadow her body made under it was…
He sat up some more and leaned forward to try and hide what the view did to him, discreetly bunching a little more blanket on his lap.
There wasn’t anywhere else to look though, without actually looking away from her. If he looked down then he had to contend with her legs, and as for her face…there was an expression there he couldn’t really read--a dark and intense one.
“Hey, uh… ” He said. “You okay?”
“It’s gone midnight.” she said.
“Oh…uh, happy birthday.”
She looked like she was about to say something. Then she shook her head, stepped onto the bed and hugged him. “Can I sleep here tonight?” She asked.
He scooted over and she dug herself under the blankets and wriggled into his chest. He smoothed her hair out of the way. “You okay?”
“…I just…” She looked up and kissed him. “It’s going to be tough, not having you around.”
He put a hand on the back of her head and held her. “That’s going to be the toughest bit.” he agreed.
“You’ll write me?”
“Every chance I get.”
She puffed out a huge rush of air into his chest and snuggled up against him even closer. “I love you.”
It was a phrase they rarely uttered. A vulnerable, weak little phrase, really. But that just meant it had so much more meaning for them. “And I love you.” he promised.
He could feel her smile against his chest, and the way she relaxed, and fell asleep.
She was still there in the morning when he woke up.
Date Point: 4y11m4w AV
Seattle, Washington, USA, Earth
Adam Ares
Leaving home had been hard.
Travelling alone and sleeping alone in an unfamiliar hotel room in an unfamiliar city full of the kind of traffic that reminded him painfully of San Diego, and which he’d grown accustomed to the absence of in Folctha, hadn’t made for a good night’s sleep.
That, and it was cold. January in Seattle versus early summer in Folctha had been an unwelcome introduction to the joys of a freezing grey drizzle that seemed to come right off Puget Sound, bent on freezing the whole city. He’d been tempted to dive for the warmth of his hotel room the second he got off the plane, but instead he used the hours of daylight and went straight from the airport to the USAF recruiting office.
That part turned out to be easy. He was in and out inside an hour or so, having practically had some documents thrust into his hands along with instructions to attend the Military Entrance Processing Station the next morning. Apparently, the recruiter had been impressed.
For lack of anything better to do, he took a walk and saw the sights. He’d have preferred to jog, but he’d worn his good chinos to make an impression for the recruiter.
He didn’t watch the people at first. He watched the architecture, and the city, taking in the square glassy greyness and the scratchy trees that were no more than bare twigs in the winter, the overcast-sky openness of the street plan and the whirr of bicycles. The traffic was familiar, but the city it crawled around in couldn’t have been more different. Cold though it was, he could see that the plants which seemed to be all over everything would actually fit here, rather than being aliens imported and maintained at great effort.
Of course, Seattle meant Starbucks. He knew that much, and eventually he dropped in on the one on 5th avenue, in the shadow of the monolithic black Columbia Center.
Mercifully, it was quite warm inside, and he shucked off his jacket--the rugged, all-weather one that most Cimbrean colonists had, with the “From Ashes” patch that only Ava shared. He tugged at the T-shirt he was wearing underneath, aware that it was an old one that, nowadays, was stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. It was a good shirt for showing off the gym- fit physique he’d picked up training with Legsy, but not exactly comfortable.
The people-watching skills that Gabriel had taught him prodded him a second or so later, alerting him to a change.
It was subtle. The young mother in line in front of him had shepherded her kids forward and was now keeping them in front of the stroller. The older man in the grey suit next to him scooted his chair forward and around the table a little. The Barista, on the other hand, was almost certainly sneaking sly glances at him down the counter.
He tried to ignore it, studying the menu as they crawled toward the counter, but it was difficult to ignore that the people who joined the line behind him left arm’s length at least, nor the snippet of conversation he could just hear from a middle-aged couple by the door.
'No, I don’t think so…he doesn’t have any tattoos…'
That…shocked him. Upset and surprised him. He fumbled his way through a clumsy order for a simple Latte, left the change for a tip, and made himself scarce.
His return walk to the hotel was a solemn and thoughtful one which he spent, rather than looking up at the buildings, looking down at his feet, lost in thought and trying to ignore the way people veered out of his path on the sidewalk.
In the end he spent the evening lurking in his hotel room playing free games on his phone.
The weather, if anything, got even more dismal overnight, which was in its own way fortunate because he barely slept, and an early morning jog in the bracing Washington weather did more to get him alert and ready than all the coffee in Colombia.
Once wearing clean and dry clothes, he caught a cab to the MEPS, which turned out to be just one small part of a huge building behind a wall of hedging and trees, by the railroad track and just north of the airport.It wasn’t what he’d pictured, but he trusted the cab driver, so he refused to allow himself to dither outside--he headed straight in after paying the fare.
Inside, it wasn’t what he’d anticipated either. He’d envisioned more of the posters and macho imagery that had decorated the recruiting office.
What he instead got was a reception desk in a fairly bland office space. There were flags and crests up and a general clean and efficient air, but if not for the uniforms he might have been in a civilian workplace. The reception desk didn’t actually have a human on it, just a series of touchscreens which, on being prodded, walked him through a quick and simple series of questions about who he was and what he planned on becoming, asked him to scan the barcode on the form the recruiter had given him, and then directed him to a printer which spat out a sticker with a QR code and his name on it, thanked him, and directed him to wait. There were a lot of chairs for that--Adam paced, pausing to grab meagre cups of water from the cooler in the corner. He’d barely been there for five minutes before he started to feel like a zoo lion.
He might have been there half the day before anything interesting started to happen. A handful of people were sitting and fidgeting alongside him, most about his age and with their parents in tow, before he was called and directed to a station where he filled in a form. Then he went back and waited. Then he was called to another station, where they asked him some questions. Then he went back and waited, again and again.
By the time it was done he felt both as if he’d never stopped moving, and also as if nothing at all had happened. He had no idea if it was afternoon or full evening yet, but eventually he was sat down opposite a handsome man in a blue shirt with the five stripes of a technical sergeant on his sleeve and the surname “Foster” on his chest, and had his hand shaken.
“So. You want to be a pararescueman?” the sergeant asked, sitting down.
“I do.” Adam agreed.
“Why?”
“The unit motto speaks to me. 'That others may live’." When Foster just waited patiently, he felt drawn to elaborate. “I’ve…I’m from San Diego originally, I’ve lost people, and I guess I want to keep others from having to experience that.”
“Have you considered alternatives?”
“Sure. But that’s my first choice.” Adam said.
“What alternatives did you consider?”
“I guess…security, force protection. Medic…That kinda thing, you know? I was thinking of being a cop like my dad, before I decided to do this.”
“Was there any specific event that changed your mind there?”
Adam nodded. “My friend was murdered. Sara Tisdale? On Cimbrean? I heard it was a big story back here on Earth for a while…”
Foster nodded. “You have my condolences.” he said. “But why did that change your mind about your choice of career?”
Adam took a deep breath, worried that what he was about to say might sound paranoid or crazy and ruin his chances then and there, but Powell’s advice had been impossible to misinterpret--speak honestly, always.
“I think…I think there’s a pattern at work.” he said. “like, everyone knows that San Diego was destroyed by antimatter, it was in the official investigation’s report. But nobody has that much antimatter on Earth, so there have to be aliens involved somehow, and who else would want to sabotage Folctha’s spaceport like the guy who shot Sara was trying to? Well, I think that the military know who’s behind it, and I want in. I want to stop them from hurting anybody else.”
“Hmm.”
Foster stood. “Stand up, let me have a look at you.”
Adam did so.
“look at me.” Foster continued. “Raise your arms above your head.”
Adam did so, patiently awaiting an explanation. He didn’t get one: Foster just gestured toward a pull-up bar. “See that? Get up on it and show me what you’ve got.”
Adam almost laughed. He’d been doing reps alongside Legsy in 1.15G in Folctha’s variable-gravity gym for the last month. He shook his limbs loose, reached up, got his form strictly correct, and set to.
He hadn’t even started to feel the burn yet when Foster interrupted him. “Okay, okay. Get off that thing, put this on and start over."
'This' turned out to be a heavy weighted vest. Adam shrugged it on, got back on the bar, and resumed his pull-ups.
He was finally starting to feel some heat in his muscles when Foster spoke again. “So, why you?”
Adam dropped off the bar and turned to face him. Foster shook his head. “I didn’t tell you to stop, son.” he chided. “Get back up there and keep going.”
“Sorry.”
Foster watched him resume his form. “So…why you?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Adam asked him.
“It’s a simple question, son. Why you? Why do you think you want this? Why do you think Pararescue is the right one for you?"
“Well, like I said, the motto.”
“Okay, well what makes you think you’re right for Pararescue?.”
Adam’s brow creased as he really started to feel his muscles working. The weighted vest was making all the difference. “I’m going to work damn hard for this.” he said. “if I have to stay on this…” he grunted “…bar ’til I’m twenty to prove that, I damn well will.”
“You think you can work that hard?”
“I know--" the exertion finally started to choke off Adam’s words. “--Yeah. I can.” he finished, between pulls.
Foster nodded again and watched him for a few more before finally raising a hand. “Alright. Rest up.”
Adam lowered himself slowly down this time, and massaged his hands. Foster handed him a glass of cold water as he sat down, which Adam gulped down in one as the sergeant jotted a few short observations.
“Alright, I think I’m done with you for now.” Foster said. “You’ll need to go on through the rest of the MEPS, get your tests done and all that stuff, but assuming there’s no problems there, you’ll be coming back here tomorrow to speak with the special forces recruiter.”
Adam beamed. “Thank you!” he said.
“How’d you get here, cab? Where are you staying?”
Adam told him, and Foster nodded. “Right. We’ll pick up the bill from here on in, as well as transport. I’ll see you later on today once you’re done with all your tests.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur for Adam. He was measured, weighed, had samples of blood, hair and saliva taken, asked to walk around with one foot on tip-toe, had puffs of air shot into his eyes by a machine, spent some minutes with another machine pressing a button whenever he saw lights in his peripheral vision, a few minutes in a dental chair, filled in forms, answered questions, took tests. Even the businesslike intimacy of the full medical examination didn’t faze him.
The important part was, that he was past the first hurdle.
Technical Sergeant George Foster
“Okay, next up for review is…Adam Ares, permanent address…Twenty Delaney Row, Folctha, Cimbrean. Huh.”
“Yeah, we’ve got ourselves a space cadet here.” Somebody joked.
“Space cadet he may be, but he’s the real deal.” Foster commented. “I put him on the bar, stopped counting at fifty. He says he was training in supergravity for a month before coming down here. Looks like the British special forces garrison there took him under their wing.”
“Their CO gave him a reference.”
“What’s it say?”
“Pretty typical British, really.” The sergeant with that file examined the letter. “To.. blah, blah…’I’m sending this young man your way with my professional opinion that he may be of some use to you. Yours sincerely, Captain Owen Powell' et cetera. End letter." She smiled, folding it up again. “You’ve got to love the Brits, right?”
“Isn’t Powell the SBS officer behind the SOR program?” Foster asked. “If he is, then that’s a glowing reference right there."
“That’s right.”
“Well his opinion seems on the money. The kid’s already fit and strong and he’s got exactly the right build for a PJ. So…Unless there’s anything wrong with him, Doc?”
The chief medical examiner studied his own copy of the candidate’s notes. “His bloodwork showed a lot of testosterone…” He commented. “…but I chalk that up to him being young, fit and eager to prove himself. I see no reason to suspect steroids or substance abuse. His mother died young in the San Diego blast so there’s no way to know his medical history from her…There’s a history of Glaucoma and Coronary Artery Disease from his paternal grandparents, but his ECG and intraocular pressures were all fine today. No concerns.”
Foster turned to the staff psychologist, Lieutenant Schoemann. “Doctor?”
“…He’s angry. Grieving and angry.” Schoemann concluded, examining his notes. “But he’s channelling it well, it’s motivating him healthily. He’s got a long- term steady girlfriend and he’s come to us. That shows drive and an ability to emotionally commit, and that month of hard training proves that this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision, he’s thought about this and prepared for it. He’s…maybe not the most introspective young man I’ve ever met, but he’s not lacking in intelligence…Overall he’s calm, pleasant, confident, intelligent and well-adjusted, with plenty of healthy aggression. I think he’s an excellent candidate.”
“Guess he’s one for you, then.” Foster commented, turning to Master Sergeant Wood, the special forces recruiter.
“Absolutely.” Wood agreed. “He’s a strong PJ candidate, but he’s maybe even good enough for the SOR program.”
“You think?”
“It can’t be an accident that this Captain Powell gave him a reference like that.” Wood noted. “We’ll see how he does tomorrow.”
They moved on to the next candidate.
Date Point: First Contact Day, 5 years AV
Seattle, Washington, USA, Earth
Adam Ares
A car came to pick him up, rather than the taxi he’d taken the day before. It wasn’t raining this morning, but the wind was still cold enough to sting the ears, even through his Gore-Tex beanie.
The driver parked up and got out of the car, which surprised him, as did the fact that he was wearing sports gear rather than USAF blue. “Adam Ares?”
“That’s me.”
The driver shook his hand. “Master Sergeant Tony Wood, USAF special forces recruiter.” he said, producing a card to verify his identity.
“Oh! I, uh…thought I’d be meeting you at the MEPS, Master Sergeant.”
“You can just call me Sergeant, son. I figured I’d get a look at you in motion, you up to go for a jog?”
“Sure.” Adam had already taken a morning jog, but it had been barely more than a warmup and stretch, anticipating a day of being put through his paces. He suspected that Wood had something a little more strenuous in mind.
And so it proved. That month of training with Legsy paid off--jogging on Earth with no load was different to jogging on Cimbrean with a heavy bag to compensate for the gravity difference. In many ways it was easier, but Wood was a tall man with a long, easy stride that ate up the ground, forcing Adam to take three steps for every two of the sergeant’s just in order to keep pace.
Weirdly, the questions he’d been preparing for didn’t materialise. They just did a double loop round some of the interesting parts of Downtown before returning to the car, and Adam’s ego wilted a little when he noticed that Wood, although he was steaming up the air with regular, working breaths, had obviously found the run much easier than he had. Clearly, he still had a lot of fitness to gain to really make the grade.
“Not bad. Y’ain’t fast but next to some of the other kids I’ve seen…” Wood congratulated him.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Wood thumb-pointed to the hotel. “If you want to change, I’ll wait in the car.”
“Can I shower too?”
“Sure. Make it quick though, we’ve got a lot to cram in today.”
Adam nodded and ran back to his room for a quick rinse, dry and change job. Sure enough, when he got back to the car, Wood was pocketing an old-fashioned digital stopwatch.
He made a mental note: 'Everything is a test.’
Wood didn’t comment as he climbed in, just put an arm on the back of the seat to turn and reverse out of the parking bay, then merged into city traffic.
“So. Pararescue.” he said. “I was a Combat Controller myself, the brother unit, but I got a lot of respect for the PJs. The training’s hell, but they do a heck of a job.”
“Captain Powell said they call it 'Superman School’." Adam volunteered.
“That they do.” Wood took a right turn. “Now, in all honesty, this is something I don’t say to most candidates, I think you’ve got what it takes to pass it.” he turned right again.
“Thank you.” Adam tried not to smile.
“Well, hear me out…” Wood took a third right turn. Adam wasn’t sure if he had a destination in mind--the route was such an inefficient one that he suspected the sergeant was just driving for the sake of keeping them moving. Fortunately he didn’t turn right again, but sat back and relaxed on a long straight.
“…What if I could offer you something more?” he asked.
“More?”
“Check in the glove box, there’s a tablet in there.”
Adam did so. When he swiped to turn it on, it filled with what was clearly a form of some kind. “What’s this?”
“Non-Disclosure Agreement.” Wood revealed. “You need to read it in full, sign and give a verbal signature, but the gist of it is that what I’m about to tell you is classified information and you’ll be liable to federal prosecution if you discuss it with unauthorised persons.”
“Okay…” Adam read the document in full, twice, then wrote and signed his name and, when prompted, carefully enunciated the script that the form displayed for him. “I, Adam Miguel Ángel Ares, solemnly affirm that I agree to be bound by the terms and conditions of this non-disclosure agreement.”
Wood nodded. “There’s a program in the works, something that your Captain Powell had a hand in masterminding.” he said.
“There is?”
“Yup. There was a space battle over Cimbrean about four months ago, you know about it?”
Adam nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well, Captain Powell, and the commanding officers of the two ships involved, HMS Myrmidon and HMS Caledonia, they made a recommendation to the British Ministry of Defence that specialist skills and training were going to be required to form the basis of infantry operations in space. The MoD decided to share the idea with the DoD, and from there it got bumped all around the Coalition and it’s becoming a joint Allied venture."
He took a left turn. “It’s being called the Spaceborne Operations Regiment, or SOR. Currently it doesn’t even really exist--it doesn’t have any men, the spacesuits they’d wear are still being designed…but we know two things about it. The first being that its primary mandate will be frontline combat operations against the alien organisation which, you’re right, nuked San Diego and murdered your friend.”
“So it’s real.”
“Yup. That’s as much as I can tell you for now; even under NDA, you’re not cleared for the details. But you’re right, we’re fighting a war right now, and the SOR are going to be the guns in that fight.”
“…Alright. What’s the other thing?”
“Training will be four years. Minimum. And you’ll be under contract for at least four years after that, so this would be at least an eight year commitment, if you took it.”
“That’s…an awful long time.”
“Yup.” Wood agreed. “We had to jump through hoops to get that contract approved.”
“Would they be doing stuff other than fighting these aliens?”
“Anti-piracy operations, counter-Hunter operations…Most of the time you’d be operating exactly like any Pararescueman under the aegis of the USAF, so search and rescue of liferafts and broken ships, humanitarian aid, emergency medicine. Finally, you’d be a qualified astronaut and that means you might wind up spending some time on the ISS in some capacity.”
“Anything else?”
Wood’s jaw moved, thoughtfully. “Yes.” he said eventually. “We think we’re going to have to put the candidates on an extremely intensive physical track."
“You are?”
“An armored spacesuit is going to be dang heavy.” Wood explained. “Every trick to make it less so is being considered, but the fact is that Spaceborne Operators are going to have to be strong, and you especially if you’re falling into the role of Spaceborne Pararescue. You’ll need to be able to carry all your gear plus one of your buddies with HIS gear and suit across long distances, and given the weights involved, we’re not actually sure that getting you that strong that quickly will even be possible, let alone wise.”
“It can be done, though?”
“Sure. The numbers are within the limits of what’s humanly possible, but if we’re going to get you that strong inside the duration of your training…At the very least it’ll be difficult, and probably quite dangerous.”
Adam sat quietly and ignored whatever route Wood was taking for some minutes. “I’ll…need to think about it.” he decided eventually.
“Good.” Wood nodded. “If you jumped at the chance, I’d have turned you down on the spot. You’re going to need to be sensible, not impulsive.”
“Test passed, huh?”
Wood laughed. “You passed that one, yeah.” he agreed. “The decision’s not going to finally land on you for months yet, I just wanted to give you time to process it.”
Adam recognised the trees and rail tracks outside the MEPS as they rounded a corner. “So, what are we doing for the rest of the day?”
Wood sniffed a little amused noise. “More tests.” he said.
“Everybody present? Very well.”
Adam straightened. The MEPS had a little ceremonial room, decorated in wood panelling and rich blue carpet with a selection of flags at the front of the room on a little dais. He’d been handed a little card full of instructions and the Oath of Enlistment as he entered, and had taken the time to read it. Some of the others hadn’t.
Now, there was an officer standing on the dais, getting their attention.
“Gentlemen,” he said “You will shortly be called to read aloud the Oath of Enlistment, as written on the card presented to you. There’s an alternative secular version printed on the reverse of the card for those who prefer, and I’d like to remind you all that the first amendment of the very constitution that you will now be pledging to support and defend guarantees the right of all citizens to be free in their own beliefs.”
He surveyed them all. “This Oath is binding. Once you have taken it, you will have formally enlisted in the United States Air Force, so if anybody’s getting cold feet, now’s the time to say so.”
Nobody did. Adam flipped the card over, double-checked its content, and nodded to himself, mentally preparing.
The officer smiled, “In that case, we’ll be going in alphabetical order…Ares, Adam.”
Adam stepped forward.
“Would you like a Bible, son?”
“No thank you, sir.”
“Then raise your hand and recite the Oath.”
Adam did so.
“I, Adam Miguel Angel Ares, do solemnly affirm that I will…” he checked the card “…will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I…will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that…” he checked the card again “and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the, uh…the Uniform Code of Military Justice. By my word am I bound.”
The officer extended a hand, smiling warmly. “Welcome to the Air Force, son.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He stepped over to where the officer indicated and waited, not hearing as "Himura, Daniel" was called.
There was no going back, now.
Date Point: 12 hours later
Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas, USA, Earth
It wasn’t exactly night-time when the bus arrived at Lackland AFB, but the sun was definitely down, leaving only a kind of glowing blue-blackness where the stars would soon be. It was a warm night, FAR warmer than the early January climate he’d been exposed to in British Columbia and Washington. It felt more like Cimbrean, in fact, if not for the gravity. San Antonio in January had a lot in common with Folctha in summer.
“How the hell big is this base?” somebody muttered after the fifth minute of the bus rounding corners and driving past darkened buildings. Adam guessed they were already being hazed, the bus winding around to disorientate them and make the place seem bigger than it really was. He didn’t try to say as much, just grabbed his bag, ready to leap into action the second the shouting started.
And start it did. They pulled up outside a low building, the doors opened, and three men leapt up the stairs and began bawling threats and instructions at the trainees. Some of the smack-talk was so absurd and witty that Adam almost wanted to laugh. He resisted the crazy impulse, knowing it would only get him into trouble if he did.
He was the third or fourth off the bus, lining up alongside the others--he’d learned their names on the way down but right now it didn’t seem so important to remember them as to try and form a roughly straight line, and set his bag down in front of him, upright against his legs.
"Trainee, you pick that bag up and hold it until I say otherwise!"
Feeling silly and self-conscious, Adam snapped out a “Yes sir!” and grabbed it, hoisting it easily onto his shoulders. Silly or not, whether or not it passed muster as a response, one of the other trainees snickered at him for it, and promptly got rounded on. Adam just stood there, staring directly forward and holding his bag, trying not to attract any attention.
A face was suddenly inches from his own "You play any musical instruments, trainee?" it demanded.
“No, sir!” The face disappeared.
There was a lot of shouting, much of it…not insulting, but certainly calculated to shake any illusions he may have had about being confident or ready for this. He tried to stay focused in case any of it was directed at him. The fact that nobody else rolled up and roared at him suggested that he succeeded there, and it wasn’t long before they were bawled into filing into the building, assigned their seats at deafening volume, told to stand up, told to sit down.
Adam could focus on nothing other than making sure he heard and obeyed any order that was directed at him, responding to them as well he could. It wasn’t long before he found himself at a mess table with a tray in front of him. There wasn’t much on it--a sandwich, a bag of potato chips and a small carton of orange juice. the sandwich turned out to be frozen solid, the chips were plain and unsalted, and the juice was watery and unpalatable. He forced it down as best he could anyway, polishing off the juice and chips before he was halfway through the sandwichcicle.
There followed a gauntlet of paperwork and questions, being handed things, having things taken off him, being shouted at for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, responding with reflexive apologies or acknowledgements.
He managed to retain which Training Flight he was in, at least. Not that he had a choice--he was forced to repeat the information so many times he doubted he’d ever forget it. It almost came as a surprise when he sat down on the bus to the dormitory and found that nobody was shouting for a few quiet minutes.
“What the shit have we got ourselves into?” the trainee next to him muttered rhetorically, sotto voce. Adam didn’t answer. He just gripped his bag and waited for the next order.
Out of the bus, lined up, given a few rules, into the dorms, picking a bed. He spent five minutes with his finger pressed to his locker, repeating the number on it until the knowledge was carved into his brain, never to be forgotten. It was the only moment that stood out of a blur of orders, instructions, beratements. He span through a cold shower in seconds, liquid soap in hand. Get wet, step out to let somebody else use it, lather up, step back under to rinse off, all the time being screamed at to move faster, faster, faster!
When the blur ended, he was lying in bed wearing uncomfortable new clothes and listening to the others around him try to get comfortable. He was pretty sure at least a couple were fighting back tears. Plenty, he knew, were repeating that same question to themselves that he’d heard on the bus: 'What have we got ourselves into?'
Adam didn’t wonder. Twelve hours of travel and the emotional jolt of leaving Ava behind had taken so much out of him that he was the first to fall asleep.
Date Point: 5y AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
Banging on the door summoned Ava out of bed, and she threw on a bathrobe to answer it.
Cimbrean didn’t exactly have a postal service so much as it had Logan Brown, one of the schoolkids who took it on himself to hand-deliver any parcels and letters that came through the Jump Array on any given morning.
“Morning, Ava!” he chirped, handing her an envelope covered in USPS stamps and with the slightly worn feel of having travelled a long way in slightly careless hands. As soon as he was gone, she practically shredded it in getting the envelope open and sat down to read.
It wasn’t a long letter, but even so it had a rushed, shaky feel to it. Adam’s handwriting--unsurprisingly, for somebody who’d grown up never really needing it--had never been neat, but now his scrawl was only just legible, and that with some concentration and puzzle-solving.
"Hey Ava.
Not goin to lie this SUCKS I mean I knew it was going to but DAMN!! Its like a movie in here, I thought those movies were bullshit but we just get yelled at and bullied and told we’re stupid and it doesn’t make any sense. Everythings so weird too everyone looks the same same haircut same clothes same everything if they werent all taller than me Id think I was lookin in the mirror everywhere I go.
Powell was right I really didnt kno wat I was getting myself in to im tired all the time I keep being yelld at over nothing like they yell at me for not eating enogh like wtf Im full how do you expect me to eat more theres no room?!
shit they just told me Ive got to put the pen down I love you dont worry ill be okay its just crazy round here.
Love--Adam."
It made for tough reading. She went to school in a low mood.
Date Point: 5y1wAV
Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas, USA, Earth.
Adam Ares
"Alright trainees this is your morning wake up call I want you out of those beds and at attention before the end of this sentence, Get up! Get up and stand at attention!!"
Responding to the daily indignity of being shouted awake had become a reflex, and Adam was already scrambling out from under his blankets by the end of the word “trainees”.
It was only around about the word “beds” that a horribly familiar pressure in his boxer shorts finally infiltrated his awareness as his morning wood made itself known. Several of the rest of the training flight had noticed and were fighting to keep a straight face, while his own face slowly turned pink.
Not for the first time, he regretted accepting the first bunk he’d found, right next to the MTI’s office, because there was no time for it to go down. Technical Sergeant Lake was already progressing down the dorm, on the lookout for ANYTHING he could criticize.
He paused by Adam, who swallowed, awaiting the humiliation that was surely imminent, but instead, Technical Sergeant Lake’s voice was calm and quiet, amused even.
“Trainee, you have my sympathies, but you need to be standing at attention.” he chided, very gently. “So you do that, and you don’t worry about anything else.”
“Yes, SIR!” Adam choked out, and forced himself to stand fully upright, thanking the Lord that nobody, nobody could possibly have remained hard in these circumstances.
Technical Sergeant Lake--who was always thought of and referred to as Technical Sergeant Lake, and addressed with the loudest “SIR!” that the trainee could muster--nodded and carried on, leaving Adam to compose himself.
The next trainee was unfortunate enough to be making a desperate little chewing motion to try and keep a straight face, and Technical Sergeant Lake rounded on him like a terrier on a mouse.
"Trainee, do you find this amusing?!" he demanded, screaming the question at most an inch from the culprit’s nose.
The luckless trainee’s expression sobered instantly. “No, SIR!”
"Were you perhaps trying to get a good look then? Is that the first time you’ve seen a warhorse, Trainee?!"
Adam’s eyes shut themselves of their own accord just for a second, and he knew that his face must have gone as red as tabasco. If the whole base had been hit by a meteorite at that moment, he would have welcomed it.
“N-no--” the trainee began.
"I DID NOT ORDER YOU TO SPEAK, AND IF I HAD I WOULD EXPECT YOU TO SOUND OFF LIKE A MAN!!" Technical Sergeant Lake roared. "Front leaning rest position!"
The trainee instantly hit the floor and held himself there, ready. Technical Sergeant Lake directed a glare around the room that could have boiled steel. "If anybody else cares to comment on your fellow trainee’s gift, get it out of your system!" he ordered. Nobody so much as twitched. "Outstanding! Trainee!" he addressed the young man on the floor. "Push the Earth until I say otherwise!"
He turned to check on Adam, whose composure had now recovered somewhat, grunted, and strolled through the dorm, taking his time over it. "Make your beds!" he ordered. Then, to the trainee on the ground: "Trainee, recover! And since you’re so enamoured of our warhorse here, you can help him make HIS bed first! JUMP TO!!"
Adam threw himself into the chore, grateful for something to do. The relief at being able to finally get started with a day’s training rather than dwell on his embarrassment was huge.
By the time they had showered and there was food in front of him, he’d almost completely forgotten that it had happened.
“So hey, Warhorse.”
Adam’s bunk-mate was John Burgess, and the two had bonded quickly over learning that they shared some San Diego experience. Burgess had lost family to the 'Big One’, the quake that had crippled the south side of Los Angeles in the aftermath of the detonation, when their house had collapsed. He’d been one of the few who had managed to keep a straight face that morning.
“Ah, fuck, you’re not going to start calling me that, are you?”
“Hey, man, it fits! I mean, DAMN! You’re a fuckin’ grower!”
This prompted a round of laughter, cat-calling and good-natured hollering, while Adam was yanked back to the morning’s embarrassment with a cringe. “Oh fuck, come on, really?" he protested.
Burgess just grinned. “I’m just sayin’ man, no wonder your girl writes you so much!”
“Fuck you, man.” Adam told him, though it was said with a smile.
“No, please!” Burgess threw up his hands in mock defense. “I wouldn’t survive!”
“You’re one to talk!” one of the others chimed in. “We’ve all seen you in the shower, the fuck are you smuggling in that sack, grapefruits?”
“Man, they ain’t that big!"
Adam snorted. “Like fuck they aren’t. You used to pitch for your school team, right? We should start calling you Baseball.”
Burgess frowned at him. "No!" he asserted.
“Too fucking late, brother.” one of the others asserted. “You call him Warhorse, you get called Baseball. All’s fair in love and war.”
There was general snickering at that one as the newly-christened 'Baseball' wilted. “…shit.” he declared.
Adam laughed. Being able to share the experience of an embarrassing nickname was taking some of the sting out. “Guess we’d better get used to it.” he said.
Date Point: 5y1w4d AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
As Cimbrean’s population had ballooned with the influx of Byron workers, the school had expanded with it, hiring a second teacher and splitting into three “grades”. The oldest of which, for the time being, consisted solely of Ava. It was a bit lonely at the top, but the lack of distraction had allowed her to really focus on her studies.
Still, she was grateful for being checked up on. Jessica Olmstead had assumed responsibility for the middle group and mostly left Ava to educate herself, intervening only to recommend a syllabus and make sure that everything was going well--mostly, what lessons she gave to Ava these days revolved around study techniques and how to learn and self-organise, rather than conveying subject-specific information.
“Is that another letter from Adam?” she asked, sitting down.
Ava nodded. “Yeah, he gets to send me one a week, this is the fourth one. Logan delivered it on the way in to school.”
“It’s a shame you can’t have phone calls.”
“Yeah. I really miss just hearing his voice…” Ava looked at the letter, longingly.
“Could I-?” Jessica asked. “I mean, not if it’s too personal, but I’d like to know how he’s getting on.”
Ava nodded, knowing that Adam’s letters never contained anything embarrassingly intimate, and she slit the letter open with a fingernail, unfolding it onto the desk.
"Hey Ava" she read aloud. "I think I’m starting to do okay now. Our TI said on like day one that if he was using the word stupid it’s because we’re doing stupid stuff, and that’s really started to sink in now, I’m starting to get it."
"Things aren’t what you’d call easy, but we’ve kind of got into the rhythm now. There’s no time to stop, everything’s all go, there’s no downtime, and whenever I get to feeling like I really want just a few minutes to relax, we just get pushed harder and it turns out I didn’t need the break after all. Nobody’s allowed to hide in the back and let it all happen to other people, I thought I could at first, like if I just shut up and did as I was told I’d breeze through this and not get yelled at, but that doesn’t work because they still pick up on what you’re doing wrong and fix it. They don’t let us coast along, it’s all push, all the time."
And now I actually kind of enjoy being yelled at now. Is that weird? If I’m being yelled at it means I fucked up" she stopped reading and shot a glance at the younger kids. “Uh, sorry Jess.”
Jessica giggled “It’s okay. Go on.”
“…It means I blanked up and I don’t want to blank up. Being yelled at means the TI’s got my back, he wants to help me not blank up in future. So when he yells at me, he’s helping me."
"They’ve made me Guidon bearer, it’s kind of cool but I have to carry this thing on runs and salute with it and it’s heavy as-" she cleared her throat “…as blank."
"That’s my fifteen minutes, lots of love to Dad and even more for you."
Love, Adam."
Jessica sat back. “Wow.” she said. “He sounds…different already.”
“Yeah.” Ava agreed, quietly.
“…are you okay with that?”
Ava folded the letter again. “I guess I have to be.” she said.
Jessica inclined her head--Ava had sounded genuinely philosophical rather than resigned or bitter. “What do you mean?”
“There’s…” Ava sighed, and sat back, running a hand through her hair. “Like, there are so many things I can’t change. I sure as heck couldn’t change Adam’s mind about this, if I could he wouldn’t be Adam. So what’s the point in not being okay with them?"
“That’s…true, I guess.” Jessica conceded.
“Yeah…” Ava looked down at the letter. There was a sharp tap as a wet patch appeared on it and she scrubbed furiously at her face.
“Ava, if you need some time alone… ” Jessica offered.
This earned her a brave little smile, and a headshake. “I’m…No, I just need to, to focus on the things I can change. That’s all."
“…Okay. You let me know if you need anything, okay?”
Ava just nodded her gratitude, set the letter aside, and returned to reading the textbook she’d chosen.
Jessica went to make herself a cup of tea, and didn’t return until she was absolutely certain none of the kids would see that she’d been crying.
"Hey Ava,"
"Big news: I got told today Im going to be honor graduate!"
"Theres so much Id like to write here, about what Ive been through. My head just feels full of ideas all settling into place at last. Theres just no way I could cram it all into 15 minutes so Im not even going to try. Its so weird Week 0 feels like it was yesterday and like it was years ago at the same time I wonder if youll even recognize me?"
I cant wait to see you. Ive missed you so much, its going to be unreal seeing you again."
--Adam."
Date Point: 5y 2m AV
Lackland AFB, San Antonio, Texas, USA, Earth
Ava Rios
“Okay, I can’t see him.”
Ava gave Gabriel a teasing smile. “You don’t recognise your own son?” She asked.
“I’m looking right at the guy carrying the flag at the front of his flight, and that’s not my son, I’d swear to it." Gabriel protested.
“It’s Adam.” She promised. “Right height and build, right face.”
“He moves differently.”
There was a deep-throated chuckle from Gabe’s left. “It’s called 'marching' mate." Powell told him. The captain had declined to share his reasons for attending the graduation, but in any case he stood out less than Ava would have guessed. His wasn’t even the only non-US uniform present. In any case, Powell had a remarkable ability to stand still, watchful and quiet and slip people’s attention when he wanted to. He was scanning the few hundred trainees in the parade with a cool, level stare that took in the details. “Your lad’s an Airman now.”
Gabe frowned at him. “He’s…still the same person under it all though, right?”
“Even better.” Powell said. “Trust me, he’s the same bloke under it all, but he’ll be sharper now, more confident. Probably in a bloody good mood, too.”
Gabriel looked back and squinted. Ava guessed that he was trying to connect the buff, buzz-cut creature of precision and intensity in front of them with some earlier vision of Adam, most likely the wiry, shy guy from school that she’d first started dating.
Those two people didn’t seem to have a lot in common, but it was definitely Adam. She’d spent too long staring at that face to mistake it.
“Do you think he can do it?” She asked Powell. “Pararescue, I mean?”
The captain nodded. “He can.” he said. “That’s not to say he will, mark you, but he’s in with as good a shout as anyone can have."
“What happens if he drops out?”
“Personally, I’d bet against that.” Powell commented. “But if he does, he does and I’ll bloody respect him for giving it a go. There’s plenty else he could do, and all of it would be a walk in the bloody park after dropping out of the pipeline.”
“I guess it’s better to know where your limits are and acknowledge them than fake it.” Ava guessed. Powell bobbled his head a little, indicating yes-and- no.
“True. But you can’t fake it wi’ that kind of training." he said. “That’s why it’s so hard. But your fella’s got a superman button, miss. Poke him the right way and he’d spit in God’s eye to get the job done. I reckon if his trainers know their business--and I’m pretty bloody sure they do--they’ll have figured that out already."
“I never knew.” Gabriel said softly. They both looked at him. His eyes were shining with a mixed bag of pride and something else that Ava couldn’t quite identify.
Powell clapped him on the shoulder. “Only the beginning.” he promised.
Gabe acknowledged that with a nod, and didn’t comment further, so neither did Ava nor Powell until the parade was done and the gathered airmen had been given a rousing congratulation and freed to see their families and visitors.
Ava took first dibs on greeting Adam, throwing herself into an enthusiastic hug that turned out to be like tackling a wall. He hadn’t grown in size much, but Adam’s muscles had clearly toned and hardened under that uniform, and he lifted her as if they were still on Cimbrean.
He murmured into her ear. “Miss me?”
“You know I did.” she replied, and kissed him.
Gabe interrupted them by hugging them both. “I hardly recognised you.” he said.
“It’s the haircut, right?” Adam grinned.
“And the body language, all that stuff.” Gabe replied. “You move more like he does.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Powell, drawing Adam’s attention to the older Marine’s presence for the first time. Adam hastily extracted an arm from the hug and saluted.
Powell returned it but said nothing, indicating with a wry expression and a tilt of his head that Adam should focus on his family first.
They fussed over him for a few minutes longer before Gabriel finally suggested that Adam should discuss whatever business it was that Powell had brought with him. He in turn was then dragged into the discussion by dint of being Cimbrean’s security chief, leaving Ava to stand alone for a little while.
Adam even listened differently now, she noticed. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind him, attention totally on whatever it was that Powell was saying.
“So, you must be Ava.”
She was being addressed by another new airman, a young, acne-scarred African- American man who offered her a hand to shake. “Warhorse said a lot about you.”
She shook it. “Warhorse?”
“Your boy Adam there. That’s his callsign.”
“He never mentioned that…”
“Eh, he hates it.” The airman grinned. “Did he mention me? John Burgess, I’m going into the PJ pipeline with him.”
“Yeah, he did!” Ava nodded. “Nothing but good things.”
“I hope so, motherfucker took the top bunk over me for eight weeks!” He laughed, then self-censored. “Uh, sorry. Bleep.”
“It’s no problem. So…Warhorse?”
“Couple’a reasons. Your boy can carry anything, he’s strong as shit, put a bag on him and he’ll run all day. So, we could have called him Packmule, but…y’know with a name like Ares…"
“Makes sense.” Ava agreed, grinning.
“Now the other reason is--"
“Goddammit Baseball, don’t you tell her!” Adam returned in time to gently clamp his hands over Ava’s ears. She giggled and wriggled free.
“Aww come on man, I’ve GOT to meet the girl brave enough to take you on."
Ava frowned at him, ignoring whatever it was Adam was so desperate about. “Brave?”
Burgess grinned. “you know? The pants monster? Your boy here’s morning wood damn near took my eye out from across the room!”
“Wh-wow, really?” She’d seen Adam naked before of course, but that had been swimming, and he hadn’t been at anything like…full…
She censored her own mental film reel.
'Baseball' paused, then grimaced. “Ah. Shit. You, uh…didn’t know?”
Ava shook her head. Adam just glared.
“So you two haven’t-?”
Now both of them glared.
“…I’ll, uh,” Burgess backed away, pointing generally over his shoulder. “I’ll see you at the start of Indoc, brother.”
“I’ma kick your ass worse than the PT.” Adam warned him, though there was a hint of amusement under the warning.
“I deserve it!” Burgess declared, and left them in peace.
Adam snorted and caught Ava’s gaze. She was studying him with a grin of her own pulling at her cheeks, threatening to burst out into laughter, and it started to pull even harder when her eyebrows raised themselves at him.
He cleared his throat. “He’s…exaggerating.”
Her eyes flicked downwards. “Guess I’ll just have to see for myself sometime.”
She allowed the smile to finally break out in full once her back was turned. Never mind the uniform, the haircut and the precision, his expression in response to that had been pure old-school Adam.
It was good to know he was still essentially himself.
Adam Ares
Gabriel was treating them to dinner, while Powell had made his apologies and jetted back North to return to Folctha. Adam and Ava sat together in the back seat of Gabe’s rented SUV on the drive into San Antonio proper, holding hands and talking quietly.
“Okay, so…why 'Baseball’?" she asked eventually.
“Couple of reasons.”
“One cool, one embarrassing?”
“That’s pretty much it, yeah.” Adam nodded. “Burgess can throw. Says he was pitcher for his school team, and when we were practicing with dummy grenades…yeah."
“And the embarrassing?”
“Baseball. For…more or less the same reason I’m Warhorse. I don’t have to draw you a picture, do I?”
She laughed. “Please don’t!”
“We’re here.” Gabriel announced. He’d pulled the car into the parking lot of a steakhouse called “The Barn Door” which he’d looked up using the excuse 'when in Rome…'
It didn’t take long to seat them, in a low-lit corner with a good view of some rodeo photographs and the two-foot flames on the grill.
“So.” Gabriel broke the silence once they were seated and had glanced at the menus. “That was Basic, huh?”
“Yeah.” Adam agreed. “Weird, it seemed really hard at the time but now…I mean, I’d find it easy if I had to go through that a second time.”
“Eager to get on with PJ training?”
Adam smiled sheepishly. “Dreading it.” he said. “But, yeah. I said to Powell when he tried to warn me about it, y’know, people do pass it, and…it’ll be tough, but I’m gonna be one of them."
Their waitress showed up. “Get y’all some drinks, folks?” she asked.
“Iced tea, please.” Gabe requested.
“Coke?” Adam asked.
“Sure! And for you honey?” she asked, addressing Ava.
“Diet coke, please.”
“Okay! Y’all ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?”
They looked around, determined that they were, and ordered the 24oz porterhouse for Adam, a catfish fillet for Ava and the Tenderloin for Gabriel. She gathered the menus.
“Okay! My name’s Rose, if y’all need anything just make eye contact and I’ll be right over to help. Drinks comin’ up!”
“So what happens after indoc?” Ava asked, once Rose had gone.
“Airborne training, survival, diving, mountaineering, medical training…”
“I mean,” she interrupted, “After all that, too. Are you going to be on Cimbrean, or…?”
“Maybe.” Adam said. “I’ve got some career choices coming up, and if it all goes right then hopefully I will, but if I’m not…”
“You two’ll just have to figure it out.” Gabe told them.
Their drinks arrived, and they chatted amiably about Cimbrean and the progress of the Reclamation Project.
Ava was in the middle of explaining how Byron group planes were soon going to carpet-bomb the Scar with saplings and seeds in shaped canisters that should embed in the ground and then rot away, spilling Terran plants into soil that had been hugely enriched by the same fungal and microbial action that had killed the native flora and fauna, when the main courses arrived.
She boggled at Adam’s steak. “Where the hell are you going to put that?" she demanded.
Adam just grinned and tucked in. “I’m a food vacuum nowadays.” he said, and devoured a cube of medium-rare beef.
Gabe clicked his tongue disapprovingly in the side of his mouth. “Enjoy it, Amigo!" he chided. “Take your time!”
“I AM enjoying it!” Adam reassured him, after swallowing. “That’s why there’s so much of it!”
Ava giggled, then stood up. “I’ll be right back.” she said, and vanished in the direction of the ladies’ room.
Adam was still watching her backside when Gabe tapped him on the upper arm. “Hey, Adam. Man talk for a second, while she’s gone. Okay?”
Adam blinked at him. “What’s up?”
“I love you both very much, right? I’m hoping for a future where you two have got a couple of beautiful kids, and…”
"Dad… "
“Shut up and listen, man.” Gabe sighed. “That’s just what I want, okay? If you want different, fine. But tell me honestly--if you’re serious about her, then that’s the kind of thing you need to think about. Are you serious about her?"
“Totally.” Adam said, firmly.
“Good, because she’s serious about you too.” Gabe nodded, though his expression was still concerned. “Just…be careful, alright? You’re looking at two, three years of only getting to see each other every other month on a long weekend, or something. That’s going to be difficult.”
“We know. We talked about that.” Adam promised.
“And?”
“And…” Adam trailed off, then shrugged.
“Adam, I’m proud of you right now, but don’t be dumb about this, okay? You can still be honor graduate and all that stuff and still fuck up your love life. Don’t…” it was Gabriel’s turn to pause, searching for the right turn of phrase. “Don’t forget to…”
“Dad. She’s tough. We’ve talked this over together, and…we’ll get through.” Adam reassured him.
“I know she’s tough. You both are. I just…” Gabriel sighed and gave up. “I just hope you’re both as tough as you think you are. Okay? I don’t want you to wind up hurting each other.”
“We love you too, Dad.”
Gabe gave him a sidelong hug. “Good to know.” he said. “I just needed to get that said.”
Adam nodded. “It’s heard. But…I’m sure we’re fine. After everything that’s happened…”
“You never heard about the last straw that broke the camel’s back, Amigo?"
Adam frowned. “She’s said she can cope. That’s good enough for me, Dad.”
Gabe sat back with an uncomfortable expression. “How--” he began, then paused. “She--”
Adam waited for him to finish. Or even get started. In the end Gabe just shook his head and hugged his son again.
“Alright, Amigo. If that’s good enough for you…"
Date Point: 5y 2m 3w AV
Dominion Embassy Station, Earth/Moon L1 Point, Sol.
Doctor Anees Hussein
“So this is Cruezzir?”
The Corti ambassador raised a hand. “Not…quite.” he revealed. “The Directorate was dead set against the idea of your species acquiring the original Cruezzir drug. In fact, we are now discontinuing it, and strongly advise that should a sample of the original fall into your possession, you should destroy it.”
“We will…take that under advisement.” Doctor Hussein assured him. “Though in that case, what is this on your desk?”
“A derivative, specifically designed for the human market with the intent of avoiding some future pitfalls.”
“What pitfalls?”
Medra inclined his head in a strange way, as if reading something only he could see. “Used correctly--as a topical or therapeutic target injection, rather than permanently marinating the patient’s system in it--Cruezzir has no side effects whatsoever. _Non_e.” he revealed. “It is, I dare say, a masterpiece creation of the Directorate’s biolabs. That factor alone was sufficient for our anthropological researchers to take exception to giving you access to it.”
Hussein frowned. “I don’t follow you.” he said. “Where is the problem with a medicine that has no side-effects?”
Medra mimicked a thin-lipped, prim smile. “Doctor, if I have learned one thing about your species these last few years, it is that, if dirt were edible, you would all be obese.”
“…I see.”
“No insult is intended, you understand. You are from a dangerous world, I can only assume that to use and stockpile resources as rapaciously as you do was a necessary survival instinct for your genetic forebears.”
“As a medicine, though… ” Hussein protested.
“We are not satisfied that it would remain a simple medicine. You already know of the one nicknamed the “Human Disaster”, which means in turn that you also how to synthesize Cruezzir in industrial quantities. All you need is a sample of the drug itself." Medra gestured oddly: it took Doctor Hussein a second to recall from his studies of alien body language that the gesture indicated concern. “We fear that Cruezzir injections and patches would become commonplace, even the norm, taking an already imposing species and making the pinnacle of your physical potential trivial to attain, rather than a lifelong pursuit which precludes the study of other, more…cerebral endeavors."
Hussein considered his Corti counterpart for a second. “You make it sound like you want us to remain below our potential.”
"Your potential, doctor, is already intolerably ahead of any other species’." Medra countered. “If some semblance of balance and fairness are to be retained for the rest of us, then you must either be encouraged to remain below your potential, or else encouraged into isolation. The failure of that latter strategy is why the Directorate has appointed me."
“To keep us down.”
“To remind you that you need to be kept down." Medra had at least perfected the knack of returning a human’s stare. Most aliens instinctively looked away. “Or shall I point to the ecological grafting you are performing at great expense on Cimbrean to remind you of that fact?”
“I believe you just did.”
“Indeed.”
Medra picked up the phial on his desk again. "This version, this Cruezzir derivative, contains a limiting factor--resistance. Over time, any human who regularly uses it will steadily, but slowly, become increasingly immune. There are a few other changes, mostly designed to prevent the drug from being synthesized by your symbiotic bacteria but…suffice it to say we feel less uncomfortable releasing this for you to use than the medicine for which you actually asked. There will be no more Human Disasters with this derivative."
He gestured out of the window, toward the Earth. From the L1 point where the Dominion embassy was anchored, it filled a respectable portion of the sky. “I believe your ancestry comes from a region responsible for the myth of a 'jinn’, doctor?"
“Close enough.” Hussein conceded, diplomatically refraining from commenting that, as the Holy Quran had it, jinn were perfectly real.
“According to that myth, the 'jinn' would grant wishes, but would twist the wishes according to a literal interpretation of their wording, to the wisher’s detriment." He offered the phial. “We, doctor, are twisting the wish according to a sensible interpretation of its intent, to the wisher’s and our own mutual benefit."
Hussein considered his options, then gave up and took the phial. “In that case,” he said “having read the trade agreement and been advised on it…we accept the terms.”
They shook on it. Gently.
Date Point: 5y 2m 4w AV
Hey Ava
I’ve only got three words to say about Indoc so far: Holy fucking SHIT.
This is really bringing me back down to earth.
I’m going to get through it though. No matter what.
Thinking of you,
--Adam
Date Point: 5y 4m AV
Hey Ava,
Im sorry Ive not written you since last week. I did get your letter and I hope you know Id have written back if I could Ive just been too thrashed to even pick up a pen. Really the PT here is that hard. Im talking 20 solid hours of calisthenics…when there feeling kind. I swear Im not exaggerating.
Getting a reward today though--a good long letter session a whole hour! Everyone else is calling home or whatever but for me…wow just getting some quiet time to sit and think and write to you is like I never imagined Id think something so simple was such a big deal. I spent half of it just sitting and thinking and getting my head sorted out.
You know I said in one of my letters from basic that I kind of enjoy being shouted at now? Well that’s still true its hard to explain but if Im being shouted at then its kind of a compliment because the MTL knows I can do better and hes telling me so. I mean actual words of encouragement are nice too dont get me wrong but I can see now that it wouldnt get anybody through this.
There training us for the very worst you know? They want to be able to send us into anything and have us be strong enough that if we fail it was never possible in the first place. And theres no way to do that except the way they do it. Theyve been doing it for years they know what theyre doing here and I know that I can make it through this.
So yeah I hurt basically all the time Im tired basically all the time Im so wired that just getting a whole HOUR of quiet time feels like the biggest luxury in the world…but dont be sad for me baby because underneath it all I think Im actually kind of enjoying myself.
If that sounds weird…maybe it is I dont know?
I still struggle to eat enough. There giving me like 10 000 calories a day or something insane like that thats a heck of a lot of food and with me not being a big guy some days its almost harder to get all of that food to fit in my belly than it is to do the actual PT.
Itd help if it was Dads waffles or something. A taste of home you know? I dont care how full I am if I had a plate of those right now they’d be gone. I know they were store-bought ones but it still counts as home cooking right?
I love you. I miss you every day and I think the reason is that for all the really big shit thats happened in the last few years youve been there through it all. The hardest part by a mile has been learning how to go through something this huge without you.
Im kinda sorry for that.
--Adam X
Date Point: 5y 4m 2d AV
“Airman Ares!”
Mail call had become the best part of Adam’s day, enough so to shake the ache right out of his abused muscles.
Dear Adam,
Baby, you’re not going through this without me: I read all your letters, and I write you back every time, but it’s not just that.
I may not be there with you doing the PT or whatever. But I pray for you every day, I think of you every minute, and knowing you’re thinking of me even with what you’re going through is what helps me too. You’ve been there for ME through all the really big shit of the last few years too, you know that?
I feel lonely a lot. No you, no Sara, no Hayley…I love (here Ava had written the word ‘your’ and then scribbled over it) Dad, but you can’t have a social life of just one person.
I guess we’re both learning how to cope with just being there for each other in spirit rather than in person, huh?
But believe me corazon, that’s all we need. I’m so proud of you.
--Ava ♥
Adam was smiling as he folded the letter up. “Good letter.”
“She ain’t here, bro. You’re talking to yourself again.” Baseball grinned at him.
“Beats your company.” Adam retorted, grinning back.
“Only company your midget ass gets is my belt buckle anyways, so that ain’t that surprising.”
“Hey that was almost witty. Must be ’cause you sat down, I know your brain doesn’t get enough oxygen at ten thousand fucking feet when you stand up."
Burgess beamed and stuck out a fist. “Motherfucker.”
Adam completed the fist pound. “Asshole.”
They were interrupted by the MTL, who entered the barracks and announced a briefing and lecture in ten minutes.
“What now?” Baseball wondered aloud.
They found out when they settled into their seats in the lecture hall six minutes later. There was the usual rigmarole of standing when the presenting officer--a Lieutenant with the surname “Reed” on his chest--entered.
“Be seated.” he ordered, and six backsides met chair. There was a minute or two of patient waiting while he entered his login and password and called up some files.
“This is a confidential, code-word SACRED STRANGER briefing. You will not share this material with anyone not possessing need-to-know for SACRED STRANGER.” Reed began. “Is that understood?”
There was a chorus of “Yes sir.”
“Good.”
Reed loaded up a presentation slide and Adam groaned inwardly. 'Death by Powerpoint' was a running military gag that he had so far been blessed to suffer only mildly from. He hoped that streak of good fortune would continue.
“Seven months ago,” Reed stated, lingering on the first slide, “The British Royal Navy’s two captured and refitted alien starships engaged in a skirmish with the Hunter blockade around Cimbrean. They acquitted themselves well in the battle, which was fought to rescue the crew of a refugee freighter who had unwittingly blundered into the Hunter fleet. You should all be familiar with the Hunters, if anybody here requires a refresher, raise your hand.”
Nobody did.
Reed gave a shallow, satisfied nod and continued. “During the battle, a Special Boat Service team led by one Captain Owen Powell boarded the freighter and extracted its surviving crew. The operation was a resounding success, but Captain Powell and the commanding officers of HMS Myrmidon and HMS Caledonia recommended to the Ministry of Defence that a review be conducted into the requirements and viability of a dedicated force of spaceborne special operators capable of extravehicular activity, or EVA."
“That review was shared with the Department of Defence and the Pentagon and the result is that we are now founding an international joint unit, provisionally known as the Spaceborne Operators Regiment, or SOR.”
“This is an initiative that’s still in its infancy. No commanding officers, no operators, no gear, no crest or motto, nothing.” He continued. “Its mission, however, is already well-understood. The SOR would serve to defend and protect the people and interests of Earth, Cimbrean and any future colonies which may arise from extraterrestrial threats. It will conduct search-and-rescue of stations and starships that become adrift or damaged, will provide humanitarian aid to castaways and those affected by disaster, and will be available to defend stations and large ships, as much as is possible, from Hunter strikes and piracy. These missions will also benefit the human race through propaganda, through the Dominion Development Credit bounties that are awarded for recovering liferafts, and by securing extraterrestrial technology from derelicts.”
He paused. “I should note, gentlemen, that when I mention 'extraterrestrial threats’, I refer to any and all enemies of our species, including the alien force responsible for the destruction of San Diego, the exact nature of which is deemed need-to-know."
Adam and Burgess exchanged glances.
Reed advanced the slideshow. It was now dominated by something that looked like a hybrid of a NASA spacesuit and an Interceptor body armour system, though sleeker than either.
“The defining equipment of Spaceborne Operators will be their Extra-Vehicular Military Action Space Suit, or EV-MASS. This has been designed by private- sector experts from the Hephaestus LLC on Ceres who hold records for most and longest extravehicular activity, working alongside experts from CQC Limited, who produce the Osprey Armor System.”
“Now, you’ve all been given a brief introduction to the SOR concept. A full briefing of this system and its capabilities, variants and requirements will be saved for those of you who choose to commit to joining the program. For now the important point is this: the EV-MASS is a fully functioning spacesuit designed to allow the operator to engage the enemy in the vacuum of space and maneuver in zero-gravity. That combined functionality means that it has a base weight of one hundred and three pounds, before gear and accessories.”
There was no breach of discipline as such, but all six of the PJ candidates exchanged glances. They were all strong enough to wear and use a suit that heavy, thanks to the intensive physical training of the pipeline, but doing so would suck. Remaining agile and mobile for prolonged periods under the combined weight of that suit and their bags, gun, equipment and maybe even a patient, who might even be wearing the same suit and all of their gear, all added up to a daunting prospect.
One of them put his hand up, and Reed pointed to him, inviting him to ask his question.
“Sir, if a man wearing one of those has to carry one of his buddies, that’s gotta be, uh…six hundred pounds at least. Hell, it could be a lot more. How’s anybody supposed to hump that kind of weight any kind of a serious distance?”
Reed acknowledged the question’s validity with a nod. “It’s a big ask.” he agreed. “The suit does contain some passive load-bearing structures which will help, but the operators wearing it will need to be exceedingly strong. Which is why we’re coming to you now, with…this.”
He closed the slideshow and opened a video.
“This is footage of Lance-Corporal Aaron Baxter, United States Marine Corps. Baxter was involved in a vehicle collision during a training exercise two weeks ago, and suffered a, uh…” Reed checked his notes, pronouncing the medical terminology slowly and with care. “A…posteriorly displaced…open comm- in-uted…intra-articular tibial plateau fracture with an…intimal tear of the …pop-lit-e-al artery.”
He looked up. “As I understand it, that basically means the poor bastard’s knee got flattened and everything broke into little bitty bits.”
Everybody grimaced.
“Right, you understand.” Reed noted, nodding. “This is a crippling injury, a career-ender. That knee’s never going to be the same again, and if he escapes amputation, getting it working again even half-normally is going to involve probably a prosthetic joint, and certainly a lot of physiotherapy and rehab. Ordinarily, Baxter would be out of a job and living on his VA benefits and medical care. Fortunately for him, he came along at exactly the right moment to be the guinea pig for a new medicine purchased from Extraterrestrial sources.”
While the footage of Baxter continued on one half of the screen, the other half began a quick animation detailing the origins and capabilities of the drug. “It’s called Cruezzir-Derivative Compound A, but for the purposes of common usage, we’re calling it Crue-D. Don’t ask me how, but it hugely accelerates and improves the healing process.” Reed continued. “Baxter went under the knife to have all those little bitty bits put back together and the plumbing fixed, and while they were at it, he let them inject this stuff right in there.”
On the screen, Baxter’s dressings were being removed. “This is him only thirty hours after the operation. Notice, there’s no surgical wound, nor a scar from the open fracture. That had closed up by the six hour mark, and If they’d put sutures in him, they’d have had to operate to get them back out again. Fortunately they foresaw that and only clamped the wound and compressed it. But when they X-rayed the kneecap at eight hours, they found out it was damn near perfectly intact. They kept him in bed for another day just to be sure, but…”
Baxter stood up, and jaws dropped around the room.
“That’s incredible.” somebody muttered.
“It’s goddamn alien space magic is what it is.” Baseball grunted.
Reed nodded agreement, letting the interruption slide. “And for the time being it looks like we’re stuck relying on the Corti to make it for us. When our scientists tried to figure out how it works in the lab, they say the samples just dissolved into water and some weird organic molecules, like it’s got a self-destruct built in. But the results are plain--Corporal Baxter is fit and well and back with his unit, under observation for long-term side effects but otherwise unscathed after what should have been the end of a promising career as a US marine."
He turned off the screen. “So…what does this have to do with the six of you?” he asked, rhetorically. “The short version is that with the physical demands of the SOR program being so high-end, we want to use this stuff therapeutically during the physical training. Slap-patches, joint injections…You’re all familiar with the theory behind muscle gains?”
There was general nodding. “Good. But to spell it out for the sake of clarity, the very basic version is that the muscles and ligaments suffer minor damage, and heal stronger than they were before.”
“With this stuff,” he continued “we think we can take that process to a new level. Completely thrash the trainee during the day, then they heal perfectly overnight thanks to a contact patch of Crue-D. Throw in some of the latest developments in Sports Science and we think it’s possible to produce operators whose bodies exist on the absolute limit of what’s humanly possible.”
One of the others put his hand up. “Begging your pardon sir, but…You want us to do that?"
“I’m putting it out there for you to think about. Like I said, the SOR is still in its infancy. We’ve got all the necessary infrastructure in place, now all that’s needed are volunteers. Any such volunteers will be plucked from the pararescue pipeline and put onto the SOR highway instead. This will closely mirror--and often take place alongside--pararescue training, but will be even more physically intense, and will then be followed by SOR-specific training and possibly astronaut training as well. Any questions?”
Several hands went up. Reed acknowledged one of them with a point of his pen.
“Sir, what are the risks here?”
“We’re assured that, when used correctly, Crue-D has no side effects. And to head off the next question, the only incorrect use we know of was a couple of cases where the original medicine--Cruezzir--entered the patient’s gut biome, where it was absorbed by intestinal bacteria which mutated and began to produce a constant supply.”
“What happens when that happens?"
“According to the Corti, the subject undergoes rapid muscle growth, an increase in bone density, and…basically reaches their maximum physical potential without the need to exercise their way there, not to mention becoming permanently able to heal from even quite serious injuries at a remarkable rate. There’s also some suggestion that they become biologically immortal and may experience improved skill-learning and the tapping of latent genetic potential that exists inside the human genome, such as the ability to see some way into the infrared.”
There was silence, then somebody else put their hand up. “Begging your pardon sir, but why the hell aren’t we going with that?"
“One, because Crue-D has been modified to preclude exactly that scenario because it scares the bejesus out of the Corti. Two, because it seems to come at a serious cost to the subject’s mental health.” Reed explained. “The two known cases so far demonstrated reckless, self-destructive behaviour and possible signs of a schizophrenic or Dissociative Identity disorder, respectively.”
“Besides that,” he continued “We have no idea if that’s just in the short- term. The long-term effects of Crue-D applied topically in a targeted and safe fashion, we are assured, are nil. Nothing is known about the long-term consequences of keeping the human body indefinitely soaked in the original Cruezzir."
He cleared his throat. “The only remaining thing that could be a risk factor would be nutrition. You’ll be packing on muscle and bone mass at such an incredible rate that your diets will have to be strictly controlled down to the last milligram and calorie. Every snack, every meal. You won’t even be able to grab a burger without planning and training ramp-down, and if done incorrectly you might find yourself suffering from malnutrition. At the very least it would be a wasted opportunity. At worst, well…"
This was met with thoughtful silence. Reed let them mull it over for a moment, then spoke again.
“This is, obviously, an enormous decision. You would not be here if you were so impulsive as to just take it on immediate notice, which is why we’ve informed you today so you can have your weekends to consider it. This briefing will continue on Monday at fourteen hundred hours. Dismissed.”
“You’re going for it, ain’tcha?”
Adam looked up. He’d been considering how to write back to Ava, tell her that his training would go on for at least another two years beyond what they had discussed, without breaching confidentiality or classification. He knew she’d accept that he couldn’t discuss such things with her, but she still deserved an explanation, and he was carefully assembling that explanation in his head.
“This is what I got in for.” he said, simply. “I knew there had to be aliens involved somewhere, and…yeah."
Baseball sat down. “You did?”
“Dude, antimatter? Nobody on Earth’s got that shit.”
“We’ve got alien healy-juice though. They didn’t tell me about that shit when I first heard about the SOR."
Adam nodded. “Yeah.” he said. “That one’s new on me, too.”
“Man, I ain’t sure about this Crue-D stuff.” Baseball rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I knew too many guys got ’roided up in school…You sure you’re not rushing into this?”
“These ain’t roids. This shit heals you stronger, man!"
“Yeah, but…man, you trust anything ET makes?"
Adam sighed. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, Base. The SOR’s going to be going up against the group that killed my mom and my friends. That’s why I joined in the first place--’cause a group like that, needs people fighting them, you know? I don’t know if I trust ET, but I sure as hell trust us, you know?"
“So you’re going for it, then?”
“Yeah.”
“…Okay. I’m with you, Hoss.”
Adam paused: “Base, bro, you don’t have to.”
“Bullshit. We’re a good team, you’re the heavy lifting motherfucker, I’m the brains of the outfit.”
Adam laughed and gave him the finger.
Baseball laughed too, then reached out, flipped Adam’s hand over, grabbed it in a knuckle-creaking handshake and dragged him in for a solid masculine slam- hug.
“Besides, we get to be fuckin’ astronauts.” he added. “You KNOW that’s a ticket to pussy.”
Adam laughed again “Alright, you sentimental fuck. You’re with me…I appreciate it.”
“You better.”
Hey Ava,
Baby, I’m sorry to do this to you, but there’s a career opportunity come up that’s just perfect for me. It’s everything I got into the military to accomplish. I wish I could discuss it with you, but it’s all confidential.
The downside is that the training is two years longer than we’d planned for, and it’s going to be really hard to get the time to visit you during those two years.
I wish there was time for us to talk about it properly, but they want my answer on whether or not I’m signing up for this thing on Monday, and there’s just not time for me to get back and with the emails only updating once a day, by the time your reply gets to me, it’ll be Monday anyway, so…
I’m sorry Ava. But this is too perfect to pass up.
Write me back. I’ll understand if you’re mad.
--Adam XXX
Date Point: 5y 4m 5d AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Jessica Olmstead
“Oh my God, Ava!”
Jessica had never been the kind of teacher who believe in keeping an emotional distance from her students, and so when Ava shuffled into the classroom a quarter hour early and looking totally ruined, she dropped everything and dashed over to give the younger woman a hug. “What happened?”
Ava ran a shaking hand through unbrushed, unwashed hair and lost whatever grip on her composure she’d had, burying herself in Jess’ sweater and shaking fiercely.
Jess just held her until finally Ava managed to pull herself together and straighten up. “What happened?”
“I just…I checked my emails, and there’s one from Adam, and…” Ava looked away and made an angered expression at herself, fighting to stay in control. “He changed the plan.”
“Changed the…? I don’t understand.”
“I was fine with him doing two years of pararescue training and some deployments, and…I don’t know! All that, we’d got it sorted out and I was fine with it! But now he’s talking about four years of training and maybe not being able to see each other at all in those extra couple of years! And who knows how long after that!" Ava threw her hands up and engaged anger circuits that Jess had never seen in her before.
"Que se supone que haga? Él no me pregunto, el no me habla de ello …el hijo de puta me acaba de enviar una CARTA DE MIERDA y espera que yo sea bien! Eso pendejo desconsiderado! Eh?"
Jess sat on a desk. “I don’t speak Spanish, Ava.” she pointed out, gently. “But watch your language, the kids’ll be here soon.”
Ava went still, then deflated and sat down, miserably. “He just…it’s not just his life." she complained.
Jess gave her a moment to be silent. When Ava wiped her eyes and began to sort herself out, she took the opportunity to be constructive. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
Ava made a bitter little noise. “I should have learned this by now, shouldn’t I? Don’t plan for anything, because tomorrow you might get nuked.”
“So…?”
“So what I’m going to do is…whatever seems like a good idea at the time." Ava said.
“So what seems like a good idea right now?”
“Hah! Dumping his ass.” but Ava was shaking her head to indicate that she had nothing of the sort in mind. “But…whatever, so he’s been an insensitive jerk and made a huge decision without me. So what? At least he cares. He still loves me, and I love him too, even if he’s been a huge jackass right now."
“So…?” Jessica repeated.
“So I guess what seems like a good idea is just…forgive him and try to be happy.” Ava shrugged. “Be happy in the moment, right? That’s what our Gaoians are so into. And I…I think I’d be unhappier without him."
She sighed, and stretched. “What do you think?”
Jess considered the question. “I guess my marriage broke up because we weren’t able to forgive when we hurt each other.” she conceded in the end. “I don’t know, there’s so many arguments either way, I guess you do just have to go with whatever seems like a good idea at the time."
“Like he did.”
“Like he did.” Jess agreed. “I think that’s what love is, is understanding when one of you comes first. Sometimes it’s you, sometimes it’s him.”
She hesitated, then decided to put her money where her mouth was and say what seemed like a good idea at the time. “And…Ava, he’s a soldier now. Soldiers…they don’t always come back. I think you’re going to need to get used to trying to live as well as you can 'in the moment' and not…and figure out how you’re going to get by without him, if that ever happens."
A banging in the hallways made them both look up--it was the clear sound of the class starting to arrive. “If you want to borrow a hairbrush, there’s one in my office, on the desk.” Jess offered.
Ava smiled. It wasn’t a strong smile, but it was genuine. “Thanks, Jess. I needed…thank you.”
Jess gave her another hug. “I hope I helped.”
Ava nodded, then slipped out the other door a few seconds before the class started to enter, in usual boisterous mode.
Jess straightened and got herself back into teacher mode. The first, and hopefully worst, of the day’s crises was dealt with.
Dear Mr. Ares,
As I said to you when Ava first arrived at our school, she has always struck me as being much more intelligent than she believes herself to be. I am very pleased to tell you that, over the last few months, she has vindicated my belief in her and excelled at her studies. As you know, the free-form approach to schooling that we use at this school does not allow me to break down her performance by subject, but she has achieved outstanding performance in every single module she has chosen to pursue.
As the sole member of our senior group, with the next students not due to enter that group for another three years, she does however pose a slight administrative problem for the school, which I believe would be best resolved by graduating her at the end of this coming summer term and then taking her on over the coming school year as a teaching assistant. This will not only enable her to continue to study ahead of her university plans, but will give her some practical experience and income that will serve her in good stead.
She has indicated to me that she wishes to attend the London School of Economics to study for a career in photojournalism. Challenging though this choice of career will doubtless be, I have complete confidence that she will excel in it.
Her combined overall grade for this semester is: A.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. J. A. B. Olmstead
Junior and Senior Groups Tutor, Folctha Comprehensive School.
“Wow…that’s, uh, easily the best report card I ever had."
Gabriel took off his reading glasses. “Yeah?”
Ava sighed. “Every other one I ever had always had the words 'could do better' in it." She said. “I guess they were right, huh?”
“I guess they were.” Gabriel agreed, though he left out his opinion that if her performance had previously been lackluster then that probably reflected more on the education system than on Ava herself. “You gonna go for it?”
She hesitated. “Do you…think I should?”
“It sounds like an excellent opportunity.” Gabriel told her. “Experience, money and education all in one go? Chances like that don’t come along too often.”
“True…”
Gabriel knew what the trepidation was about. “Why not discuss it with Doctor Olmstead?” He suggested. “If you want plenty of time to get out there and practice your photography, maybe she can help.”
Ava nodded and pulled the camera out of her handbag. She was constantly fiddling with it nowadays, usually with a frown. “I do need to practice more. I keep looking at Sara’s old pictures and seeing…you know, seeing new things in them. Things she was doing that I didn’t even know how to see before…”
She sighed. “She was…really talented, Gabe. I want to try and do justice to her, try and…bring back some of her spark, but I don’t think I can."
“Even if you don’t,” Gabriel told her. “In trying, you’ll find your own talent. Don’t think of it as bringing back her spark, but as…I dunno, reincarnating it. Same spirit, but different, yeah?”
“Maybe…”
She put the camera away, then stood up and kissed him on the forehead. “I’d better get home.” she said.
“See you tomorrow?”
“Of course!”
Date Point: 5y 5m 1w AV
Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas, USA, Earth
Adam Ares
Indoc had taught Adam a trick. It had taught him how to notice that he was exhausted and in pain, but to treat those facts as an abstract.
It was a useful trick. One that kept his feet kicking, hour upon hour upon hour, in a pool of cold water, with his goggles flooded and his muscles saturated with lactic acid. The mind went to a quiet place without thought, where the absence of any stimulation but the physical exertion didn’t matter, and where the exertion itself was not the immediate, intimate issue it might once have been, but was instead…academic. It wasn’t even tedious--his ego was so shut down as to not care that he’d received no real intellectual stimulation for hours.
There was just the task: Keep kicking.
In that mode, he might have gone on until his body finally gave out. And that, he suspected on those rare occasions where he was permitted to be lucid, was the point.
Besides, pool days were comparatively gentle, compared to the weight sessions. Those were the days when the Crue-D came out in force, when muscles sprained and ligaments tore and were forced to mend almost on the spot. You worked until you broke, and were then fixed. And then, while you healed, you trained something else.
If he hadn’t learned how to notice his pain without experiencing it, he couldn’t have borne it.
There was just the task: Keep lifting.
Keep kicking.
Keep improving.
He wasn’t even waiting. He was just doing, until the whistle blow summoned him out of his trance and allowed him to stop doing again. Allowed him, once he was out of the pool, to become Adam again and realise just how trashed and tired he really was.
Adam, who was packing on muscle at an incredible rate. He’d known that he would, of course. The SOR briefing had been clear on that. But it was still jarring sometimes to look at himself and recall that just two years ago he’d been a skinny teenager who didn’t even fill out the small shirts in the store, whereas he now wore Extra-large sized shirts like a second skin.
“Line up!”
He met Baseball’s eye as they lined up alongside the pararescue candidates. They stood out, now, clearly on a different career path. The PJs were strong as hell, but Adam and Baseball were both much, much bigger. Their ability to wriggle into tight places had been sacrificed to prioritize the raw power they needed to remain mobile and active under crushingly heavy loads.
Being lined up after an exercise was nothing new--it had hitherto been the prelude to another task. This time was different. This time the MTLs lined up in front of them, at attention, and Master Sergeant Allen--the team leader-- stepped forward, studying them carefully.
Devastated as they were by what must have been a truly epic session in the pool, every one of the airmen held at attention perfectly. Finally, he nodded.
“Airmen.” he said. “You have now completed the Indoctrination section of your Pararescue training. You have done something that is literally better than a one in a million event--precious few men have ever accomplished this task. You’re not Pararescuemen yet, but as of today, you’ve proven that you are all worthy to follow in the green Footsteps of the giants of your chosen unit. You have cleared the first and most difficult hurdle on the road to your maroon beret, and it has been our honor and privilege as your Military Training Leaders to witness this feat.”
He saluted, as did all the other MTLs. The exhausted airmen returned a precision salute with equal snappy enthusiasm. “Congratulations.”
The salute was held for a moment, then relaxed, and the MTLs softened with it, advancing forward to exchange handshakes, hugs and smiles with men they’d been yelling at only minutes before.
Adam was running on fumes, but he joined in gladly. He’d known he could do it.
Finally, the congratulations died down. Master Sergeant Allen finally called an end to it. “Alright, get back to your dorms and get some sleep.” he ordered. “And sleep in. Tomorrow is a Liberty day. Get checked out, get laundry done. Don’t you worry about your gear just this once, we’ll take care of it. You’ve earned it.”
He paused, then smiled. “But don’t get stupid.” he added. “training resumes the next day.”
Date Point: 5y 9m 3w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Gabriel Ares
“Ah. I thought so.”
Gabriel looked up from toying with his glass of water. The waiters of Folctha’s first restaurant--and what a restaurant it was!--had been discreetly keeping him supplied with water for a few minutes now. Ava had spent her first paycheck arranging for him and 'someone else' to be among the place’s first diners.
He had to admit, he was intrigued. He hadn’t been on a date in years, and never on a blind date. Though, like the woman who had just said 'I thought so’, he’d had a sneaking suspicion he knew who it would be.
“Wow!” he commented. He’d been right, but he barely recognised her.
Jess Olmstead giggled. “That’s a good start!”
Gabriel stood and pulled back a seat for her. “Heartfelt.” he promised, as she settled into it, carefully dropping her handbag beneath her. Whenever he’d interacted with Jess before she’d been in teacher mode, favouring a black cardigan and a red scarf with a long skirt. Comfortable, sensible and plain.
For tonight, she’d worn something substantially sleeker in dark blue, with a neckline that pulled at the eyes, punctuated by an attention-grabbing, slim little minimalist necklace and a smile that said 'go ahead and look’. Her hair was out of its usual loose ponytail and swept into something just a little bit more elaborate. Gabe had enough experience with women to know just how much time and agonising would have gone into crafting such an apparently effortless appearance, and knew enough about perfume to scent that she was wearing an expensive one.
Good signs, especially considering that she claimed to have suspected who her date was.
“Ava’s got to be so proud of herself right now, playing matchmaker.” he noted, sitting down again.
“Well, I had my suspicions.” Jess confessed. “There aren’t many other people she could have set me up on a date with."
“Likewise.”
“And yet, here we are.”
“Here we are.” Gabe agreed, mirroring her smile and pleased that he’d put similar effort into his own appearance, between getting the fit of his suit adjusted and treating himself to a wet shave. He’d even subtly dipped into Adam’s left-behind stash of “manscaping” products, which had been a strange experience for him, being of a generation of men that didn’t traditionally wear cosmetics of any kind. Ava had reassured him that the result was dashing and sophisticated, especially when coupled with his cane.
The maitre’d spun by with the wine list and a recommendation, which they agreed to with nods and murmurs.
“She was pretty thrilled with your recommendation.” He revealed. “So was I. I think it’s exactly what she needs.”
“I hope so.” Jessica poured herself a small glass of water from the complimentary jug between them. “She’s…an amazing person, really. Her and your son both.”
“Don’t I know it.” Gabriel agreed. “I don’t think I’d be coping so well if I wasn’t so proud of them both.”
“Yes, I heard Adam was an 'honor graduate’?"
“I barely recognised him!” Gabriel said. “He walked differently, he looked around differently, he was so much more…focused." He sighed. “I guess the military suits him. On the one hand I’m pleased, but on the other…you know, he’s signing up for a very dangerous life. After everything that’s happened…”
Jess leaned forward, unconsciously echoing his sigh. “Heaven help us if we ever get used to the idea of our kids doing dangerous work.” she commented, and nodded along when he nodded.
"Si. He’s his own man, and Ava’s her own woman. I just wish I knew how to make their lives…happier."
Jess smiled. “Start by making your own life happier.” she suggested.
“Well, that’s why I came down here.” Gabriel said.
Jess smiled and sipped her water. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“You think it’s that simple?” Gabriel asked. “That I’ll help them by helping myself?”
“I do.” Jess nodded. “And they’ll help you by helping themselves. It’s plain how much the three of you love one another.”
The wine arrived along with a couple of slim menus, which distracted them both for a few minutes as they mulled over their options and ordered.
“Like you said.” Gabe continued once their orders were placed. “They’re amazing people. With everything that’s happened they’ve only grown tougher and more mature.”
“What about you?” Jess asked him.
Gabe just shrugged a little. “A little weaker in some ways, a little stronger in others.” he suggested. “I’m ready to date again, for instance. That’s a big step forward for me.”
“You still held a bit of a candle for your ex? I know it took me ages to get over my divorce… ”
“…No, I don’t think that’s it.” Gabe mulled it over. “I think I was more…bruised and weary, if that makes sense?”
“I understand.” Jess nodded, fiddling with the stem of her glass and listening to him with her chin on her hand.
“What about you, does your ex-husband know you’re living on an alien world nowadays?”
Jess giggled. “My ex-wife and I haven’t spoken in years." she said. “I have no idea what she’s doing with her life, and I haven’t let her know what I’m doing with mine.”
Gabriel cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She reassured him. “I only mention it when it’s relevant, and it’s only relevant with people who… .”
“Who…?”
She just winked at him. Her nose wrinkled a little when she did so, and Gabriel practically fell in love on the spot.
He raised his glass. “To a good first date.” he proposed.
She raised her eyebrows, picking up the wine glass but not yet meeting his toast. "First date?"
"First date." he repeated, projecting as much confidence as he could muster.
She smiled, causing her nose to wrinkle again, and her glass rang against his.
“Is it the quality of the wine, do you think, or how much of it we had?”
Gabriel laughed. “A little bit of column A and a little bit of column B.” he suggested. Neither of them were drunk as such, but they both definitely had a happy buzz on, warming and rounding off the night as he walked her home with an arm around her waist. She seemed very happy to be going at his slow, limping pace.
“I think you’re right…aww, we’re at my house already?”
Gabriel studied it. Jess lived in the same kind of tiny chalet as had been given to Adam and Ava, like most of the colonists. He knew that Sir Jeremy was still handling the minutiae of bringing in contractors to establish more permanent and comfortable housing, but that project had only just begun.
“That’s one of the perks of being colonial security chief.” he said. “My apartment’s even bigger than the one I had back in San Diego.”
“Oh really?”
“Yep. Want to see?”
Jess laughed. “Oh, Gabe.” she chided. “I think we’d at least better have a couple more dates before you show me how big your…” she paused, cheekily. “…apartment is."
“Whenever you want, wherever you want.” he replied.
“Tuesday, same place and time?” she suggested.
“Absolutely.” he agreed.
“Good, because I really enjoyed myself tonight.”
He turned towards her, still with his arm on her waist. “You wanna round it off with a goodnight kiss?”
She did so. It was a good one too, several seconds of gentle, smiling lip contact with a hand on his cheek that promised better things to come, underlined by a second, shorter one just after they separated.
They didn’t say anything else. She just trailed her hand in his as she let herself into her chalet, letting go only in time to blow him a kiss and close the door.
Gabriel Ares walked home with the largest smile on his face that he’d worn in years.
Date Point: 5y 11m 1w AV
Folctha colony, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Gabriel Ares
Rather than hobbling through the living room and opening the door, Gabriel was in the habit of shouting “Come on in, Ava!” when the doorbell rang.
She was the only one who used it--literally everyone else in the colony knocked. It was becoming one of those Cimbrean quirks, the sign of a local, insofar as anybody COULD be local in a town so young.
Ava let herself in and gave him a daughterly kiss on the cheek. Gabriel knew better than to comment that she looked a mess--her eyes were dark and pinkish, and she obviously hadn’t brushed her hair. “Cup of coffee?” He asked.
She nodded and slumped down at the table. “That.” she said. “Would be amazing.”
“You okay?”
“Ah, I stayed up all night doing my part of the end-of-semester marking so I wouldn’t have it to do while Adam’s around.”
“He’s not due back until tomorrow.” Gabriel pointed out. His kitchen faucet had a mode to deliver boiling water, and he used it to fill the cafetier with his favoured blend of Galapagos coffee--a rare treat. Sure, Ava adulterated hers with so much cream and sugar that it was barely recognisable, and a bit of a waste, but he figured it must still be better behind all that than just the instant stuff.
“Yeah, but…it’s his birthday, so I can’t sleep.” Ava gave him a little smile that said she knew just how nonsensical that was.
“You’re that nervous at seeing him again?” Gabriel asked, leaning against the counter while the coffee brewed.
“For, like…a whole bunch of reasons.” Ava agreed.
“Eh, don’t worry so much.” Gabriel told her fondly. “if you two manage to break the bed or something, I’ll fix it.”
"Da-ad!"
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. Her exclamation had been so guilelessly teenage that it was like a note of pure honesty in the room--there couldn’t have been a conscious decision to call him that involved. “Dad, huh?” he asked, softly.
She’d gone beet red, but she stood up and hugged him. “I’m sorry, I--”
“Hey.” he stroked her hair down, as much to get it out of his face as to reassure her. “You’re a daughter to me as well, you know? I couldn’t have asked for better.”
Ava took the compliment well, sitting down again and tidying herself up a little with a smile as Gabriel depressed the plunger on his cafetier and served.
“I um…” she began. “I guess now that that’s out there, I should…there’s something I want you to know.”
“You sure?” Gabriel asked, catching her nervousness.
Ava swallowed and nodded. “I guess if I’ve learned anything these last couple of years, it’s to never leave things un-said.” she shrugged.
A news reel of different emotions rapid-fired across Gabriel’s face, but he sat down and said nothing, letting Ava take her time.
“I miss my parents.” she said, finally. “It’s…so nice to have a parent again, I love you. You took me in, you’ve been everything I needed but…”
“I understand.” Gabriel said softly. “There’s no substitute for the original. Hell, I miss my folks."
“No, that’s not it…” Ava sighed, then wiped her eyes. “I feel really guilty whenever I think this, but I kind of feel like…like you’ve been a better father to me. You’re here, you’ve always been here for Adam, and you’ve been here for me too. I hate to say it, but my parents’ idea of being good parents was just to, to buy me stuff. They gave me whatever I asked for but they didn’t really…I don’t know…"
“They gave you what you asked for, which maybe wasn’t what you needed?” Gabriel finished.
“…Papa would never have joked about fixing the bed.” Ava said. “And…Mom would have told me off for not brushing my hair, but you asked if I was feeling okay. Stuff like that, that you do for me and for Adam. You treat us like a, like you’re our friend as well as our dad. I miss them, but…they treated me more like a doll or a…a pet or a trophy sometimes."
Gabriel handed her a clean tissue, which she made grateful use of. “You don’t need to feel guilty of that, you know.” he said.
“I know that up here." Ava tapped her scalp, then bunched a fist between her breasts and knocked on her sternum. “but…”
Gabe scooted round the table and hugged her. “It means a lot.” he promised. “I try but…it’s good to know you think I’m doing a good job.”
She smiled. “I’m glad I got that out there.”
Gabe laughed a little. “Go home and sleep.” he suggested. “You’re going to need it, but you’re welcome to come round, join Jess and me for dinner this evening.”
“I’d like that_._” she told him, and stood up.
“Go. Sleep. Nos vemos."
"Hasta luego, papa."
Date Point: 5y 11m 1w AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
The passenger jump array had been expanded again during the year of Adam’s absence, but they’d kept the glass wall, allowing friends and family to witness the arrivals and departures.
There were a lot of them these days. Byron Group employees headed home for Christmas, travellers from Earth visiting Cimbrean for the same…
And Adam’s face on a nearly unrecognisable body.
Ava’s jaw threatened to drop. Adam had warned her, as best he could, about what to expect from the fitness regime he’d been on, but she hadn’t been prepared for this.
Sure, he’d been fit before leaving and at the end of Basic. Buff, even. But the Adam who caught her gaze and smiled that same winning, puppyish smile at her was getting to the point where the word “buff” was no longer quite adequate. He was…
He was…
He was fucking HOT.
A year of living alone had inevitably resulted in fantasizing and…well, in entertaining herself as best she could, and Ava had assembled a sizable folder on her tablet full of big strong guys. While knowing that he was going to come back big and strong had almost certainly played a role in shaping her tastes that way, Adam would not have looked out of place in that folder.
She made a mental note to add some pictures of him to it.
His muscles were as firm and dense as teak when they hugged, and he made her feel featherlight when he picked her up and spun her around, beaming.
"GOD I missed you."
She sighed happily and kissed him. “Your letters just…wow, they didn’t do justice. Look at you!”
He looked down and spread his arms. “You like?”
He turned around, and Ava had to fight to stop herself from automatically biting her lower lip. "Yeah…" she squeaked. “I mean, you were pretty before, but…”
They became aware that several bystanders were able to overhear them, to judge by the amused glances they were attracting, and shared a bit of a blush. Adam shouldered his bag with a weighty thump. “Am I…staying with you?”
“Why wouldn’t you be?”
“I’ve learned not to make assumptions.” he replied, clearly pleased by the response, then looked around. “Hey, where’s Dad?”
“He’s cooking Thanksgiving dinner. We’re going round there in a couple hours.”
“But Thanksgiving was last month.” Adam pointed out.
“Yeah, but you missed it.” she retorted. “And it was your birthday yesterday, so…”
“Does it work that way?”
“It does now.”
He laughed. “That works.”
Adam Ares
“Wow. Okay. Guess you’re opening the jars tonight, Amigo."
Adam laughed, and hugged his dad, gently. “Easy.” he said, then smiled at Jessica, who was hovering in the background with a slightly stunned expression. “Hey Jess.”
“’Hey' yourself!" she replied. “Good God you’ve changed since I last saw you."
They hugged.
“Wasn’t easy.” he told her. “Gotta tell ya, hearing you and Dad were dating really picked me up when I was having a rough time with the EMT training.”
“You were struggling with that?” Ava asked, hanging up her jacket and sitting down at Gabriel’s dinner table, while Gabriel returned to the kitchen. The whole apartment smelled of turkey and potatoes.
“Yeah. Think I’ve learned just enough about medicine now to know that I know basically nothing about medicine. It’s…crazy." he sighed. “And for a while there I just wasn’t getting it, you know? My buddy Baseball--you remember Baseball?”
Ava giggled. “Hard to forget.”
He laughed. “Right. Well, he was kicking my ass. He’s a total natural. Me…I mean, I’m starting to get it now, but for a long while there, getting all that knowledge to stay in my head was damn near impossible. You’ve got to learn a lot of the academic stuff before you can start working on the practical, you know?”
“You always were more of a hands-on kinda guy.” Gabriel noted, from the kitchen. Jess nodded, smiling and looking up at the ceiling with an 'oh yeah' expression.
“You were okay though?” she asked.
“Ah, y’know. I was just…frustrated.” Adam’s chair creaked as he sat down next to Ava. “Like, I’d gone through all the pain of Indoc and all that PT and everything, and here I was struggling with what I’d thought was gonna be the easy bit. So yeah, the good news from home helped there. Made me feel positive again, and that helped me get past the block. Can’t say I’m ever going to be a great medic, but I’m not gonna be a bad medic, either."
“So you approve?” Gabe asked, appearing with the plates.
“Oh come on, Dad! I mean, of course I do, but you don’t need my approval."
Jess and Gabe exchanged a happy glance, and both headed into the kitchen.
“Guess this is a family Thanksgiving then.” Ava commented, snuggling up next to Adam.
“Late though it is.” Gabe agreed, reappearing with the roast potatoes. “Adam, put those muscles to use Amigo, bring the turkey through?"
Adam laughed and did so, retrieving a bird the size of a dog from the oven which he hefted easily on one oven-gloved hand. “Where did you get this?”
“Cimbrean wild turkey.” Jess revealed. “They’re part of the ecosystem reconstruction.”
“No shit? What else is out there?”
“Bobcats, bats, mice, eels, eagles…” Ava smiled. “From what Hayley Tisdale was telling me, they’re throwing a whole bunch of different species into the mix and letting natural selection do the rest.”
“They’re talking about deer and wolves, too.” Jess added. “It’s not all going perfectly right--I heard the eagles especially are struggling. Apparently the low gravity throws off their instincts when they’re swooping in on top of something, and they struggle to hunt at first.”
“How is Hayley?” Adam asked.
“She’s…She and Marc, they’re both okay. Did I tell you they had a little girl?”
“…Yeah, you did. Hope?”
“Hope. That’s right.” Ava nodded. “She was gonna come back to Folctha after the birth but the medical advice was it’s probably not good for a kid to live in low gravity until at least their second growth spurt which is, what? Ten or eleven years? And even then… "
“Right.” Adam nodded.
“So, they’re living in London nowadays, working for the Reclamation Project. Something about…GMO plants that are better suited to Cimbrean’s soil, gravity and sunlight.”
Gabe set down the last of the gravy, vegetables and sauces, and glanced around the table, looking happier and less stressed than Adam could remember seeing him in a long time. “So…Thanksgiving. It’s been a rough and crazy few years, and…you know, I can’t remember the last time we actually did this. I just wanted you to know how thankful I am to have the three of you in my life.”
Jess smiled, and murmured a “Hear, hear.”
Gabe and Ava exchanged glances, and bowed their heads in prayer. Jess just put her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, watching them with a faint smile.
Adam…thought.
It was a skill he hadn’t been given much opportunity to practice. Constant PT, constant education, interspersed only with meals, sleep and only a little leisure time (most of which had been taken up by letters and Madden) hadn’t made for a contemplative year. He’d learned to enjoy moments, though, and this moment was…
Warm. Comfortable. He shut his eyes and let it wash over him--the gentle breathing, the wall clock marking away the seconds, the buzz of the kitchen light and hum of the oven fan, the warmth of Ava sitting next to him, the soft sound of his Dad praying under his breath…
He opened his eyes when Gabriel murmured an "Amen“, and looked up.
“So…” he asked. “What are the rest of you having?”
Date Point: Boxing Day, 5y 11m 2w AV
Adam wasn’t yet asleep, but it still took him a couple of seconds to register the knock on his door.
He sat up a bit “Ava?”
She called through the door. “Can I come in?”
“Sure!”
She’d left the hall light on and leaned against the door frame, backlit by it, and Adam just had to stare. She was wearing one of his t-shirts, a thin white one. The shirt itself wasn’t blocking any of the light from behind her, and the varying depth of shadow her body made under it was…
Amazing. Sexy. Gorgeous. He could just about make out her nipples by the shadows they cast across the fabric, and the shirt was just short enough to create a fascinating dark triangle with her thighs. When he looked up at her face, she was breathing heavily through slightly parted lips.
“Past midnight?” he asked.
She laughed, nervously. “Happy birthday to me.”
"Deja vu." he observed. She laughed a little again, and took a pace forward, loitering at the end of the bed.
“I’ve been…kind of regretting that, I, uh…I chickened out last time.” she confessed.
“Ch-uh, chickened out?”
She knelt on the edge of his bed and crawled up it like a predatory cat to kiss him.
It was a different kiss to any they’d shared before--a fiercer, more adult one. He was still mind-blanked by it when she grabbed his wrist and guided his hand firmly onto flesh that was so warm it almost felt like she’d burn the skin off his palm.
He took the hint and put his free hand on the back of her head, pulling her into the kiss. By the time it came to a natural conclusion she was pressed right up against him, every warm inch of her, and his roaming hands had discovered that she wasn’t wearing so much as a stray thread under that shirt.
All of that notwithstanding, though, she was trembling.
“You sure you’re ready?” he asked.
“I am.” she promised, and straddled his lap, grinding against him and making him acutely aware of just how little and thin the blanket was, knowing how close which bits of him were to which bits of her. There was a scent in the room he’d never smelled before, and it was having an urgent effect on some very ancient parts of his brain.
He could feel every inch of his body pulsing, shaken by a heart that was suddenly hammering away as hard as if he was back in Indoc. Was feeling sick and shaky the right response here? It was all his body seemed to know how to do. For all he wanted to be suave and confident and passionate with her, deep inside he was a knot of anxiety and trepidation. So was she, judging by the way she froze when her hand paused in trailing down his body, just short if its destination.
“You’re scared.” he observed. She just smiled weakly and nodded. “We don’t have to if you don’t--” he began.
“I want to.” she interrupted him.
“But…you’re scared.”
“So are you.”
He couldn’t deny it.
“Do you want to?" she asked.
The honest answer was that every nerve in his body did, bits of him hurt with wanting to, but he was becoming too paralysed by the shakes to do more than nod.
It seemed to be enough for Ava’s purposes. She scooted down his legs, taking the blanket away, and conjured a little square foil pack that she must have smuggled in with her, somehow. “Lie back.” she whispered.
Adam could no more have disobeyed her than he could have willed himself to teleport to Mars. He lay back and shut his eyes, almost hyperventilating as she pulled his pajamas off him.
She made a noise, something between a frightened whimper and a “wow”, and there was a little crinkly noise as she tore open the wrapper of the thing she’d brought with her.
“I don’t know how to put one of those on…” he objected.
“It’s okay.” she promised, and touched him where the contact went through him like an electric shock. “I do.”
After that, while they made plenty of other noises, the only talking they did was in the form of whispered instructions and little two-word prayers.
When he woke in the morning, she was still there. It hadn’t been a dream.
Most of the morning was spent fielding birthday well-wishes for Ava. Her presents were both more numerous and more impressive than Adam’s, but he didn’t mind--she could take them with her, after all.
It was only after the last of their visitors had gone that either of them were able to discuss what had happened the night before, as they were finishing the washing up.
“Did you…” she cleared her throat. “…Was it…okay?”
He took her hand. “It was…kind of awkward.” he confessed.
“Yeah…” she nodded agreement. “I’m sorry…”
“No, no…it was great! Uh…maybe we, uh, just need to practice.”
She thought about that, put her head on one side, put the last fork on the drying rack and vanished into the bedroom.
“Uh, Ava…?”
Her shirt flew out of the door. “So let’s practice!” she called.
“Oh! Right!” He tripped over his own socks in his rush to pull them off and join her.
They practiced.
((Don’t move on to chapter 23 yet! This has been just the first part of Chapter 22: you can find the link to the rest of this chapter below))
Chapter 26
<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC “-//W3C//DTD HTML 3.2 Final//EN”> <title>500 Internal Server Error</title> <h1>Internal Server Error</h1> <p>The server encountered an internal error and was unable to complete your request. Either the server is overloaded or there is an error in the application.</p>Chapter 27
The Third Year | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 7y 1w AV
London, England, Earth
Charlotte Gilroy
“You’re back!” Charlotte was a huggy person anyway, but she especially liked hugging Ava--Ava always reacted first with a little awkwardness and then with genuine delight, as if she wasn’t really used to being hugged but really enjoyed it when it happened.
She took a step back after giving her friend an especially big squeeze, and examined Ava with an expert eye. “You had sex!”
Ava laughed. She must have been exhausted, flying from Vancouver and then catching the tube across town with a big suitcase in tow, but there was no mistaking that satisfied glow.
“Okay, how did you know?” She demanded. “Do I smell or something?”
“Nope! You’re just…relaxed.” And how. Ava wasn’t tightly-wound or anything, but she did have a kind of sadness about her that was totally gone right now. She was so pretty when she smiled, too. It was nice to see.
Ava shoved her suitcase into her room, while Charlotte bounced on her toe- tips, eager to hear all about Cimbrean and Adam.
“What?”
“So, come on! Deets!”
“Charlotte, I’m not telling you everything about-”
Charlotte deployed her best pout, the one that Ava had never been able to resist, and Ava sighed, rolling her eyes. “It was…once he remembered I was there, it was great." she confessed.
Charlotte inclined her head. “Once he remembered?”
Ava nodded. “Oh the…big idiot tried to keep up his training regime. I barely saw him the first week. I had to…” she paused and scratched at her upper arm, absently and awkwardly. “You know what, it’s in the past, he apologised, and yeah, the second week was amazing."
Charlotte watched all that relaxation and happiness just flicker and die, like the time she’d gone camping with her parents and Dad’s firewood had been too wet. He’d been able to get it burning, but it was never long before the flames crawling over the wood became little, desperate domes of fire before giving up their ghosts in streams of white smoke.
“…cup of tea?” she asked. Cups of tea were Charlotte’s way of trying to make things better, and she knew that Ava knew it.
“…Please.”
She threw together a mug of tea so strong and full of sugar that by all rights the spoon should have got stuck, and presented it to Ava, who was looking increasingly troubled.
“So…?”
Ava looked up from inhaling the steam and shrugged. “It started off great. Met each other, checked into the hotel and…wow."
Charlotte giggled.
“…Then in the morning he snuck off to the gym, got back late, fell straight to sleep, snuck off to the gym again…”
“What a-!” Charlotte began.
“No.” Ava interrupted, surprisingly vociferous. “No, I understand. I got real mad at him, but…I mean, he’s right. He’s committed to this, he needs to keep at it. I can’t ask him to…I won’t ask him to stop, even if I could."
“Darling, you’ve got to have a good relationship with him though!” Charlotte told her.
“Well, I got his head round it.” Ava said. “Made him see what he was doing and he…scaled it back. We had a great time in the end. He got up later, we went to the gym together, we ate together…it wasn’t exactly what I’d planned, but I gotta say, I kinda like being bench-pressed by my boyfriend."
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
Ava snickered, and sipped her tea, which was still much too hot for Charlotte’s taste, but she seemed to like it that way. “So…yeah. I actually had a great time, after that. You said it yourself, I came back all relaxed and stuff, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but…”
“Well then.”
Ava seemed to think that settled the matter, but Charlotte knew better. Ava had only ever dated one boy after all, she probably didn’t know something that Charlotte had learned at the age of fourteen, which was that boys might give you a week or a month of improved behaviour when they got in trouble…but it took a lot more than that to permanently fix them, if it was even possible.
“Darling…what if he’s not really learned?” She asked, after a delicate interval.
“Then I’ll…” Ava tailed off, then shrugged. “Then maybe I need to learn."
“Learn what?”
“How to…to…”
Charlotte gave her time to think, until their drinks were finished and Ava sat back, looking away, looking defeated.
“Is he worth this?” Charlotte asked her.
She’d known Ava was tough, but this time, when Ava looked her dead in the eye, she really saw the steel in there. “Worth what?” Ava demanded. “Worth a few tears? Worth feeling like I’m less important than his mission? Less important than saving lives? Less important than stopping what happened to our home from happening somewhere else? Happening here?"
She surged forward and flung her arm out to punctuate her conviction. “Well…he’s right! I AM less important than that!”
“Maybe he is, but do you need to be doing this to yourself to make that mission happen?" Charlotte persisted.
Ava deflated. “…I think I do, yeah. I think he needs me.”
“Are you sure?”
Ava didn’t answer.
Date Point: 7y 2w AV
Huntsville Alabama, USA, Earth
Adam Ares
“Now there’s something you don’t see every day….” Vandenberg was musing. Adam had to agree. There was just something…unique about an oil drum tumbling lazily in place, perfectly in the three-dimensional centre of the room fifteen meters up in the air.
The variable-gravity training room had been overhauled, in a somewhat makeshift way. The walls had been covered in freeclimb handholds, the ceiling layered in recessed monkey bars, and the floor covered in shin-deep beach sand, lit by colored projections into a gradient--light to dark--of blue at one end of the room, and red at the other.
Clearly some kind of game or sport was going on here, but what the hell a floating oil drum had to do with it was beyond Adam’s ability to guess.
Major Powell was wearing the subtle little almost-smile that indicated he was pleased with himself. “This, lads, is gravityball.” he said. “It’s a training tool Cavendish and I worked out, and he thinks we’ve now got the basics of moving in variable gravity down and it’s time to start putting us through our paces.”
“How’s it played?” Sikes asked.
“All the best bits of rugby, hockey, wrestling, parkour, beach volleyball and strongman competitions in one package.” Cavendish replied, and tossed a red impact-ball to Sikes, and a blue one to Akiyama. “The objective is to get the red ball into the blue zone, and vice versa. The deeper in you go, the stronger the gravity gets, but the more rapidly your score increases. Winning team’s the one with the highest score at the half hour mark, or the first one to double the other team’s score once you’re both past three hundred.”
“And the oil drum?”
“That’s the goal.” Powell said. “But: the goal only WORKS if it’s inside the scoring circle in your team’s target endzone. So if you’re the blue team, you need to carry that thing deep into red territory, get it in the circle, and get either ball into it, and that ball has to start in the blue half of the field or else it’s offside and doesn’t count. Scoring is worth twenty points, but if you can score and then get the goal back to the home circle in YOUR endzone, then you get a permanent score multiplier.”
“Sir…how do we get the goal in the first place?” Baseball asked.
Cavendish grinned. “You have to climb, gentlemen. Oh, one small point--most of the room’s in microgravity, it’s just the two meters at the floor and ceiling that aren’t, and if the goal’s being held up in the scoring circle, then the gravity at the ceiling turns off.”
The team looked back and forth at one another, trying to take all of that in. Cavendish just smiled even wider.
“Alright, Ares, Burgess, you two are the Protectors.” he said. “Your job is to carry and protect that goal. Stevenson, Akiyama, Sikes and Vandenberg are the Defenders, your job is to defend the Protector and your zone. Finally, Jones, Price, Murray, Blaczynski, Firth and Major Powell are Aggressors, your job is to steal the ball, score the goals, raid into enemy territory and all that. One Protector, two Defenders and three Aggressors per team. Alright? And I’m your referee and coach.”
Adam raised his hand. “Sir…what’s legal with, like, tackles and stuff?”
“No punching, kicking, or biting.” Powell told them. “Otherwise, fookin’ anything goes. Sikes, Akiyama, you’re team captains. go ahead and pick. Line up, lads!”
Everyone hustled to the wall.
“You know we need to stick some Feet on that goal, right?” Adam muttered to Baseball.
“Yup.”
Green feet were a Pararescue tradition dating back to Vietnam and the CH-3E “Jolly Green Giant” helicopter. As unit legend had it, saved air crews had taken temporary green feet tattoos on their buttocks to symbolize the PJs 'saving their asses’. Whatever their origins, the Feet had become a badge of pride among Pararescumen and the preferred emblem for any kind of prank, especially ones where the PJs claimed ownership of something.
SOR or not, Adam and Baseball were still PJs, and if it fell to them to move that goal, then goddammit, that goal was going to have green feet on it. No power on Earth or any other planet could stop that.
“Uh…Burgess.” Sikes said, making his first team selection. Adam took the initiative and joined Akiyama, who picked Vandenberg, leaving Stevenson to join the red team. Three more votes, and the blue team were joined by Legsy and Price, leaving Murray to grumble about being picked last as he joined Major Powell on the red team.
“Everyone got all those rules, right?” Adam asked
“I did.” Vandenberg said. “Just go up the wall, monkey along the ceiling. Burgess should be doing the same, so try and knock him off. Grab the goal and bring it back down to earth, and we’ll just try and scrum straight up the middle. Okay?”
“Thought I was the captain?” Akiyama joked, clearly not annoyed.
“Still a good plan.” Vandenberg protested.
“Yeah, but I reckon you can go help Ares up on the ceiling.”
“…Yeah, okay.”
They put their fists together, grunted a “HOOAH!” and, at Cavendish’s direction, set up in their midzone. Sikes’ team set up opposite, there was a moment’s waiting, and then the whistle blew.
Adam darted sideways with Rebar, and together they swarmed as fast as they dared up the free-climb wall. It wasn’t hard going, and the transition onto the ceiling would have been easy…except that nobody had mentioned it was set to 1.2G. Adam very nearly lost his grip, but together they managed to grab onto the ceiling bars and began to manoeuvre--slowly--across the ceiling, circling around Burgess who’d been sent aloft alone and clearly looked like he wanted to swear about it.
“Go for the drum, I’ve got Baseball.” Vandenberg said.
Adam made a grunt that was supposed to be confirmation, and angled for the spot directly above the goal drum. Burgess and Vandenberg collided, resulting in the Delta man hanging off Baseball, gripping his legs. It didn’t seem to actually make a difference.
“I can take both your asses!” Burgess was calling defiantly, though the extra weight was slowing him down. But Adam saw an opportunity.
“Rebar! Go for the drum!”
Vandenberg looked down, grinned, and swung off Baseball’s leg. He dropped out of the ceiling’s gravity zone instantly with a cry of “heads up!!” for anyone below, and stopped accelerating as he entered the microgravity volume, drifting at a comparatively slow speed. He actually landed on the drum and jumped off it, kicking it down into the sandy arena floor and himself back up towards the ceiling as if he’d been playing this game all his life rather than for only a minute and forty seconds.
By the time he hit the ceiling gravity field again, Adam and Burgess were wrestling, each holding themselves aloft by one hand. Adam had got his legs around Baseball’s waist and was trying to pry open his friend’s grip, an attempt hindered by Baseball’s long arms.
In the end, Baseball’s boast about being able to take them both was proven false. Rebar had just enough speed on re-entering the gravity field to latch on to his ankles, and their combined weight was more than his grip strength could handle.
Unfortunately, that jolt was also more than Adam could handle, and the three of them fell twenty meters together, separating in mid air to make little craters in the soft sand. They hardly felt a thing and were soon up, trying to wrest control of the now-grounded oil drum and get it safely behind a pair of Defenders to try and move it up.
“Oi! Lads!”
Everyone ducked involuntarily as Legsy vaulted them, actually using Stevenson’s shoulder as a stepping stone, and leapt up above the gravity field and into the weightless volume, where he coasted out above the red zone, carrying the blue ball. He’d judged his trajectory beautifully, and latched onto a handhold on the back wall, from which he dropped down onto the sand and began to score a point every two seconds for the blue team.
The blues took advantage of the distraction, shoving and forcing the opposition aside and sending them spinning away helplessly in the microgravity of no-man’s land. Holding on to the wall and each other for leverage, they were able to force the drum into the gravity field, and Adam hoisted it, groaning at the weight, and staggered into a run that only got harder as he transitioned from galactic standard, to Earth standard, to 2G in the far endzone. he was grateful to finally be able to drop it into the scoring circle, high-fiving Legsy as he dropped the ball triumphantly into the goal.
Nothing happened. They were still staring at Cavendish who was watching them patiently and expectantly when Powell burst in among them like an artillery strike, coming down from the ceiling with the red ball and delivered a ringing slam-dunk.
Cavendish blew the whistle. “Red scores twenty points, no multiplier!” he declared
“Offside rule, lads.” Powell explained. “Your ball needed to start on that side of the line AFTER the goal was in the circle, to be eligible to score.”
The team deflated, muttering things like 'right, yeah…' or "oh…derp.'
“Reset the goal!” Cavendish ordered.
“Hey, other than that…” Akiyama commented “…we did great. We’ll get ’em.”
“You’re damn right.” Adam grinned, hoisting the drum and carrying it back toward the middle. “Payback time.”
Drew Cavendish
“Gentlemen, I’ve got to hand it to you. That was the most brutal thing I’ve ever seen.”
The whole SOR was pretty badly beaten up, and the whole SOR was grinning and riding on an adrenaline tsunami. High-fives were exchanged as they waited for the final score.
Drew smirked. “So, the winners, with four hundred and seventy-six points, versus their opposition’s score of four hundred and eleven is…the red team!”
The blues groaned, and were commiserated with by the reds, after a round of hugs and high-fives. “Standout plays for my money-” Drew continued “-were Vandenberg jumping off the drum to catch Burgess. Really good awareness of relative mass, there. Legsy vaulting the team and jumping the length of the playing area above the gravity field, excellent spacial awareness. Burgess, that throw from the ceiling to the red endzone was superb, and so was that bit where you threw Ares at the ceiling slowly enough that he was out of play for more than a minute. That was well done.”
Burgess grinned, and Powell stepped forward. “Learning point there lads.” he said. “You have to be aware of your mates drifting out of handhold range of anything, and if you can, help them get back. Usually the Protector’s job, I know, but if your Protector’s in trouble himself, then see to him.”
"Yes sir."
“Right.” Powell nodded .“Take a shower, slap on a crue patch and grab lunch, and we’ll meet in the lecture room at fourteen hundred to continue our briefing on the Hierarchy. Go on.”
The lads jogged out, beaming and playfully insulting one another. Powell took a cleansing breath and then turned back to get his instructor’s opinion.
“Any further thoughts?”
Drew licked his teeth thoughtfully as he checked his tablet. “The only one whose performance I’d call merely 'acceptable' rather than excellent was Ares, but he’s got a significant handicap: He’s much shorter than the others. He could have saved himself from that throw Burgess got him with if he had longer arms."
“There’s nowt we can do about his arms, Mr. Cavendish.”
“Oh I know.” Drew conceded. “And in fact that same handicap may prove to be an asset when they play this wearing the spacesuits. He’s the strongest on the team, no doubt about it. He should find the suit more comfortable than the others.”
“We’ll have to weigh him down more, then.” Powell said. “I want them ALL to be doing merely 'acceptably’. Acceptable means they’re on their limit, and learning."
“Right. This is training, not a sport.”
Powell chuckled. “You sound like you’ve got plans to turn it into one.”
Drew smiled wryly at how well he’d been skewered there. “We’ve got spaceships, forcefields, holograms and I used to be a mining foreman on an asteroid base.” he said. “We should have a scifi sport to go with the…I dunno, the hoverboards and whatnot.”
Powell nodded absently, rolled his shoulder and examined a nasty bruise on his upper arm. “Bloody hell, I’ve got to hand it to them. I wouldn’t have smacked my CO as hard in training.”
“Is that a good thing?”
Powell shrugged. “On one hand, it means they like me and feel comfortable wi’ me. On t’other, there’s such a thing as too close and personal. I’m not sure where the right balance between those two is, myself."
“Why’s there such a thing?” Drew asked, curious.
Powell thought about it. “the lads…look, this may sound bloody obvious, but they’re military, right? They’re operators.”
“Right…?”
“Operators get killed. They wouldn’t BE operators if they weren’t doing a job which carried that risk. You do everything you can to keep them alive of course, but the whole point of the service is that you see a job that needs doing and you put good, honest, innocent young men in harm’s way to get it done, because fookin’ evil as that is, that job’ll make the world even worse for not being done.”
Drew was always serious and sombre--his expression became more so as he listened, and he nodded. “You’re worried about tipping too far either way, between caring for them as people, and being able to do the right thing?”
Powell shrugged the question off. “It’s my problem to worry about, Mr. Cavendish, and I’ve been dealing with it for years now.” he said.
“Fair enough.” Drew nodded, not surprised that Powell wasn’t the kind to just open up. In any case, they had other things to discuss as they left the gravity room and hung up their helmets. “In that case, has there been any word about my idea?”
“Fitting an emergency recall jump drive to the EV-MASS? We had a strategy review about it…” Powell’s tone of voice didn’t sound promising. “it’s a bloody good idea, and I’ll be welcoming of it…but.”
“There’s always a ‘but’. It’ll save lives, Major.”
“If only it were that cut and dried.” Powell wrinkled his nose, and fished a Crue-D patch from his pocket. He peeled the back off and stuck it to his shoulder, right over the bruise. “Like I was saying, the job’s got to come first. Sometimes a man’s life is worth less than that, and those suppressors they’ve got to keep the jump from popping out like a flare on sensors aren’t small enough to fit on the suit, are they?”
“No.” Drew conceded.
“Right, well there’s your sticking point.” Powell said. “You put that thing on a suit, the temptation’s always going to be there to use it, and if you’ve got a way to evac a dying man and you don’t take it…that’ll just be too hard, if not for the commander then certainly for that man’s mates. But if that’d give away your position and scupper the mission…”
“It won’t ALWAYS scupper the mission will it?” Drew pushed.
“Not always.” Powell agreed. “In fact it creates possible mission plans, so we’ll be using it, no doubt. But it’s going to be optional-use, as needed, not something that’s on there as standard."
He waited as Drew scowled thoughtfully.
“I can see the logic…” Drew finally admitted. “It just seems, morally…”
“Moral? Mate, you yourself were used as a puppet by an alien organisation bent on nuking us out of existence. We’re dealing with cannibals and mind control here.”
“All the more reason to keep the moral high ground.”
“You think we wouldn’t be?” Powell asked. “The hard truth is, we can’t save everyone. There’s no moral damage done in sacrificing one man to save ten.”
“Why not save all eleven?”
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch, that’s why.” Powell shook his head. “You only go all or nothing when there’s no alternative. Otherwise, you’ve got to know when to take your winnings and leave the table.”
Drew sighed, went silent and scowled at his shoes. “I feel like there’s a counter-argument there somewhere, but I don’t know what it is.” he confessed.
Powell smiled grimly, clapped him on the shoulder, and headed off towards the showers. “You ever figure it out, mate, let me know. I’ve been wanting one for years.” he said.
Date Point: 7y 3m AV
London, England, Earth
Ava Rios
"BBC News, today’s headlines this lunchtime: The unthinkable ship: Four hundred million kilometers from Earth, the first of the new V-class spaceborne destroyers is launched, but opposition MPs say that the cost of the new fleet harms Britain’s domestic security…Dominic Hill has confirmed that he’ll be stepping down as leader of the Awareness Party after he was filmed using an obscene and sexist term to describe the deputy prime minister…The Port Authority of San Diego votes to end its charter, ending years of uncertainty and sinking any hopes that the city might be rebuilt…and from riches to rags, how the declining price of oil threatens to bankrupt the Saudi royal family. "
"Good evening. The Prince of Wales has launched the first of the Royal Navy’s new starships, HMS Valiant."
"In a naming ceremony on the dwarf planet Ceres, Prince William dedicated the vessel to the memory of his late grandmother, Queen Elizabeth the Second, and declared that the ship marked the beginning of a new age not just for Britain, but for all of mankind. Our extraterrestrial affairs correspondent, Dariusz Jagoda, was on Ceres to watch the ceremony…"
Charlotte sighed and wriggled in her chair a bit, folding her legs under her more comfortably. “ZF moment.”
“Hmm?” Ava hadn’t been paying attention. Running her website, keeping her blog updated and basically doing everything she could to push her photography on social media was nearly a full-time job in its own right, that she squeezed in around her lectures, coursework and social life. She hadn’t been watching the TV at all.
Fortunately, Charlotte didn’t mind. She was eating a mixing bowl full of Shreddies and chasing it down with a bucket of coffee, all while wearing her favourite anime pyjama bottoms and no bra, nor makeup. It was that kind of lazy afternoon. “ZF moment!” she repeated, waving at the screen.
“A wha-?” Ava shook her head, confused.
“ZF Moment!” Charlotte insisted. “It’s like…that feeling you get when you realise you’re living in the future?”
Ava put her phone down. “I’ve not heard that one before.”
“It’s from some German word everyone was using for a while. Zukuf…Sukun…. something.”
Ava picked up her phone again and Googled the term. "Zukunftsgefuhl?" she asked.
Charlotte nodded. “That’s the one. Come on, Wills just launched a star destroyer, that’s a total ZF moment!"
As her housemate scarfed down the last of her cereal, Ava examined the footage of the balding future king speaking on a podium alongside the starship’s hull, under the huge letters “HMS Valiant“. The V-class destroyer’s size was hard to judge on a TV screen, right up until the moment when the report cut to a wider-angle camera from the back of the crowd, and that podium and its royal occupant became little more than a colourful speck in relation to the huge dark grey chunk of metal.
Valiant didn’t look much like a spaceship. In fact it looked most like a submarine, albeit more angular and studded with surprisingly small guns. There were no running lights, no glowing bits, nothing to hint that this thing was cutting edge technology. Just lots and lots of matte-dark painted metal that should be invisible once it was out in open space.
The crawl along the bottom of the screen shared some facts about the new ship: Its approximate mass (ten thousand short tons, whatever they were) length (a hundred and sixty meters) crew compliment (up to two hundred and sixty) and maximum speeds (four Gs of sublight acceleration, and a cruising speed at FTL of one hundred and twenty kilolights).
“It fits.” she agreed.
On screen, the prince’s speech was still playing out. “…Together with our friends and allies, creating a fleet that will be greater than any one nation’s contribution, and able to defend not only human lives and interests, but those of any innocent person regardless of creed, race, or species."
Charlotte stifled a burp. “What do you think he meant by that?”
“Who knows?” Ava shrugged. “Maybe the USA’s got something in the works too? It just wouldn’t be like us to let you take all the glory.”
The news moved on to the segment about some politician or another in whom Ava had zero interest, so she returned her attention to her phone. She was just composing a careful reply to a positive comment on her profile when the phone hummed in her hand and, with a twinkly little noise, informed her that she had a message.
She had to read it three times before she began to believe it.
“Uh…Charlotte?”
Charlotte pulled a strand of hair out of her mouth. She was prone to chewing on it when thinking. “Yeah?”
“I just got an email via my website. Somebody from Cimbrean Agri-Urban Development’s marketing division wants to buy all the pictures I took over Christmas! Exclusive!”
“Wh- really?!" Charlotte scrambled out of her seat and across the floor to get a look at the message, fetching up with her elbows on the arm of Ava’s chair.
“Yeah, look! They’re offering me three hundred pounds for sole use and ownership, with full image credits to me.”
Charlotte frowned “Is that good?” she asked. “That’s not a lot of money…”
“It’s amazing!” Ava enthused. “CAUD’s the group responsible for building Cimbrean’s infrastructure--you know, the water, the power lines, the sewerage, all that stuff. This is huge!”
“They could be offering you more, then.” Charlotte suggested.
“Darling, this is huge!” Ava said. “Forget the money, my name’s going to be all over the civil engineering project posters and websites and stuff, right where people can see it! This is…People are going to notice!”
Charlotte hugged her. “Don’t forget us little people when you’re doing royal portraits.” She requested.
Ava hugged her back. “Of course not.”
"The interim Port Authority for the city of San Diego has voted to close the port’s charter, putting an end to years of ambiguity over current and future shipping contracts, but also damaging hopes that the city might one day be rebuilt. Our American correspondent, Dean Savage, has more…"
Date Point: 7y 5m AV
Huntsville Alabama, USA, Earth.
Adam Ares
Technical Sergeant Martina Kovač was…distracting, for all the wrong reasons.
For starters, she was intimidatingly intelligent and skilled, having excelled at technical courses Adam would have flunked. For another, she was an athletic powerhouse, lean and strong as an MMA fighter under her ABU, which was not normally a flattering garment. For third, she was gorgeous, with a diamond face and Slavic genes.
Adam would usually have not even noticed these facts about her. Loyalty to Ava aside, Kovač was a fellow NCO and, he knew, had an academic education on top of her military training that put most rocket scientists to shame. He had nothing but the utmost respect for her, professionally.
But the fact was, she was about to measure his junk, and at moments like that, certain thoughts became…insistent.
She had, admittedly, a very good reason for doing so. It was part of the necessary plumbing for his EV-MASS undersuit unless he wanted to use a catheter which…no thanks.
But it was pretty hard not to chicken out and go with the catheter, in the face of the mischief dancing around in those blue eyes.
“Do we not…isn’t there a male technician who can do this?” he asked, fidgeting. Skinny-dipping as a teenager and the many indignities of military life had robbed him of most of his hangups about nudity or general undress, and his fellows weren’t far behind, but this was different. He’d regularly been called on to pee into a bottle under close scrutiny for routine tests throughout his career, but he’d never done so under the scrutiny of somebody pretty before.
“None of them are qualified.” Kovač shrugged. “Relax, staff sergeant. I’m a professional.”
“That’s…I guess that’s comforting.”
Kovač finished assembling her tools - a cloth tape measure, a clipboard and pen, and disposable gloves--and knelt on a cushion. “Come on, sooner they’re down, sooner I’m done.” she told him.
Adam squeezed his eyes shut for a second, stepped forward, and unzipped.
To her credit, Kovač was entirely as businesslike and professional as promised, securing quick, neat measurements without comment.
He was just thinking that hadn’t been so bad when she nodded. “Okay. And now erect.”
"What?!"
“Gotta make sure the, ah…receptacle we’re making for you fits in all circumstances.” Kovač said.
Adam rubbed his face and looked around for something to distract him, or convince him this was just a weird dream. "Me cago en la leche…" he muttered.
“Language.” she chided. “Come on, sooner it’s up, sooner I’m done!”
“You’re seriously kidding me, right?"
“Nope. This thing has to fit properly no matter what.” Kovač grinned up at him and winked, which from that angle was just downright sinful. “Need some help?”
Adam swallowed involuntarily, feeling his heart jump up three gears at once. Okay, sure, fraternizing between NCOs who weren’t in the chain of command was perfectly fine, but she couldn’t seriously be suggesting-?
She tilted her head sideways to point with her eyebrows at the tablet, the tissues and the bottle of lube sitting on the table to his left. “I was talking about the porn.”
“Oh! Oh, right!” Fuck his face for going so red, fuck it, fuck fuck FUCK his face.
Kovač just glanced down at…him…and smiled with a devilish little lip-bite. “Maybe once I’m off-duty though…”
The mental image finally sunk in, and did its work. He couldn’t have stopped himself from hitting full mast if he’d plunged it into ice water.
“Woop! There we go…"
Adam jerked as clever gloved fingers quickly and efficiently lassoed him with the tape measure and…that was it. Measured.
He was still processing what had happened when she stood up and got rid of the gloves into a bin. “Thanks, staff sergeant. You want me to leave you alone for a bit while you compose yourself?”
“I, ah…” Adam got his brain back on track with a head-shake mental reset and hurriedly (and painfully) tucked himself back in. “You enjoyed that way too much."
Kovač laughed. “Yep!”
“I could…I’ll sort myself out elsewhere.” Adam cleared his throat.
“Hey…if it makes you feel any better, the others couldn’t wait to whip it out." Kovač told him. “You’ve got that going for you. I appreciate it.”
“Thanks, I…think…”
“No problem. So, uh…interested?”
“Wait, you were serious?" Adam blinked at her.
“Hey, you’re cute and you were respectful and…let’s face it, I just spent an afternoon staring at dicks, this wasn’t exactly easy for me either.” Kovač shrugged, a little embarrassment finally showing under that flirtatious demeanour. “Interested?”
“Oh, uh…I’m…kinda taken.”
“Damn.” Kovač shrugged. “Good for her.”
“Uh…sorry.”
She laughed. “Don’t be! You’re a nice guy Ares, that’s why I offered.”
“…Thanks.” Adam had already subsided enough that he could adjust himself and retreat to his room. “I’ll uh…see you around, Kovač.”
“Have fun!” she winked at him again.
He let himself out and managed to make it back to his room without anybody smirking at him.
Ten minutes later, after using an ancient technique to purge the mental image of a blonde head bobbing back and forth level with his belt buckle, he guiltily decided that his next letter to Ava would definitely not be mentioning today’s events.
Date Point: 7y 6m AV
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, Earth.
Moses Byron
“…It was hard for me to reconcile the knowledge that the men and women who ran those businesses could be so intelligent, and yet so stupid at the same time. I looked at years of…factories dumping their waste into rivers and lakes because it was cheaper to pay the pollution fines than to properly dispose of their byproduct. Minimum wages that could only support ONE person if they worked a fifteen hour day, let alone a young family. Thereby laying the burden of looking after that family on the state. I would always look at such businesses and ask myself - ‘can’t they see that they’re making less profit by keeping their own employees poor?’"
_“That was the foundation of my business dream. The idea that a company did not have to be, uh, selfish in order…to…_ah dammit, how’s that go again?”
“Cruel.”
"That a company did not have to be cruel in order to be self-interested. That a successful business could…" Moses paused and sighed. “Dang it all, I need a break.”
His secretary stood up. “Coffee?”
“You’re an angel, Rachael.” Moses rubbed his eyes and stretched, pacing the half of the jet that was his private flying office. “Anything different come in to distract me for a minute or two?”
“Trevor Cardwell asked for you to call him first chance you get.” Rachael told him.
“Perfect!”
She connected the call, handed him the tablet then disappeared through the rear door into the staff half of the plane.
Moses threw himself onto the couch as it rang, and greeted Cardwell with his best smile, not that it needed faking. “Trevor! How goes the testing?”
“We have a working prototype.” Cardwell announced, looking pleased with himself. “We sent Levaughn our test image, he sent back a selfie of himself WITH the test image. Burst communication between Earth and Cimbrean.”
Byron laughed. “Outstanding work.”
“Not without some caveats, boss.”
“As always.” Moses agreed. “Fire away.”
“Power requirements are huge. That’s not a design flaw, it’s just how the damn thing works, so your hopes of developing a light version for ships…” Cardwell shrugged “Sorry Moses. Not happening. Not unless you wanna make the ships twice as big and fill all that space with capacitors.”
Cardwell was one of the few people who used Moses’ given name. It was refreshingly straightforward, and he never strayed over the line into disrespect.
“Oh well.” Moses looked up as Rachael returned with his coffee, accepted it with a silent thankyou, and sipped it. “Can you take the principles and work towards something smaller?”
“We could, yeah. How much smaller are you thinking?”
“How much information would you need to send to be able to schedule jump exchanges and synchronise clocks?”
Cardwell raised an eyebrow. “Moses, you’ve been doing your homework!” he said.
“I was kind of expecting this.” Moses agreed, and sipped his coffee again. “How much?”
“Not much. And if we do that, there’s nothing stopping us sending bulk data through a jump array on a hard drive or something. Wouldn’t be real-time, but it’d sure be close enough for your news network idea.”
“Good enough for me.” Moses nodded. “I’ll leave you to work out the technical specifics. I have a feeling the hiring is going to need a personal touch.”
“Will do, boss. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks, Trevor.”
The call ended. Moses drank the rest of his coffee, set it aside and looked to Rachael. “Where were we?”
Your speech to the graduates. Foundation of your business dream."
“Mm. The idea that a company did not have to be cruel in order to be self- interested. That a successful business could also be a selfless one. That an enlightened business leader is one who welcomes and nurtures their competition and their colleagues equally…"
Date Point: 7y 9m AV
Huntsville Alabama, USA, Earth
Adam Ares
“Y’all good?”
“Man, FUCK the plumbing in this thing.” Baseball was fidgeting and frowning, trying to adjust his EV-MASS undersuit for comfort, an exercise that Adam was beginning to suspect might be doomed, at least until the water was pumped in.
“Hey, Sergeant Kovač went through a really stressful day getting those measurements.” He pointed out, grinning.
“Riiight, real stressful.” Baseball rolled his eyes. "And she was dumb enough to hit on the only guy on the team who’s got a steady girl."
“I can’t help it if I’m pretty.” Adam grinned.
“Man, you ain’t the pretty one. The Major’s the pretty one."
Adam’s eyes widened a little, his expression became serious and he glanced over Baseball’s shoulder.
Baseball shut his eyes. “…He’s behind me, isn’t he?.”
There was a tense moment, then Adam cracked up laughing, and the rest of the crew joined in. “Gotcha!”
“Aww, fuck you all!"
“Hey, y’ain’t wrong.” Sikes agreed. “The old man’s looking good on the C-juice.”
Price drawled an exaggerated imitation of Sikes’ Georgia accent “He shore is purdy, y’all.”
Sikes’ retaliation, as it always was, was a strangled received pronunciation mockery that bore no resemblance at all to Price’s Essex accent. “Oh yes, delightful, wot?”
“Good to see you lot’re in a good fookin’ mood.” Powell commented, joining them already wearing his undersuit. As ever, his delivery was level and could have been taken as gruff if they hadn’t been able to see the relaxed humour in his eyes.
“Good morning, sir.” Legsy greeted Powell as the room turned toward him and straightened up.
“Morning, Legs. How’re you all finding the suits?”
“The plumbing’s a bitch, sir.” Burgess told him.
“You just be glad the plumbing at the back didn’t need any measuring.” Powell told him, opening his own locker and throwing his bag into it. “Technical Sergeant Kovač might have enjoyed that job a little too much."
There was a round of laughter, but Stevenson was suddenly looking worried. “So…she wasn’t kidding about that thing needing to go in our butts, was she?”
“Alas, she was not.” Powell told him, shutting the locker again.
“And on the day we have to use it, I will take comfort from knowing I won’t be alone.” Vandenberg added.
Even Stevenson chuckled at that.
“Arright.” Powell told them. “Tech team’s ready for us, get on through there.”
They hustled at the order, stowing the last of their stuff in their lockers and bustling through into the suit lab, where the midsuit and outersuit of the EV-MASS systems were stored and maintained by a team - two for each Operator - of technicians.
The techs may not have been a physical match for their operators - after all, the SOR was training them to the point where, once they hit operational readiness, they would be brushing the limits of what the unaugmented human body could achieve - but they still took part in training and team-building exercises. The result was that everyone already knew their techs, and had grown to respect them. The technical crews tried to hang with the Operators in training, and made a damn good attempt at it. That was worth a lot.
Adam’s technicians were Senior Airman Raymond Doyle and Petty Officer Dean Hargreaves, USAF and Royal Navy respectively. That was a pattern repeated across the whole SOR - one tech from the operator’s parent service, and the other from somewhere else. It seemed to work well.
Doyle was the more meticulous of the two when it came to interpersonal interactions, and greeted him with a neutral “Good morning, staff sergeant.”
The sentiment was echoed by Hargreaves, whose rank was roughly equal to Adam’s own, in a rather more relaxed manner: “Hey, Horse.”
They’d both earned it, as far as Adam was concerned, even if Doyle preferred not to exercise that privilege. Where Doyle was undeniably the orderly, logical and meticulous mind of the pair, Hargreaves’ intelligence was more hands-on. Doyle would have drawn up a blueprint down to a half millimetre fare-thee-well, but Hargreaves was the one to build it. They were a good team, and had between them planned out and enacted several minor modifications to the suit so that it should, in theory, fit Adam perfectly.
All under the watchful note-taking eye of Drew Cavendish, of course.
“We ready?” Adam asked them.
“We are indeed.” Hargreaves nodded, handing him the throat brace that Adam dutifully buckled on: without it, the suit would constrict his throat and choke him. “I just finished modifying the sleeves last night.”
Adam nodded his thanks and stepped forward onto the two once-yellow feet on the floor in the middle of Doyle and Hargreaves’ working space. Naturally, he and Baseball had soon corrected the colour of those feet during the dead of night, earning them both an immediate “motivation” session from Legsy (who had quite astutely pointed out that there were no other pararescuemen anywhere on the facility, which didn’t make for a long list of suspects when twelve pairs of yellow feet were mysteriously painted green) but the new colour had stuck.
One man alone couldn’t possibly have put on an EV-MASS. Even if there hadn’t been equipment that needed mounting on the back where even the world’s most flexible contortionist couldn’t reach, he would have needed at least a couple of hours to manage it, by the end of which he’d have been too exhausted to actually do anything with it.
The midsuit’s torso was all one object which needed lifting up and lowering over his head and raised arms. Once that was in place he could then - awkwardly bent forward - lift his feet up and insert them into the legs and boots, wriggle them down, grit his teeth as he forced them past an uncomfortable stricture, and finally push them fully in until he was entirely contained and had his ass hanging out of an otherwise complete suit of armour. Then, the torso and sleeves could be pulled down, with Doyle’s hands carefully inserted to protect his ears as the collar constricted his skull, until he suddenly popped out of it like a turtle, with the rigid attachement points for the helmet and breathing mask sitting at the back of his skull and along his jawline.
The top and bottom halves of the midsuit met at a shaped docking ring that ran around his hips and above his buttocks. Before it could be closed, Doyle had to reach awkwardly up from below past Adam’s butt, and connect the undersuit’s waste and water ports to the midsuit by touch.
That done, the docking collar could be snapped together and sealed, leaving the full weight of the heaviest part of the suit bearing down on him.
Weirdly, though, the worst part was almost over. Hargreaves attached a water hose to the inlet port, turned on the pressure, and five seconds later, the inner suit’s water system had filled. Its reactive polymers activated in response to getting wet and SQUEEZED, shrinking the inner suit down until it was tighter than his own skin and the load-bearing structures were taking the worst off the weight.
The midsuit did something similar in response to his body temperature - its innermost padded gel lining expanded, and that was like getting a full-body bearhug from Baseball. It served a purpose, though - the suit’s incredible tightness both counteracted vacuum precluding the need for a pressurized internal environment except around the face and mouth, and made it an extension of his limbs rather than just something he was wearing. It wasn’t comfortable at first, but that was what the five minute acclimation break was for. Technically, he was already exercising - under that compression, merely breathing became an exertion and all of his muscles were forced to flex a little. He should have been sweating profusely - instead, the undersuit’s stillsuit system went to work, whipping the water away from his skin and adding it to its own circulating and cooling reserves.
After that came all the technical bits - the life support system that went on his hips, the capacitor bank up his spine, the forcefield emitters that ran down his arms, the heat exchanger at his shoulders, all of which again needed Doyle’s delicate touch to hook up.
Then there was the outersuit, which was basically just a digital camouflage cover, plus the framework of carrying systems for his backpack, ammo, grenades, medical equipment, and any auxiliary armour plating or mission- specific tools he felt like carrying.
The final step - his helmet and breathing mask - were almost anticlimactically simple. He could - and was required to - put them on himself. They snapped on simply and easily, having a pressure-sealed locking system of Cavendish’s own design that was allegedly foolproof.
And that was it. He was wearing EV-MASS, Extra Vehicular Search and Rescue System variant.
The first few times had been way worse. Hell, the first time they had done nothing more than put the suit on without the “plumbing” and just walked around wearing it for half an hour, and even that minimal activity had beaten the crap out of them.
Then there had been a few minor modifications, then wearing it again, this time for forty minutes. Then again for an hour. Then again for a light PT session.
This was Adam’s seventh time in the suit all told, but he was now starting to feel acclimatized. The extra inch in the sleeves that Hargreaves had added, and a few tweaks to the water circulation rate courtesy of Doyle had made all the difference. When he stood up and bounced lightly on his toes, he didn’t feel like he was wearing a heavy, constraining lump of technology any more. He felt like Adam, except…more massive.
It almost felt comfortable.
To judge from their expressions, the rest of the team were feeling similarly more at home in their suits. Even Powell was moving with assurance and calm, rather than the red-faced scowl that he’d worn the first few times.
“Right.” the major declared, as soon as it became clear that everyone was suited up. “Training time.”
“What are we doing today, sir?” Firth asked.
“Today, lads…we’re playing Gravball in the suits.” Powell grinned.
Date Point: thirty minutes later.
“So. Observations about today’s session?”
“Well, the suits are up to spec.”
“Aye, that they are. Anything else?”
“Warhorse needs more weight on him in training.”
“Oh come on-!”
“Agreed. Anything else?”
“We’re going to need a new goal.”
“I did rather get the impression that an oil drum half full of concrete isn’t quite heavy enough nowadays, you’re right.”
“…Bet that’s a sentence you never thought you’d utter, sir.”
“Mm. Any more observations? No? Arright, let’s go get these fookin’ suits off. And…Ares?”
“Yes sir?”
“Find us a suitable replacement for the goal, will you?”
“Yes sir.”
Date point: November 5th 7y 10m AV
Southwark Park, London, England, Earth.
Sean Harvey
Sean had always preferred cold weather to hot. You could always pile on layers, make a hot drink, turn up the heating, light a fire or snuggle up to somebody in cold weather.
Ava was the other way round, he knew, which was why she was insulated under a thick coat, a woollen hat, gloves, a scarf, and why her cheeks and the tip of her nose were red, highlighted by the flashing lights of the Bonfire Night fairground they’d decided to come visit, seeing as it was a clear and dry November 5th for the first time in years.
She was enjoying it immensely he could tell, and it only made her look prettier. A curl of hair had escaped from the hat and was bouncing at her cheek as she watched Ben throwing away his money on some stupid rigged game, lured by the lie that he’d get a little plushy animal as a consolation prize for Charlotte even if he lost.
Sean had figured out instantly that it was actually impossible to lose and earn that consolation prize, which meant that instead you won and got a pointless little plastic keyring, five of which could be traded for the big plushy animals after you’d paid far more than they were worth, but he knew that wouldn’t have stopped Ben, so…
So he watched Ava instead. Ava, her breath steaming in the November darkness. Ava, smiling in the carnival light. Ava who it hurt to even think about, let alone look at.
It just wasn’t fair.
Sean didn’t think of himself as a bitter or jealous kind of guy. If it had been a happy relationship that Ava had with her boyfriend, then he’d have just shrugged it off, been her friend, no problem. The occasional idle speculation, nothing more.
But it was a shitty relationship, an absent relationship where they only saw one another a few times a year, when Adam took some of his leave time to visit and they just…vanished. Ava would spend the week prior to the visit fretting about it and talking about nothing else, then Adam would arrive and nobody would see Ava for the duration, until one day she was back, radiating equal parts afterglow and frustration.
It was abuse. She was’t being harmed in any physical way, but she was being neglected, taken for granted. Treated as something for Adam to do when he needed a break from being a soldier.
And the very worst part of it, the part that made Sean hate the bastard’s guts more than anything else, was that it was clear he wasn’t doing it deliberately. He was just a fucking moron, and that was enough for Ava to keep forgiving him.
She caught him watching and gave him a little smile, brushing that stray hair back behind her own ear. She’d been doing that a lot, lately. She probably wasn’t even aware she was doing it, but Sean was: he noticed every time.
“You okay, breadstick?” she asked.
“Getting cold.” Sean lied. Well, okay, he WAS, but that hadn’t been the source of his frown.
“Me too!” she nodded. “Isn’t there anywhere warm round here?”
“We could grab a cup of tea?” Sean suggested. “Ben’s going to need another five goes to win anything, at least.”
Ava nodded. “Hot chocolate!”
“Even better.”
They picked a fast food van and grabbed their drinks, before sitting on a bench to watch Ben and Charlotte, who seemed to be enjoying themselves at least.
He became aware that she was sitting right up close to him, and sat back on the bench, casually draping his arm along the back of it.
He was surprised and delighted when she sat back too and wriggled up a little closer. “God damn it’s cold." she grumbled.
Sean nodded “It’s November, and they’re saying this year’s going to be the coldest ever.” he said.
“Uuurgh.” Ava shivered even more inside her coat, and took a huge scent of the steam coming off her drink.
Sean gripped her upper shoulder and pulled her a little closer still. She was tense - no, check that, she was shivering. “Fuck, are you okay?”
She turned a little more towards him. “Yeah, I’m…you’re warm.”
This much was true, and explained everything. Still, when Sean tried to remove his hand from her upper arm, she made a protest noise and wriggled closer again, so he put it back.
Some sips of her drink and several minutes later, she’d stopped shivering and seemed a lot more comfortable, but she stayed where she was. She even let out a big contented sigh.
Sean tried to gauge if she was conscious of how intimate she was being right now, and decided that she probably wasn’t. Ava was fiercely intelligent, but her one long-distance relationship didn’t translate to being all that boy- savvy. In a strange way, he suspected that her and Adam’s mutual inexperience was part of what kept them together.
“…Better?” he asked, after enjoying the contact just long enough but not, hopefully, long enough to scandalize her if and when she noticed.
She jumped a little and sat up, wearing an awkward expression which quickly became a blush, but she nodded even as she looked away. “Sorry, yeah. I just…I was miles away. Yeah.”
She tidied up her hair again and looked over at the game. “They’re STILL playing?”
“I think he’s going for the top prize.” Sean replied.
“Shouldn’t we maybe stop him?”
“It’s his money." Sean shrugged. “He should be nearly done. Want to go check?”
“…Yeah…”
Sean had enough tact to get up frst and let her sort her head out behind him. He rejoined their friends just as Ben managed to land a dart smack in the middle of the Seven of Hearts and uttered a “fucking finally!"
“Worth it?” Ava teased, arriving level with Sean’s elbow.
Charlotte waved her prize happily. “I got a kitty!”
Ben just nodded to Ava with a little smile. “Worth it.”
Only Sean noticed how the exchange put Ava in a thoughtful mood, from which she only emerged an hour later when the firework display started.
He would have spent a lot more than Ben had on his rigged-game kitty to know what she was thinking about.
Date point: Christmas day, 7y 11m AV
Llanelli, Wales, Earth.
James “Legsy” Jones
“’Ello Mam.”
“Fuckin’ ’ell you got big!”
“Good to see you too, Mam. Merry Christmas.”
“Beer’s in the fridge if you want some, your sister’s coming down at half four.”
This was, by the standards of Lydia Jones, a warm and affectionate welcome. She was the opposite of her son in every possible way - small, serious, and corpulent to the point of being basically spherical, fumigated by the cigarettes she rolled herself and sporting a half-grown-out dyed purple undercut hairstyle that might have almost suited her if she shed half her weight and figured out how to smile.
“Cheers Mam.” Legsy retrieved the offered drink and downed about a third of it in one go. “Dai in front of the telly?”
“Where the fuck else would ’e be? Take ’im another beer through, will you?”
Legsy did just that, laughing quietly to himself and enjoying the familiar strident almost-shout of home. Sending him through with a beer through for her husband meant, for those who really knew her, that his Mam was in a rare good mood.
“Fuck me, you got big!” his dad exclaimed, as soon as he entered.
“’Ello Dai. Merry Christmas.”
“Aye, Merry Christmas.”
With that, David Jones--“Dai” to everyone, his children included - exhausted his conversational reserves and went silent again. Genetically, he was the source of Legsy’s prodigious height, but life hadn’t been kind to him on the health front. First had come a backbreaking physical career. Second, upon being laid off when the company he worked for had gone bust, had come rampant obesity brought on by the fact that he hadn’t adjusted his diet to match his new, more sedentary lifestyle. Then had come the dole, type two diabetes, depression and the end result was that “Dai”, a man in his early fifties, looked a decade older than that and only levered himself out of his chair these days to go to the bathroom, go to bed, or to waddle down the road to the pharmacy.
They watched TV for a couple of hours, watching people buy houses at auction for jaw-dropping sums of money and then spending a few thousand more on renovating and redecorating them, under the periodic scrutiny of a camera crew.
Christmas for Legsy had always started, not at the moment he got to Lydia and Dai’s house but when his sister and her family arrived, and they never failed to arrive at 4:30 on the nose.
He got up to get the door for them at twenty-nine minutes past, and grinned as Amy’s car - always a new one, sleek and showroom-clean, paid for but never purchased - slid up outside the tiny terrace house their parents lived in.
Amy Jones was his twin, the older by about half an hour, and the person he loved second-most in all the world. Just like him, physically and in personality she was everything their parents weren’t, albeit she’d taken after their mother in the height department.
She was exclaiming her astonishment even before she’d got out of the car. “Oh my days! Oh my - look at - you’re huge!"
They exchanged a massive hug. “You should see some of the lads. I’m one of the small ones." he told her, then gave an equally welcoming hug to Amy’s husband, Robert.
Amy and Robert had met through work, having both taken the same six month contract for a debt management firm in Bristol before going into business together. They’d once tried to explain to Legsy exactly what it was they did, but it had mostly seemed to involve phone calls, spreadsheets and knowing everybody who lived within twenty miles of the M4 and who earned more than three hundred thousand pounds a year. It paid well, whatever it was.
“You leave Abby with your folks then?” he asked Robert, referring to the person who held the number one slot for his most-loved person in the whole world.
Robert nodded, a little sheepishly.
“School complained about some of the language she picked up last time.” he explained.
“Yeah, I thought that might happen…” little Abigail had been much too enthusiastic about it when she’d learned the word 'fuck' off her maternal grandmother. “You mind if I pop up and see her after?”
“It wouldn’t be Christmas if you didn’t get to, would it?” Amy said, understanding. “Come on, let’s get this out the way…”
For all her failings, Lydia Jones was at least acutely aware that her culinary talents extended to oven chips, microwave dinners and ordering takeaway, so every year she saved up to have a hot Christmas dinner delivered instead. James and Amy had both been offering to cover that expense for years, but - as with the house that Amy and Robert had offered to buy for them--Lydia and Dai had been too stubborn and proud to accept.
Still, it was a good Christmas dinner, even if the table conversation was basically nonexistent.
It was barely eight o’ clock by the time the gifts had been exchanged and opened, and they had departed, with Legsy finding himself surprisingly comfortable in the back seat of Amy’s car and sporting a new T-shirt that Dai had had custom-printed, which showed an astronaut with a gun and a red dragon on his spacesuit, and the legend “Mab Cymru, Milwr y Gofod”.
It was, in Legsy’s own words, a "fuckin’ cool shirt" and he had promptly exclaimed “tidy!” and changed into it on the spot, leaving the family to exchange wide-eyed glances at his new musculature.
“So…why are you so big now?" Amy asked, once they had taken the right turn at Felinfoel to take them towards the motorway.
“I need to be.”
“I thought astronauts would all be small.” Amy replied.
“Astronauts, yeah. Maybe? I’m not an astronaut, I’m still a soldier.” Legsy pointed out.
“But you’ll be wearing a spacesuit.” Robert said.
“Yeah, but astronauts don’t have to run and fight in their spacesuit, do they?”
“So you’re not even the biggest?” Amy asked.
“Nope. That’d be Adam, and THAT boy’s a fuckin’ legend.”
“Legend how?” Robert turned in his seat slightly to look back. Amy was always the driver - Robert had never learned how.
“E’s from San Diego, ’im and ’is missus.” Legsy explained. “I swear, they lost everything, right? But he’s in the SOR with me, and she’s off becoming a journalist and…to be fair, she’s a fuckin’ legend too. I don’t know HOW she puts up with ’im sometimes."
“Why’s that?”
“I’d trust Adam with my life, wouldn’t even have to think about it.” Legsy said. “He’s about the smartest bloke in the unit, too. But he’s a fuckin’ IDIOT when it comes to his girl.”
“Like you’re an expert on relationships.” Amy teased.
“Oi, that’s by choice.” Legsy retorted. “But serious now, if he wasn’t so good about writing her every chance he gets, she’d never hear from ’im.”
“Well have you talked to him about it?"
“Tried to. He always just nods and tries harder for a week or two - takes some leave to go visit her or something like that - an’ then he falls right back into it, right?” Legsy shook his head. “It’s like…that’s part of the reason I admire ‘im so much, he’s a fuckin’ machine in training, he’s dedicated to gettin’ stronger an’ faster an’ smarter, an’ he could carry TWO of me by now I reckon. But I dunno if that’ll keep up if she finally gets sick of ’im . I dunno WHAT’d happen to ’im if he lost her.”
He sat back and rubbed his chin, and looked out as rolling south Welsh hills swelled into view out the right window as the car climbed a hill. “I guess we just have to hope she doesn’t.”
Date Point: New Year’s Eve, 7y 11m AV
London, England, Earth
Ava Rios
Two weeks of Christmas should have been two weeks of topping up on Adam, keeping things going, generally performing maintenance on the relationship. His occasional leave breaks were nice and all, but…
Instead it had been an echo of last year. Mind-blowing sex on the first day, then gym gym gym.
He’d tried to include her, and sure they’d been spending time together…but what kind of a vacation consisted of busting your back in the weight room all day for ten days, interspersed with regimented, pre-prepared meals that were fifty percent supplement pills? Ava enjoyed exercise, and she was definitely proud of herself for burning off some fat and toning up during those two weeks, but come on. Where was the romance? The gym wasn’t a date!
She’d been seething gently about it the whole time, determined not to ruin Adam’s mood by yelling at him again. A bit of a white lie maybe, but those never hurt anyone, right?
All that negative mental energy hadn’t made for a happy flight back to London. Journey times were coming down and down as the new mesosphere airliners, nicknamed “spacekissers”, set ever-higher altitude records and achieved ever- greater multiples of Mach for fractions of the expense of older planes, but flying was still an industrial, uncomfortable mode of transport. The marriage of fuel-less thrusters, ultracapacitors and forcefield flight surfaces had hugely curtailed ticket prices, but the airports hadn’t grown any larger, nor were new ones being built. More people than ever wanted to travel, but nobody wanted the extra noise pollution and traffic, so the number of runways in the world wasn’t increasing and most of them were already at capacity.
Which meant that flying still involved too-small seats in cramped metal tubes shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, plus the usual ritual of going through border control, baggage collect and customs at the end before Ava was finally able to vanish onto the Underground and emerge two hours and one change later at street level, sweaty, exhausted and jet-lagged, to find that London was being characteristically chilly, grey and dispiriting.
By the time she’d dragged her luggage through every puddle between the tube station and Sean’s house, she’d given up on feeling much of anything positive.
Sean’s house changed that. It was an oasis of light, music and warmth, gearing up for the night’s New Year celebration. Via the plane’s satellite Internet connection, Ava had been involved in the discussion as they had toyed with the idea of going into the city and enjoying the fireworks over the Thames, but the relentless wetness in the air had clearly settled in for the long haul, so they instead elected to stay home in the warm and dry, with an assortment of alcohol, treats and the Christmas decorations still up.
She was welcomed with cheers, hugs, a big kiss on both cheeks from an inebriated Charlotte who was wearing a pointy hat made of newspaper, and something magenta and fruit-flavoured in a bottle from Sean.
Charlotte and Ben being in charge of the party snacks in the oven, their welcome was by necessity brief, and Sean watched Ava with a faint smile as she leaned against the wall and downed half the bottle with an enormous sigh.
“That bad?” he asked.
“I really need a shower." she nodded.
“Go on upstairs, you know where it is. I’ll get the kettle on then bring your luggage up for you.”
Ava finished her drink, set the bottle down on Sean’s coffee table, and then trotted upstairs, already unbuttoning her jeans before she even reached the bathroom door. She’d used Sean’s shower a few times before, and getting it to the perfect temperature was as simple as twisting the dial two and a half turns and waiting about five seconds.
She used those five seconds ripping off every last sweaty, travel-soiled scrap of clothing she had on her, and took up position under the stream with a grateful sigh.
The heat was just starting to really soak deliciously into her muscles when there was a knock on the door. “Are…You already showering?”
“Come on in, Sean.”
“…Are you sure?”
Ava rolled her eyes to herself. The shower curtain was entirely opaque, what the hell was he so afraid of? “Come in.” she repeated, and leaned back to soak her hair.
“I’ll just…” She heard him wheel her bag in and leave it next to her discarded clothes before turning to leave.
“Come on, man, I haven’t seen you in a fortnight!” Ava protested. “Did you get that money yet?”
Just before she’d left, Sean had won seven thousand pounds on a premium bond that his grandfather had got for him fifteen years previously.
“Oh, uh…yeah. Yeah, it’s all come in. I was thinking of doing up the house a bit.”
“Yeah?”
“Well I mean…It’s kind of old-ladyish in here, isn’t it? I loved my Nanna but it’s not really a young man’s house, is it?”
“True. Got any ideas?”
“I had, um…” he cleared his throat and started over. “I had a few. Thought I’d have the wall out, make the kitchen and the lounge open plan. Get some tiles in the kitchen instead of lino…”
“Sounds good.” Ava agreed. She smiled as she heard Sean mutter something under his breath that sounded like it might have been a 'what the hell' and the sound of him closing the toilet lid and sitting on it. “Place could do with some strong reds and greys.”
“Your sense of interior decoration is stuck in the middle of last decade.” Sean commented.
“What? I like red."
“No strong colours, duck. They are Of The Devil.” Sean snorted, but Ava stuck her head around the curtain to give him a patient look.
“You’re kidding.”
Sean cleared his throat and looked away. “Only, like…a little.”
Ava snorted and dropped the curtain back so she could soap up and rinse off.
Sean clearly thought he was being quiet when he muttered 'this is so weird…'
“Why?”
“What?” Sean asked, guiltily.
“Why’s it weird? We’re just talking.”
“Yeah, but, you’re…”
Ava sighed, and looked around the curtain again. “Sean, you know the three things I miss the most about how Cimbrean used to be?”
“What?” he asked, making a commendable effort to maintain eye contact.
“My house, my friend Sara, and skinny-dipping in the lake.” She said. Sean cleared his throat and fidgeted on his seat, sitting further forward. “Y’know, when Sara first invited us to try it, I did exactly what you’re doing now, I got weird about it. But you know what? A body’s not a big deal."
She put the curtain back in place and began to shampoo. “Besides, it’s not like you can see anything right now, can you?”
“Well, no, but-”
“Then it’s no different to if I was standing here clothed, is it?”
“…How was Cimbrean, anyway?” Sean asked, abandoning ship on that line of conversation.
“It was…” Ava sighed. “I’m getting used to how fast things change, but it’s still tough to really get your head around just how different things can be just one year apart. You know they’re talking about building the tallest man- made building ever in Folctha now?"
“Yeah?”
“Yeah! Not for years yet, but when they do - if they do - it’ll be a third taller than what’s even possible here on Earth."
“What the hell do they need a building like that for?” Sean asked.
“Why does anywhere need a building like that?" Ava asked rhetorically. “but Folctha’s booming!” she continued, rinsing the shampoo out. “The cost of living out there’s getting cheaper by the week and I guess it turns out that people want to try living on another planet.”
She looked around the curtain again. “Hell, we did. Hand me a towel?”
Sean did so, opening a cupboard to retrieve a huge black bath towel which he handed to her with a kind of forced nonchalance that suggested he was trying to get used to the situation. She just rolled her eyes again, retreated behind the shower curtain and wrapped herself up in it before stepping out of the shower to sit down on the edge of the bath. “You know, girls need more than one towel.” she said.
“Huh? What for?”
“One for this,” She indicated the one wrapped around her torso “One for the hair,” she lifted the dripping weight of it with her thumb “…and one for drying off.”
“Can’t you just use the one?”
“Sure, if you’re cool with me sitting here bare-ass while my hair dries.” she teased.
“What, the nudist is squeamish about that?” Sean teased right back, finally regaining his usual confidence though he opened the cupboard again and pulled out a couple more towels for her.
“Sorry buddy. I don’t think I’m a nudist exactly, but I know I’m not a stripper."
“Ah, I knew you were all talk and no walk.” Sean grinned as he sat down on the toilet lid again, plainly not serious.
“It’s not that, come on.” she objected. “It’s just that there’s a time and a place, you know? If we were swimming in the lake or we were at the beach or…in a sauna or something, y’know, then swimsuits don’t actually make a whole lot of sense. But I’m not going to just strip off around you in your bathroom, that’d just be…”
She tailed off in search of the right word, and Sean nodded his understanding. “Well…yeah. You’ve got Adam.”
Her mood deflated instantly, like it had so many times in the preceding week. Where Adam hadn’t noticed, however, Sean did. “…what happened?”
Ava didn’t answer at first, she just wrapped her hair up in a towel turban and dried her arms and legs off, wondering how to answer.
“…Sometimes…sometimes I feel like I’m…” She exhaled and tried again. “Adam’s got this mission of his. And, you know what? It’s a good one. He wants to save people, stop anything like the San Diego blast from happening again. I’m…He’s my fucking hero, Sean. And I’m, like…Lois Lane.”
“So…?”
“So…” she sighed. “…Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t love me.”
“Well-”
“No, I know he does love me. I know that. It’s just…he never…He doesn’t…." She trailed off helplessly. “You know?”
Sean blinked a bit, looked down, then hugged her, hard.
It wasn’t a big strong Adam bear-hug like she’d grown used to. It was the hug she needed, a caring one full of real concern and upset for her. She didn’t second-guess herself - she just returned it, and they just stood there for a while, rocking gently in the middle of the room.
“I uh…I have a new year’s resolution I was going to make.” Sean eventually told her, murmuring quietly in her ear.
“What’s that?”
“I…resolved that I was going to tell you about the huge crush I have on you."
“Oh, Sean…” She let go and sat down again. “Don’t ask me to-”
“I’m not.” he interrupted. “We just needed that out in the open, because I think you need to hear some harsh truths and I don’t want you thinking I’m trying to…Look, the point is, you need some honesty right now, okay?”
“…Okay.”
He sat on the edge of the bathtub. “Your relationship with Adam is making you miserable, and it’s…it’s hard to see.” he said. “The moment he shows up he’s all you’ll even look at, every conversation seems to come back to him at some point, but every week there’s some new thing he’s done, or said, or not done or said, that’s making you feel neglected and, it’s not just me,” he waved his hand in the general direction of downstairs. “It breaks Charlotte’s heart, and Ben’s, it hurts all of us to see. We care about you, and it’s really hard to see you being hurt.”
Ava just nodded, staring at the ground between her feet.
“What are you getting out of him?” Sean asked.
Ava took a deep, thoughtful breath, and didn’t answer for a long while.
“Did…I ever tell you about Sara?” she asked.
“I know she was your friend.” Sean replied. “And you…witnessed her…”
“She was fourteen when she died.” Ava’s voice was quiet, and sad. She screwed her eyes shut, wiped a tear out of the way and composed herself. “She was so sweet, and so…she had wisdom I didn’t have, about how to be comfortable in your own skin and…and how to enjoy life in the moment. And she died because she didn’t understand something that Adam and I both learned from what happened to home.”
“Which is?”
She shrugged. “God isn’t there to hold your hand. He’s not there to…to bail you out of a tough spot or send a guardian angel or any of that stupid Facebook frilly frou-frou bullshit. Okay? He’s fair like that. Young, old, innocent or a fucking monster, he treats everyone exactly the same, because this life…how could we learn anything, how could we become better souls if He just coddled us all the time?”
“I don’t believe in-”
“I know you don’t, I’m making a point here.” Ava snapped. “God, the universe whatever. The point is, the only way shit like what happened to Sara is going to never happen again is if we take charge, if we go out there and make the world better."
She gestured to her camera, placed safely at the far end of the room from the shower. “That’s why I’m studying journalism, and that’s why Adam’s in the SOR. Because we’ve been jerked around, we have lost people, and if there’s no guardian angel coming, then we have to become guardian angels."
Sean nodded uncertainly. “But why do you have to put yourself through this?” he asked.
“Because I’m _Adam’_s angel. Because I really believe he couldn’t do this without me. H-he takes me for granted because he knows I’ve got his back come what may.”
“Even if it makes you miserable.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” Ava surged to her feet. “I don’t CARE if it makes me miserable. It’s all for something bigger than any of us. It’s all for, for them! For everybody!" she flailed an arm at the wall, gesturing towards the whole galaxy and every living thing within it.
“Sounds like you didn’t listen to Sara." Sean said. Ava paused, so he fired the second barrel. “You’ll do more good for everyone - Adam included--if you’re happy in yourself, Ava.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it again and frowned, fidgeting anxiously with her hands as if by moving them at random she might suddenly come up with an answer to that.
Sean’s chin and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards sadly. “I’ll let you get changed.” he said.
Ava smiled weakly at him and managed to croak out a reply. “Sure.”
He left her to her thoughts, retreating from the room without further comment.
Five minutes later she went downstairs wearing her favourite of Adam’s old t-shirts, which was now far too small for him…but she sat next to Sean, set aside the questions he’d raised, and tried to enjoy herself.
Chapter 28
The Fourth Year | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 8y 1m AV
Huntsville Alabama, USA, Earth
Major Owen Powell
“Arright, SOR OPLAN session five. Before we get started, does anybody have any insight or new thoughts that they’d like to add to our existing OPLANs?”
The lads shook their heads. Planning sessions were a moment for Powell to pick his men’s brains, and he relished them. The lads knew their own capabilities best, and they were all intelligent men. If they didn’t have any concerns to raise after last week, then that was good.
“Right.” Powell checked his notes. OPLAN sessions were also a relaxed affair-- the were done round a table, more-or-less as equals. Another reason to enjoy them. “So today we’re planning for a Cameron White scenario.”
“A who what now?” Akiyama asked.
Powell clicked the control for the slideshow he’d prepared. “This evil fooker. Cameron White, serial killer, sadist and generally charming bloke. Corti abducted him right out of the prison yard during an exercise break. Sparked quite the fookin’ manhunt and an inquiry…nothing came of ’em of course because at the time nobody knew we needed to be thinking about alien abductions.”
A list of White’s crimes filled the whole slide, and the two after it. “Dead, nowadays, but not before he terrorized the orbital shipyards at Irbzrk and killed dozens of ETs. Obviously, we can’t allow scenarios like this in the future, if for no other reason than it makes the rest of us look bad.”
The lads nodded. “So, the scenario is: a psychotic human is loose on a space station, killing ETs. We can assume that by the time we go in, Intel have figured out who they are, what they look like, et cetera. Our job will be to preferably capture him. Subdue if possible, kill if necessary, avoid or minimize nonhuman casualties. ”
“Fast and hard’s our best bet, then.” Price suggested.
Vandenberg nodded. “I’m inclined to agree. Longer we delay in that situation, the more time our 'Mr. White' has to do his thing."
“Aye,” Powell agreed “but my concern there’s that if we’ve got a corridor full of lots of panicking ETs, so our Aggressor’s going to have his work cut out for him getting down it at speed without splattering them.”
“Guess you’ve never played Rugby, sir.” Legsy commented.
“How so?”
“Running forward really fast and dodging everything’s a Winger’s job.”
“That was your job, was it?”
“Nope, I was a Lock.”
“Or in football, that job would go to a Wide Receiver or a Tight End.” Blaczynski added. “I used to play Tight End for my school team.”
The four Brits--even Powell--gave him an amused look. “We don’t wish to know about your tight end, Starfall.” the major deadpanned.
Blaczynski just rolled his eyes at the chuckle that shimmered round the table, though he joined in. “Understood, sir. Point is, I used to do something like that all the time, so it should be do-able. Might be something we should factor into training.”
“Aye, good shout.” Powell made a note. “So the spearhead is an Aggressor who’s trained on agility in motion…Burgess, figure out how we can fit that training into the routine.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m going to say we want at least two spearheads, hit our Mr. White from multiple directions, preferably three.” Powell added.
“What’s everyone else do while the spearhead’s charging in?” Firth asked, as Baseball nodded and scribbled out some changes to the training regime.
“Minimising ET loss of life and limb.” Stevenson replied.
“Right.” Powell nodded. “That’s the Defenders job--get in the way, screen them from harm, and distract Mr. White so the Aggressors can get up on him. Engineer some cover and clear the exits. Protectors meanwhile will be clearing the civilians out, tending to any wounded. All of that should be covered by your existing training and jobs.”
“Engineering cover would go quick and smooth if we could get our hands on some of those Gaoian shield stick things, sir.” Akiyama said.
“I reckon we can do better.” Sikes commented. “Them things’re small and light enough for ETs. I reckon we could rig up a deployable shield generator of our own.”
“Heck, get me the emitter and capacitors, I could build one, sure.” Akiyama agreed. “I’ve got the rest of what I need on my bench in the workshop.”
“Who’s going to carry it?” Vandenberg asked.
“Humpin’ stuff’s usually Warhorse’s job.” Sikes drawled.
Adam looked up--he’d been looking through the training plan Burgess was writing, rather than at it. “Hmm?”
Powell frowned at him. “You paying attention, Ares?”
“Uh, yes sir. Humping the shield generator.” Adam sat up. “So, who’s carrying the big stretcher for the Guvnurag patients?”
“Ah, yeah. We’re gonna need that, aren’t we?” Sikes rubbed his jaw. “Burgess?”
Baseball didn’t look up. “Sure. Who’s carrying the stasis bags?”
Akiyama chuckled. “You want it so much, looks like you’re carrying it yourself, Calvin.” he said, using Sikes’ first name.
Powell jotted another note. “Right. We’ll break it up for a few minutes. You lot go get some light PT in, restore your focus and we’ll keep planning the scenario after. Akiyama, draw me up a plan for this shield generator.”
There was a muttered circle of 'yes sir' and everyone stood to go. As they did so, Legsy caught Powell’s eye and aimed a small nod towards Ares, asking an unspoken question.
There was a subtlety to military etiquette in such situations. Being the CO carried weight, and the more he applied that weight the more heavily it bore down on the men lower on the chain, so Powell just feigned disinterest and turned his attention to his paperwork, not wanting to step in where he wasn’t needed. They had both noticed the problem, and he’d worked with Legsy long enough to know that the matter would be dealt with competently.
He paid oblique attention though, as Legsy tapped Ares on the shoulder on their way out, and their ensuing conversation was perfectly audible through the door.
"Looked like your attention was flagging there, mate." he heard.
“…Yeah, sorry. Just…"
"Just nothing, mate." Legsy replied. "We need to stay on top of it when we’re off our game, and that means you stay on top of it too. Understand? I know you just saw Ava again, you miss her, but you gotta deal with it at the proper time, aye? Not on the old man’s."
"Yeah. You’re right. Sorry."
"Come on, let’s get that PT done."
Powell nodded a little satisfied smile and sat back, allowing himself the luxury of putting his boots up on the table.
It was mildly worrying that Ares had showed any kind of distraction like that. The lad was usually so dependable that he might as well have been nicknamed “workhorse”, but then again romantic troubles could throw anybody off.
Legsy had handled him well, though, and would doubtless continue to do so. There was no real cause for concern from a professional point of view.
From a personal one…
Date Point: 8y 2m AV
London, England, Earth
Sean Harvey
It was Ava’s turn.
“Okay, so the black card is…” she drew one and read it. “’My hobby: Introducing unsuspecting aliens to the joys of’ blank."
The table rattled as three white cards were slammed down on it, and Ben cursed. According to one of Sean’s house rules, whoever got their card down last had to take a drink.
Given that they’d now been playing for more than an hour, all four of them were pretty well drunk by now. Ben sipped his beer while Ava shuffled the white cards they’d played.
“Okay, so, my hobby is…Introducing unsuspecting aliens to the joys of…a big black dick!”
Charlotte giggled. She was probably the drunkest, and her poker face wasn’t exactly impenetrable at the best of times.
“Introducing aliens to the joys of…Fatal sex adventures!”
Everyone cringed aloud, giving little outraged laughs.
“And introducing aliens to the joys of…The clitoris!” She put the last card down. “What is WITH you guys and sex cards?”
“Oh come on, you’re the one who played 'fucking in zero gravity' last round!" Ben told her."
“Come on, choose.”
Ava laughed and swigged her drink. “Well I mean, hey, how can I pass up the joys of the clitoris?”
Ben cheered and raised his hand, but Charlotte giggled again as the black card was handed to him.
“Darling, I never knew you went that way!” she exclaimed, pantomiming shock.
“Oh, the truth is out…” Ava turned in her seat and looked Charlotte in the eyes with a barely-restrained laugh threatening to burst out of her. “It’s true, I’m a raging dyke for you my love.”
Shaking with mirth, Charlotte reached over and put a delicate hand on her cheek. “All this time, we’ve been denying the obvious…”
Ava reached up and took Charlotte’s hand in her own, affecting a mournful of expression. “We can’t, darling. What if your boyfriend finds out? He’d never approve.”
Ben put his hand up. “Uh, yes he would!”
“No, no, if we’re doing that then to keep it fair you’d have to make out with Sean.” Charlotte said.
“Oi, I’m a twenty-first century man, I’m cool with that.” Sean shrugged.
“Yeah? Dare you.” Ava said.
“I thought we were playing Cards Against Humanity, not Truth or Dare!”
“Chicken!”
“Right, that fucking does it. Come on, Ben.”
Ben glanced sideways at his girlfriend, who just grinned at him. “Go on!”
“What’s in it for us?!” Ben demanded.
Charlotte just waggled her eyebrows across the table. “Ava?”
Ava hesitated, and Sean was just about to turn the idea down when she surprised all of them by nodding.
“Uh…o-okay. Sure!”
To Sean, that sounded like alcohol-fuelled bravado rather than actual enthusiasm. “You sure?” he asked.
He should have known better. Ava gave him her best glare, and he could see her summon her determination. “Are you?”
“Hah!” Sean rolled his eyes, then, to Ben: “Come on then, mate.”
Ben laughed rigidly, then steeled himself, downed the last of his beer, and shuffled round the table. There was an awkward moment of hesitation, and then they just went for it.
Sean had never kissed a dude before but had been idly curious about it for a while. Actually doing it turned out to be…just a kiss. There was a little bit of scratchy stubble involved, but lips were lips. No tongue involved, no big deal in the end. One to scratch off his list of life experiences.
Charlotte had clearly enjoyed it, and fanned herself with her hand. “Whew!”
Ava nodded, having gone decidedly red around the nose and cheeks herself, then shot a nervous glance at Charlotte. “So, uh…”
“Our turn!” Charlotte seemed happy about it at least.
“And keep it fair.” Ben added, having surreptitiously wiped his mouth. “You owe us the same as you got.”
Ava nodded. She looked Charlotte in the eye again, swigged her drink, laughed nervously, and then squeaked a little when Charlotte rolled her eyes and hauled Ava towards her by the front of her shirt.
A few aesthetically pleasing seconds later, Ava just made a stunned little “huh” noise as they parted.
Sean chuckled. “Not as big a deal as you thought it would be?”
“I…guess not.” Ava agreed, then cleared her throat. “Can we, uh…whose go is it?”
“Ben.”
Ben seemed to come to his senses a little. “Huh?”
“Your black card, mate.”
“Oh, uh…’In space, only two things are constant: Corti abductions and’ blank."
Three white cards slapped the table, and this time Ava had to take a drink, which seemed to help her a bit.
They made it through another three black cards after that when only two white cards hit the table, and when they looked at Charlotte she turned out to have fallen asleep.
“Guess that’s game over then.” Ben commented. “We okay to stay here tonight, Sean?”
“Sure, spare bed’s made.”
“Cheers.” Ben gently extracted Charlotte from behind the table and helped her towards the stairs. She made sleepy little protest noises the whole way.
“Who won?” Ava asked.
“You did.” Sean grinned at her. “Turns out our innocent country girl’s got the dirtiest mind of all of us.”
She laughed, and stretched. “Am I okay to stay here tonight too?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind the couch.”
“Thanks…” She stood up, leaned back with her hands on her hips and sighed at the ripple of little pops that shot up her spine, before sitting down on the couch with the rest of her drink in hand. She brushed some hair out of her face and stared at the wall opposite, thoughtfully.
Sean sat beside her and studied her expression for a second. She didn’t seem to notice.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just…” her frown didn’t vanish, but she made eye contact. “Was that weird?”
“Just a bit of harmless fun.” Sean reassured her. “I dunno, a kiss is just a kiss. I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”
He chuckled “Besides, what was that you said at New Years about fucking nudity not being a big deal? Something like 'A body is just a body’?"
“Huh? Oh. Yeah, I guess you’re right.” she conceded, and tucked her feet up underneath herself, resting an arm on the back of the couch so she could comfortably face towards him a little bit. “So, what, you remember that whole conversation?”
“Kind of hard not to. You were kind of naked at the time."
Ava scoffed. “No more than I am right now!”
“You weren’t wearing clothes, though.”
“Yeah, but you couldn’t see anything. Hell, you could see less than you can see right now.” she gestured to her chest, and the little bit of decolletage that she had on show.
“I guess, but…” Sean thought about how to phrase his thoughts.
“But what?”
“I could have…you were only behind the curtain.”
“So?”
“So, what if I’d, I dunno, pulled the curtain aside?”
Ava adjusted her posture a bit, turning to face him even more. “You wouldn’t, though.”
“Well…no. You’re right, I wouldn’t.” Sean agreed.
“Why not?”
“Wh- well, I…” he thought about it some more, sipping his beer to cover the delay. “I guess…well, it’d be…Well, for the same reason I’m not going to just try and rip your clothes off you right now.”
"Exactly!" Ava said. “If you’d done something like that I’d have punched you in the face, left the house, and you’d have lost me as a friend, and probably Charlotte and Ben, too.”
Sean finished his beer and resolved that it was his last--the whole world was more than a little fuzzy and swirly, and even in his drink-addled condition he knew that if he had one more it’d be too many and result in vomit. Besides he felt certain there was some kind of a valid counterargument to what Ava was saying, but it was impossible to think what that might be, past the drunk. “But the shower curtain thing would have been easier.” he ventured.
“Yeah, but it’s not about what’s easy, is it?” Ava swigged the last of her own drink. “It’s about that that’d be wrong. And…I like you Sean, and I trust you. I’m trusting you right now, just by being here with you.”
“I guess I never thought of it that way.” Sean admitted.
“Girls have to think of it that way." Ava shrugged. “I mean, I’m lucky, I’m fitter than you are, and maybe a bit stronger even, so I’ve got that to back me up. But everything’s, like…you have to try and judge how safe you are.”
“So you trust me enough to take a shower while I’m in the room.”
“Yeah! You’re a good guy, and like I said: I like you. I hadn’t seen you for a couple of weeks, I wanted to catch up.”
“Well…fair enough.” Sean gave up on his search for a counter-argument, and instead raised his empty bottle. “To being comfortable.”
“Damn right!” She tapped her own bottle to his, then leaned shakily forward to set it down on his coffee table with the exaggerated care of the thoroughly intoxicated.
As she did so, the thought crept into Sean’s inebriated brain that maybe he’d said the wrong thing there. “I’ve not…hurt that trust, have I?”
“Hurt how?”
“By thinking of the curtain thing.”
She shook her head. “No, you’re…asking what the rules are, right?” When he nodded, she nodded too. “Well that’s fine. It shows you, like, respect boundaries and stuff. That you respect me. ¿Tu entiendes?"
Sean nodded, and they sat in silence for a bit.
Maybe it was the booze doing the thinking, but he had a few questions he’d been itching to answer for a while, and now seemed like as good an opportunity as any to ask them.
“So…Let’s say we went swimming…” he said.
“Yeah?”
“In a lake or something.”
“Sure?”
“You’re telling me that’d be less of a problem for you than, say, kissing Charlotte?”
“Well…” Ava fidgeted. “I shouldn’t have done that. I mean, I know it wasn’t…_anything…_but I…I don’t know.” She rubbed her face and got some hair out of the way. “It’s like…if you’re swimming then really a swimsuit is just, like, this nasty lump of wet cloth you have to take home with you when you’re done. And it turns out they’re pretty nasty bacteria traps, too. And, you know, people take their clothes off for showers and baths all the time, or, or the doctor or something, so…You know?”
“Know what?”
“Like, that’s what a kiss is for is…it’s for love, or sex. Nudity doesn’t have to be."
“Erotic.”
“Right. Erotic. Kisses are automatically erotic. Nudity isn’t.”
“You feeling guilty about that, then?”
“I’m feeling like I should feel guilty." Ava sighed. “I don’t know. I had fun tonight! Going outside my comfort zone a bit, it’s…thrilling, you know? And it really was just fun and nothing else, so, maybe I’m over-thinking it.”
“Maybe.” Sean agreed.
“Yeah, I think I am.” Ava said. “I mean…it’s not like I kissed you."
Sean paused, his mind suddenly splitting into three parts. One was imagining exactly that scenario and desperately trying to figure out how to make it happen. Another was wondering exactly what she’d meant by that, and the third was detachedly watching the panic in the other two and the way his pulse had kicked up a notch.
“True…” he agreed, cautiously.
Ava was blushing. “I didn’t mean it like-” she began. “I mean…I just know how you feel about me.”
“Yeah but that’s…that’s out there. We’ve established those boundaries…haven’t we?”
“Right. We’re good.” Ava nodded. “I’m comfortable with that.”
“You’re comfortable with knowing I-”
She interrupted him. “Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
She laughed a little nervously, then cleared her throat and unnecessarily tidied some hair away again. “…I do too.”
“…Av-.”
“We’d, we’d, uh. We’d better go to sleep.”
“No, come on, you can’t just drop that one on me and expect-”
“Sean.” She cut him off. After he just stared at her patiently for a few seconds, she sighed. “Okay, you want more? Fine. If I was single, we’d have hooked up months ago. Okay? But I’m not."
“So why even tell me?”
“Because I’m drunk and that was probably a bad idea.” She unfolded her legs and stood up. “Just…forget I said it.”
“Right.” Sean drew the word out. “Got to save the world by making yourself miserable.”
“…Did you mean to sound so bitter just then?"
“Well how am I supposed to sound?!” He demanded. “The girl I’m crazy about just told me she’s into me too, but she’s still loyal to the guy she never sees? How am I supposed to not be bitter about that?"
“Because it’s not so simple as 'I never see him’!" Ava retorted. “Even if I DIDN’T have all those letters telling me how much the thought of me keeps him going, we went through…everything together! I’m not just going to throw that away!"
“I know, I know…” Sean sighed. “You’re not a quitter. That’s one of the things I like about you.”
“But you’re still asking me to-”
“No!” Sean stood up this time. “Where have I even ONCE suggested in this conversation you should quit on him? That’s your choice!”
“So you’re saying I should choose?”
“I…” Sean sagged, and sat down again. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I just want you to be happy, that’s all.”
Ava blinked at him, then leaned over and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too. I don’t want things to be complicated here.” he said. “It just…I care about you.”
“I know. And…You know.”
“Yeah.”
She gave him a squeeze again then sat back. “We should sleep.”
Sean nodded, stood and opened the big sea chest that had once been his great- grandfather’s, which lived in the bay window and was where he kept the blankets and pillows for anyone sleeping on the couch.
“You gonna be okay?”
“If I’m lucky, I won’t remember making a fool of myself in the morning.” she said, laughing a little desperately.
“You didn’t.” He promised her. “Who knows, maybe clearing the air like that’ll help us…figure things out. You know?”
“…Maybe.”
He handed her the blankets. “G’night, Ava.”
“’Night.”
He nodded, turned off the light for her, trudged upstairs, and threw himself onto the bed where he lay and stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets that his grandfather had stuck to the ceiling to turn it into a little boy’s bedroom.
When he woke in the morning, it came as a surprise to him that he’d managed to fall asleep at all.
Date point: 8y 4m AV
Huntsville Alabama, USA, Earth
Adam Ares
Tuesdays were acclimation days. On paper, they looked like the easiest day on the schedule--the SOR had a little light PT first thing in the morning to limber them up and wake them, then breakfast, and then…nothing. A day full of “free self-improvement” time, where they were encouraged to pursue whatever creative or educational pursuits they liked.
Rebar spent it playing around in the workshop, making little metal sculptures or structures. Sikes was always nearby, working on his “pets”, a small flotilla of drones of various sizes, from the little buzzy one the size of a quarter right up to “Dronezilla” which he’d originally assembled from scratch using four electric chainsaw motors but which nowadays flew under the unreliable power of four temperamental home-made kinetic thrusters, the tuning and troubleshooting of which seemed to give him no end of fun.
Baseball read trauma journals and medical textbooks, working towards a full nursing qualification. Legsy, Murray and Price had all taken to collecting little miniature fantasy armies and painting them, practising their fine dexterity by competing to see who could paint theirs most realistically.
Adam…sewed.
He had figured out early on that the Odyssean gains he was going to make in terms of muscle during his training would, sooner or later, make it hard to find clothing that would fit. And, seeing as he’d learnt to sew in his medic training, it had only made sense to him to translate those skills into modifying his clothes so that he wouldn’t have to wear huge douchebaggy wifebeaters and shorts day in day out.
He would have cut a comical sight anyway, he knew. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was getting legitimately huge nowadays, and the sight of somebody so big sewing would have been odd anyway.
The fact that he was doing it while wearing a twenty million dollar armoured spacesuit just completed the picture.
That was acclimation day: light self-improvement activities while wearing the spacesuit. On the face of it, simple. In practice, merely wearing the suit was exhausting, and acclimation days were about the hardest thing on the schedule. They had to wear EV-MASS for twelve hours straight and try to behave otherwise normally.
Whether they were eating, reading, welding, painting little miniatures or operating a sewing machine, they had to do it ALL while wearing a pressure suit that was designed to use mechanical counterpressure rather than atmosphere to guard them from decompression.
The first few times had been agonising. Nowadays, they were merely tiring, and the worst part was boredom. After years of consuming and burning per day more calories than most people went through in a week, just sitting around was torturous. Every so often, one of the guys HAD to get up and do something physical for a bit.
The result was usually wrestling, or a race round the building, or a “who can throw the medicine ball further” competition, or just beating the shit out of a punching bag. They didn’t last long. With the suit on, such bursts of activity were concentrated and rapidly burned off the pent-up energies, driving them back to their gentler pursuits.
The impressive part was how well Major Powell had adjusted. He almost looked the most comfortable of all of them, though how much of that was an act so as to project the appearance of invulnerability was a subject of constant barracks speculation. Certainly, he strolled around in the suit, rather than thumping gracelessly about like most of the rest of the Operators did, which all by itself suggested that his apparent ease with EV-MASS was more than just acting.
He’d told them to stop leaping to attention when he entered the dormitory, though. Merely standing was sufficient, which they all did the second the door opened and he sauntered in.
He nodded around at them. “Afternoon lads. Fall in.”
Everyone did so, each wondering what the break from routine was about.
“So, I’ve got some news.” Powell told them. “You might like this, Ares - HMS Sharman on Cimbrean has just been selected as the permanent home of the SOR.”
Adam grinned and made a little “success” fist-pull.
“Now for the other half.” Powell continued. “We’ve got a C5 coming down from Maine to take us up to Scotch Creek. It’s scheduled to fly day after tomorrow, and we need every scrap of our equipment, gear and personal effects packed up and ready to load onto that thing as soon as it’s on the tarmac. Acclimation day is therefore cancelled immediately. We’re all getting out of these suits right now and returning them for cleaning and transport. You lot are the strongest here, so PT for the next couple of days is going to consist of doing all the heavy lifting.”
Everyone nodded their understanding--it made sense, there was no point in missing valuable training time during the move when the move itself could pull double-duty.
“Go on.”
The team hustled out, Adam among them.
“While I’m really happy to be heading back there, sir, why Cimbrean?” he asked.
“Funny thing about Cimbrean.” Powell told him. “You know we’ve actually got better strategic control over that system than we do over Sol?”
“We do?”
“Aye. 'We' meaning the Treaty nations, for a start. Cimbrean’s…legally it’s still a bit dodgy where the colony sits, if it’s its own nation or a British colony, or an Overseas Territory or whatever…but it’s definitely allied. No Russians, no Chinese or what-have-you, no other humans trying to fly in our sky. It’s either ours, or it’s alien."
“Second,” he added. “Less hidin’ places. Sol’s packed full of fookin’ nooks and crannies. Asteroids, Saturn’s rings, more fookin’ moons than we could count if I ordered every man here to go barefoot. We don’t know what’s lurkin’ around our own home system. Hell, you know the Dominion had a research station around Saturn for years wi’out us noticing?"
“Cimbrean’s more open?”
“Aye. No asteroid belt. One gas giant, and a bloody gigantic one at that, but it’s only got the five moons and no ring. And the other planets are all…they’re not exactly your holiday resort destination. No way to build a listening post there without us noticing.”
Adam held the door for him as they entered the suit maintenance building. “Then there’s the citizens.” Powell continued. "Nobody works on Cimbrean who has any implants in their brain. We’ve got total control over who gets onto that planet--everyone’s accounted for, and everyone’s clean. Zero Hierarchy, guaranteed, and so long as the system shield’s up--and we have no reason to drop it--none are getting down there either."
“Plus, Cimbrean’s where the ships are.” Legsy commented.
“True, aye.” Powell shrugged. “But that’s politics and OPSEC more’n anything else. Their reaction time to Earth orbit is pretty much the same as for Cimbrean, so they’re posted at Cimbrean A: because it keeps the Russians and China happy, and B: because our intelligence is more secure there.”
Doyle and Hargreaves were waiting at Adam’s station with The Hose.
The Hose was always capitalized, because The Hose was Important. Its job was to pump ice-cold water through the EV-MASS undersuit, cooling the wearer to the point that the heat-activated inner layer of the Midsuit stopped squeezing and the suit could be removed. A few months of experiments with alcohol and antifreeze had allowed them to actually pump in water that was below zero Celcius, securing a fairly quick release.
From the perspective of the suit’s wearer, this was initially a blessing. The water in the suit’s system was invariably lukewarm, burdened as it was with transporting the body heat of a big, muscular, active man. The cold water felt, at first, only pleasantly cool. Then it got cold. Then freezing. The worst part was when it got into the plumbing around the groin, though by that point the operator was invariably shivering and hissing through his teeth anyway.
All things considered, removing the EV-MASS managed the wonderful trick of being even less fun than squeezing into it, and was the reason why the suiting-up room had a rack of hot showers on standby. Staff Sergeant Lazarenko had installed a clothes dryer for good measure, in which the towels were kept hot until ready for use; an act that had earned him the immediate and undying gratitude of all the Operators and a “bloody good thinking, that man” from Powell.
“Speaking of the ships.” the Major continued, probably so as to distract himself from the chill, “We’ve got ourselves a ride to go with the new digs. After the freighter rescue, the Admiralty decided that HMS Caledonia and HMS Myrmidon needed refitting and that those fancy ET-tech cloaking devices of theirs could be put to better use."
“So, they’re our ride now?” Firth asked.
"Caledonia is." Powell gritted his teeth as the water really started to get cold, and forged ahead. “They converted those big flight decks of hers-- sealed one of them up entirely, compartmentalized it, now it’s a hospital, good for humans and aliens. The other deck’s for us lot to use as a forward operating base."
“And Myrmidon?" Adam asked.
“Her flight decks have been completely sealed up and filled with capacitor banks.” Powell said. “The idea is for her to serve as a flying battery for the Type Twos, give ’em…” Adam knew exactly why he hesitated. The cold was biting now, they were nearly at suits off. “some…actual staying power: Rather than having to jump out every few minutes to recharge off a nearby star, now Myrmidon can, uh…" he swallowed, and shivered. "Waaurrr. Can, uh, can keep ’em topped up."
“Suit off, Major.” Powell’s lead tech said. Powell nodded and fumbled at the touchscreen mounted on the inside of his wrist, entering the suit release code with shaking fingers.
“Suit off, Warhorse.” Hargreaves echoed, and Adam nodded, glad to follow Powell’s example. He entered the code, the pelvic seal disengaged and he leant forward and thrust his arms over his head. Doyle reached up from behind to disconnect the hoses, then moved round to the front and wriggled his fingers down either side of Adam’s head to protect his ears. Hargreaves braced a foot on his desk and heaved, Adam pulled backwards, and in an instant of relief that was almost orgasmic, the suit’s torso popped off of him in a rush.
After that, getting out of the suit legs was easy. Adam had only to lie down-- a yoga mat had been brought in for exactly that purpose, thrust his legs in the air, let the techs take his ankles, lift his butt off the floor and then point his toes as Doyle and Hargreaves hauled on the suit, which again slithered off him to his profound relief.
As Doyle muscled the two suit halves back into place on their rack, Hargreaves hooked up the waste water hose and activated the suction, draining the Undersuit’s water conduits in about twenty seconds, which Adam used to remove his neck brace, and that was it. The hard part was over.
The Undersuit, sadly, was single-use. It may have been by far the cheapest part of the whole rig, but it still felt kind of wrong to have to destroy something that cost as much as a television in order to get out of it, which he did with the help of the techs and their safety blades, which hooked over the suit’s material and sliced easily through it from the collar to the wrist, and then back up from wrist to armpit and then down to the waist.
Adam had salvaged some of the discarded undersuit fabric for what the guys constantly referred to as his 'dressmaking’.
The rest of the disrobing process fell to Adam, who wasted no time in getting out of the constricting and freezing cold garment as quickly as he could.
He’d been amused at first how awkward some of the guys were over their resulting nudity. Sure, some of the techs were women, but in the SOR’s case the military’s innate pragmatism had won out over the military’s innate conservatism--the technicians needed to be, in academic and technical terms, every bit as highly trained and high-achieving as the operators themselves. That high bar to entry had forced them to take whoever was qualified without regard for gender.
As ever, the stress, uncertainty and review hearings had all turned out to be a waste of time: The enlisted personnel just got on with their jobs.
Besides the sheer joy and lightness of no longer being squeezed by upwards of a hundred pounds of spacesuit was too liberating for him to have cared, even if lake-swimming on Cimbrean hadn’t cured him of that particular obsolete taboo years ago. He was entirely unselfconscious nowadays, even if some of the others weren’t yet.
Doyle and Hargreaves returned his high-fives and then got on with cleaning and maintaining the suit as Adam hit the showers.
This bit was always luxury time. Not even Powell seemed to have the willpower to resist the hot water and warm towel, and in any case, it was probably good for the muscles to get some thorough massage and relaxation before moving on to anything else. None of the guys spoke as they soaked--they just basked, then dried off and padded one-by-one back through into the locker room to retrieve their working clothes.
“Right.” Powell said, as the last straggler--Stevenson, as always--was lacing up his boots. “You’ve got an hour to pack your personal effects, then Lunch, then we’re on to stowing all the gym equipment. I’ll see you there.”
The "yes sir" sounded enthusiastic and motivated, to Adam’s ears. He knew his own was.
After all: He was going home.
Sean Harvey
“Sean, I’m thinking of asking Charlotte to marry me, okay? I’m the wrong guy to ask on whether I think you should be encouraging Ava to break up with her fella."
Sean could only shake his head vigorously. “That makes you perfect.” he countered. “You know what’s at stake.”
Ben exhaled at length through his nose, shaking his head. “I guess…” he paused to think, resting his thumb thoughtfully on the end of his nose before continuing.
“…Look, between you and me, I kind of hate this Adam bloke’s guts.” he confided. “I don’t know WHY she puts up with him, and I think it’s only a matter of time before he really hurts her.”
Sean nodded, listening.
“But…you know, this is Ava we’re talking about. She’s not stupid, man.” Ben shrugged. “You’ve said it yourself, you wish you had half her brain.”
“Yeah, but there’s a difference between smart and…smart isn’t there?" Sean pointed out.
“I’m just saying…maybe you should trust her to know what she’s about.”
Sean sipped his cup of tea. “Dude, if I asked her why she loves this Adam guy? I know exactly what she’d say.” he said, setting it down.
“What?”
“She’d bang on about how he’s 'doing something amazing' and how they ‘_went through a lot together’ and…_you know, all that stuff we’ve heard before, right?"
“Right…?”
“From what she’s told us…do you know ANYTHING about what this chap’s like as a person?”
Ben hesitated. “Well, he’s…She says he’s a nice guy, and that he’s…strong…” he suggested, lamely.
“Great. Nice. Wonderful! Is that all he is, do you think?"
“Well…no, there’s got to be more to him than that, hasn’t there?”
“If there is, she’s never breathed a word of it to me.” Sean shrugged. “I wonder if she even knows what he’s like any more?"
“Could be…I don’t know, does the military change people that much?”
“He went into it when they were seventeen, Ben. They were last really together--like, full-time together--when they were sixteen. Are you the same as you were back then?"
“…No, I guess I’m not.”
“Think he is?”
Ben didn’t answer until both their cups of tea were almost completely drained. “You know what?” he asked, finally. “I think you’re right. I think you need to go for it.”
“I’m shit-scared, Ben. She might never talk to me again.”
“You said you want her to be happy, though…?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, if she does that then I guess that’ll mean she IS happy, deep down. Won’t it?” Ben pointed out.
“…I’m still allowed to hate this Adam guy even if she does-” Sean paused. “Right?”
“Sean, you can be as envious of that son of a bitch as you want.” Ben patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve got your back.”
Sean nodded, and stood. Ben stood with him, and they parted ways on the doorstep as Sean locked up his house.
“…Wish me luck?” he requested, pocketing the keys.
Ben gave him a hug. “Go find out, man.”
Ava Rios
Ava’s phone moved half an inch across her desk with a buzz and announced: "Message from Sean."
The message was very simple. It was a selfie of Sean standing outside her front door, holding up a plastic bag with some bottles in it.
She laughed a little, set her tablet aside and got up to let him in.
“I got beer for me, some kind of Bacardi fruit…thing for you.” he said, by way of a hello, and held up the Bacardi fruit…thing delicately between thumb and index finger, as if it was a soiled diaper or something similarly unpleasant.
“What’s the occasion?” Ava asked, smiling nervously as she took it. Things had been a little awkward between them for nearly a month now, made all the worse by the nagging part of her brain that really, really missed being able to feel relaxed around him being at war with the part of her brain that really, really got all distracted and excited in his company.
“It’s called 'hanging out’, duck, maybe you’ve heard of it?"
“I’m used to hanging out involving at least two more people.” She said, letting him into the kitchen and selecting a glass for her drink.
“This is true.” Sean conceded. “But Ben’s working on his dissertation and Charlotte lives here.”
“She’s working on her dissertation." Ava told him. “And I’m working on mine. Actually, shouldn’t you be working on yours?”
“It’s not due for another two months!” he protested.
“Great. That means you only have to write, like, three hundred words a day. Knowing you, you’ve typed more words than that on Facebook so far today.”
“Well, if people will insist on being wrong on the Internet…." he smirked, and tapped their drinks together.
“Really though,” he added “Is there that much difference between three hundred words today and five hundred tomorrow?”
“But it’s never just five hundred words tomorrow, is it?” Ava pointed out. “It’s no words tomorrow either and seven hundred on Thursday. And then you might as well call it two thousand on the weekend, and before you know it you’ll be trying to write the whole thing at four in the morning the day it’s due. My way, I get it done two weeks early, no stress and I can improve it as I go.”
“So responsible.” he teased.
“Somebody has to be.” she retorted. “Besides, 'responsible' is the easy way. I like the easy way."
“I suppose I can see why.” Sean mused, after sipping his beer again. “You’ve had it quite hard, after all”
Ava made an incredulous little laugh. “Only somebody as…as English as you could call it 'quite hard’."
“…I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. Yes, I’ve had it 'quite hard.’ My home city was only blown up by aliens. My parents and school friends are only dead. I only witnessed my best friend’s murder. My boyfriend’s only gone away for years to become a space marine. I’ve definitely had it 'quite hard’, thank you for noticing!"
Sean was silent for a minute until she cooled off again, which took nearly a third of her glass. “And you’re still giving me advice on how to do my coursework properly.” he added.
“Somebody has to.” she repeated, though she offered him an apologetic little smile. “I’m sorry, I just…”
“No, I’m sorry." Sean interrupted. He moved his chair a little closer to hers. “You’re right, I shouldn’t pretend like I know everything you’ve gone through.”
She paused, then smiled, a rare, real, sad smile with her walls down for just a few seconds. “Thanks, Sean.”
Sean toasted her with his beer again, then put it down abruptly and sat forward. “Hey, I know a joke you might like.” he said.
Ava paused in the middle of sipping her own drink. “Okay…?”
“So, a man goes to see the doctor, and he says 'Doctor, I really need your help. I’ve been feeling so bleak and depressed lately, I don’t know what to do!' The doctor smiles and says. 'I know just what you need. The Great Pagliacci is in town this week, the funniest clown who ever lived! Go see him, and you will see that everything is alright.’"
“A funny clown? Impossible.” Ava noted.
“Ahahaha.” Sean enunciated the dry laugh. “Anyway, the man just breaks down in tears right there in the office. 'But doctor!' he cries: 'I AM the Great Pagliacci!’"
What Ava produced in reaction wasn’t really a laugh. It was too short, and the amusement behind it was the quiet humour of bitter recognition, but it seemed to please Sean nonetheless, who shuffled a little closer.
“That’s…not a great joke.” she said, unconsciously tucking a curl of hair behind her ear to look at him.
“I wasn’t telling it to be funny, duck.” Sean told her. “I’m making a point.”
“Right. You’re saying I need to look after myself, first?”
“Pretty much.”
“You’ve made that point before.”
“Yeah but…I thought, maybe I should follow my own advice.”
He kissed her.
Five perfect seconds later, when their lips parted, she was too stunned to do more than raise a few disjointed objections.
“We- Uh, m-maybe that…”
She got no further as Sean kissed her again, and it was another several seconds before she finally worked up the presence of mind to put two hands on his chest and shove him right off his chair, leaping to her feet and turning away, too confused by the cluster bomb of emotions that had hit her to even look at him.
Behind her, she heard Sean’s breathing slow. Very, very carefully, he picked himself up off the floor and straightened his clothing. “I’m sorry” he said. “I just…I needed to know, one way or the other.”
She turned to face him, hunched over her folded arms. “You should…Probably go.” she told him.
He did as she suggested, turning and shuffling out of the kitchen without a backwards glance and with his fists balled. Ava waited until she heard the front door close and lock behind him before allowing herself the luxury of collapsing back into her seat, gripping two fistfuls of her hair, and beating herself up.
Some minutes later, Charlotte poked her head round the door, rushed to her side, and provided a much-needed shoulder for her to soak.
Scott Air Force Base, St. Clair County, Illinois, USA, Earth
Adam Ares
Baby I know its your rest day today, call me when you can please xx
Baseball considered the text message for several seconds before offering his sage and experienced wisdom.
“Sounds serious, bro.”
“Yeah.” Adam nodded, and jerked his head toward the back of the plane. “I’ll be back there.”
They were on stopover at Scott AFB, after a full two days of loading every scrap of the SOR’s accumulated gear and personal effects onto the Galaxy. Huge as a C5’s lift and fuel capacities were, the gym gear alone accounted for several tonnes which, when coupled with the reinforced furniture, the armory, the lucky reinforced Gravball goal, not to mention the suits, protective and maintenance equipment for the suits, plus the techs and all THEIR stuff…
While a Galaxy had plenty of seating on the upper deck, the operators were all big enough to find the seats uncomfortably small, and they were prone to overheating anyway. Noisy as it was, the cargo deck was pleasantly cold, and so they’d set up a sort of nest in one of the few corners not completely given over to cargo, and were playing Texas Hold ’em.
It had taken a whale-sized gulp of fuel just to get them aloft. Hence the stopover in Illinois and the hour of leisure time while the plane was checked, fuelled and took on a few items of cargo bound for HMS Sharman.
The hell with the cost of international calls. He could afford it, and she needed him.
“…Hello?"
He smiled. She sounded so cute when she was tired. “Ava? Did I wake you, babe?”
“…It’s three in the morning baby." she griped, just a little. "I mean, I’m real glad to hear from you but why didn’t you call sooner?"
“I’m on a plane.” he explained. “We just landed in Illinois.”
"Oh…what are you doing on a plane in Illinois?"
“It’s refuelling. We’re on our way up to Scotch Creek.”
"Why are you-?" There was a sharp rustling of bedding on her end of the line. "Are you going back to Cimbrean?!"
“Yeah! The SOR’s going to be permanently posted there! Isn’t that cool?”
"Adam, when the hell were you planning on telling me this?!"
“First chance I got!” Adam said. “Which is now.”
"What about- what about your contract? What’s going on with that?" She asked, Adam frowned, wondering what was getting her so worked up.
“I re-enlisted. They offered us this amazing homesteading incentive seeing as Folctha’s going to be the SOR’s permanent home and, you know, it’s home, so-"
"Homesteading incentive?" Ava interrupted him.
“Yeah! It’s this big grant and maybe a low-interest loan for…you know, building a life out there. Buying a house or whatever. All they need from me is a few more years.”
“…How many years, Adam?"
“Uh…for the full grant, they want a career enlistment.”
"Which is…how long?"
“Uh…” he said sheepishly, “Well, I mean it’s…twenty years total commitment. But that include-”
"TWENTY YEARS?!" Adam jerked the phone away from his ear and winced. He could still hear her anyway. “You re-enlisted for twenty years and you’re on a plane going back to Cimbrean where I won’t be able to call you or anything and you’re only telling me now?!"
“Baby,” he argued. “That includes what I’ve already done, so it’s only sixteen-”
There was a sharp sound and the line went dead. “Ava? Baby? Hello?”
Re-dialling sent him straight to her answerphone. He tried twice more just in case, then gave up and turned the phone off in disgust, and mooched back over to where the guys were lying around in one of the few clear spaces on the plane.
“You guys had a fight?” Stevenson asked.
“Yeah. Beats the fuck out of me why though.” Adam smashed down onto the deck, cross-legged. “I mean, Cimbrean’s home for us, I thought she’d be delighted!"
“Uh-huh.” Legsy muttered, in a noise that was equal parts agreement and scepticism. “And what did she actually want to talk to you about?”
Adam paused. “Well, uh…I mean, I, um…”
Every last one of his buddies pantomimed and voiced dismay. Legsy just pressed three fingers to his forehead and looked pained. “You fuckin’ tit." he groaned.
Adam looked around at their reactions, then down at his knees. “…I really suck at this, huh?”
“Brother.” Baseball said, putting an arm round him. “She’s a goddamn saint for putting up with your stupid ass.”
‘Saint’ Ava had in fact thrown her phone at the wall hard enough to wreck it and was now patrolling furiously around the room, desperate to rant and scream and throw more things and sweep her possessions dramatically onto the floor, and she was only holding herself back because she didn’t want to wake Charlotte and Ben in the next room.
She settled for half an hour of angry tears as she spun snarling circles in the middle of the room, playing out sotto voce all of the vicious, hateful thoughts about Adam that she would have really, REALLY liked to say to his face.
She called him an idiot, a jackass, a fucking dickhead, an inconsiderate cocksucker, a selfish son of a fucking whore and worse. She described in vivid and scatological Spanish exactly what she would do with his guts once she’d finished extracting them, between bouts of sitting on her bed raking her scalp with her fingernails and wanting, wishing, NEEDING to punch him as hard as she possibly could right in his stupid sexy puppy-dog face.
In the end, she was so hoarse and exhausted from the outburst that she found herself waking up at a misty six am with no idea of where to go or what to do or who to talk to.
She sat up, blinked at the sad remains of her phone in the middle of the floor, and more out of hopelessness than anything else, held down the power button.
To her utter astonishment, smashed screen or not, it turned on and booted up. She nearly dismissed the three missed calls from Adam, but instead she sat and stared at them for nearly twenty minutes before finally arriving at a decision. One that was, she considered, perfectly reasonable, and entirely fair and balanced.
“…Fuck it.”
She stood, took a shower, brushed her teeth, put on her clothes, grabbed her keys and the damaged device, and left the room.
Sean Harvey
Sean’s phone rang five times before he swiped the green control to answer. Three of those rings were him staring at the name on screen.
He answered cautiously. “Hey.”
“…Hey."
“I uh…I was worried I wouldn’t hear from you again. After…”
"That was…" Ava sighed down the phone. “…We need to talk about it."
“I’ll come over.”
"Or you could just let me in. It’s…kinda cold out here."
He frowned, leaned over and twitched the curtain aside. Ava gave him a sheepish wave through the glass. She was hovering outside his front door, bobbing, fidgeting and pacing.
He let her in. “You could have just knocked…”
“Yeah.” she agreed, but shrugged. “Didn’t, though.”
“What happened to your phone?”
“Don’t ask.”
“…Cup of tea?”
She sighed a sort of laugh. “Sure.”
By the time the tea was made, she’d warmed up a bit on the couch, using the chocolate-brown throw for a blanket.
“So, uh…look, I’m sorry-” he began.
“No, I understand.” Ava told him. “In fact…I think you were right. I think we needed that question answered.”
Sean sat back, feeling his pulse raise a good notch. “Are you saying…What are you saying?”
Ava stood up and paced the room, still draped in the throw. “Look…You’re right. I don’t…I’ve been lonely as fuck for a long time, and I’m tired of being jerked around and taken for granted.” she told him. “And you…you make all of that better. I’m not lonely around you, and I know you don’t take me for granted.”
“But…?”
She sighed. “But for all the shit he puts me through, I really do love Adam with all my heart, and he’s really doing something amazing. Okay? And I know that part of what keeps him going is…well, me.”
Sean just listened to her.
“But at the same time…You’re right. I’ve got to live for myself a bit, don’t I? I’ve got to…to be happy and fulfilled myself or else…I know I’m just going to take it out on him one day. I can’t afford to resent him, and I don’t want to. But right now I do."
“I think I get you.” Sean said.
“Do you?” she asked. It was neither skeptical nor a challenge, nor even a plea for him to say what she wanted to hear. Just an honest query.
It was Sean’s turn to stand up, and he put his hands on her upper arms, rubbing gently. “Ava…You know bloody well how I feel about you. I’m not asking for forever, I just…I want you to feel loved. That’s all. There’s room for more love in your life, isn’t there?”
She looked down, then away, then up at his face again. There were a tense few seconds of thoughtful silence.
“Ground rules.” she announced, at last.
“Okay…?”
“This is going to end. I can put an exact date on it, okay? After I’ve graduated, and I go back to CImbrean, that’s it. If you can’t live with that, then we don’t do this and I guess we both get friendzoned."
“That’s rule one.” Sean nodded.
“Rule two…” She continued. “We enjoy it. As much as we can, for as long as we’ve got.”
“Rule three.” Sean told her, nodding. “This is about you.”
Ava hesitated “Sean, I-” she began.
“No, shut up. Look, I…fuck it, I love you. Bit early maybe to tell you that, but it’s been, what…three years, hasn’t it? Since we met.”
“But w-”
“Ava. This is about you. End of discussion, okay? What I want from us is for you to not feel lonely and neglected any more. That’s all, I promise.”
“Sean-”
“Just stop being the Great Pagliacci for once and let somebody do something for YOU, okay?! Let yourself be selfish fo-!"
She kissed him.
Several minutes later, hair and clothing thoroughly disrupted, they finally paused, breathing heavily. She gulped down a sigh, and settled her head onto his chest, wriggling down until they were a warm knot of limbs on the couch.
Sean just held her and played gently with her hair, until she fell asleep.
He knew how she felt. He hadn’t slept much last night either.
A few minutes after she fell asleep, he did as well.
Date point: 8y 4m AV
HMS Sharman, Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
John “Baseball” Burgess
“Hey.”
Adam had been in a bad way the whole trip. Several more calls to Ava’s phone once they had landed in Scotch Creek had gone to messages, and they’d just been able to hear him sounding despondent and desperate as he finally gave up and left her a voicemail, begging her to email him.
It was heart-wrenching. The Spaceborne Operators were brothers nowadays, closer than, but Adam--being the youngest on the team and the only one in a permanent relationship--definitely inspired the strongest brotherly instincts. He was usually the composed and calm one too, always happy to join in with the rough-housing and free-flowing loving insults, but never going overboard.
Seeing him so distressed had killed all of that.
But that had to stop now. The long journey was over now, and Baseball had to get his best friend back into soldier mode. “You okay?”
“I dunno man.” Adam swallowed. Hell, his eyes were red around the edge. “I think I really fucked up this time. I think I fucked up bad.”
“Brother, you didn’t do shit.” Baseball grabbed Adam’s bag from him. “The old man says we’re coming to Cimbrean, we’re coming to Cimbrean. Not your fault we’re here.”
“I know, but…she’s right, I shoulda told her sooner.”
“When? We found out about this three days ago, we’ve been loading our shit the whole time since. You told her first chance you got, man.”
Adam didn’t say anything, he just nodded helplessly.
“Come on.” Baseball slapped him on the back. “We got shit to unload and get stowed and then it’s the weekend. Get your mind off it, huh?”
“…Yeah.”
Hard work was always a good balm for a troubled mind, and nobody could work harder than Protectors. By the time all the pallets had been cleared out of the Jump Array and moved to their respective final destinations, by the time the Operators had been shown to their new barrack and had got their possessions tidied away, and by the time the SOR was finally ensconced and ready to get on with business, Adam had relaxed a little, even cracked a smile and a joke.
It wasn’t until they were squared away and he got a chance to sign into the barracks wifi that he finally truly settled, though, because there was an email waiting for him.
John read it over his shoulder, at Adam’s invitation--practically a request to have somebody holding his hand in case of the worst.
"I’m sorry baby. If that was your first chance to tell me then yeah, I shouldn’t have blown up like I did. I’m just really frustrated sometimes. I’ll try and find some way to keep on top of it. Love you - Ava." he read.
Adam was sighing with relief. “She’s a saint, you’re right.”
Outwardly, John just nodded, and patted his buddy on the shoulder, leaving him to write his return.
Internally, however…
Legsy was reclining on the new couch, which was already groaning under the weight. They’d all but destroyed the last couch through piling onto it en masse for movie night, and roughhousing, and this one looked to be rather less sturdy--Vandenberg was already talking about welding together something more appropriate out of a material that was up to spec, like steel I-beam.
“How is ’e?”
“Got an email. She said sorry for getting mad, says she’s gonna try to keep on top of it…” John vaulted the back of the couch to sit down and ignored the way it creaked as he landed.
“Don’t know if I buy that.” Legsy grunted.
“Well, I mean…” John shrugged. “She’s pretty fucking dedicated to him.”
“Too fuckin’ dedicated.” Legsy agreed. “I dunno mate, she can’t just go on writing off their fights and saying it’s fine, can she?”
“When does she graduate? Year and a half?”
“Somethin’ like that.” Legsy agreed. “You think she’s going to tough on through then have it out with ’im once she’s back here?”
“I hope so.”
“Difficult, if she’s struggling now…”
“You know, if you two worry about Warhorse’s love life too much, we’re gonna wind up with THREE guys off their game.” Vandenberg commented, joining them.
“He’ll be okay for now.” Baseball said. “He just got a making up email.”
“Good, ’cause I know the old man’s noticed.” Rebar joined them on the couch, which was already about at its limit. Something cracked deep inside it and it sagged under their combined weight. None of them paid any attention.
“’E’s not gonna weigh in unless Adam actually fucks up, though.” Legsy said. “Anyway, all we can do is keep him on task, let it all sort itself out, one way or another.”
“Yyyep.” Baseball shifted his seat a bit, and the couch finally gave up,--with a crackle of disintegrating wood, it tilted to one side and folded up like a house of cards.
There was a long silence. “…Base?”
“Yeah, Legs?”
“You got a medkit?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Something sharp’s stabbed into my bum.” Legsy informed them. “I think it’s a screw.”
“Sounds serious, Base.” Rebar said, hauling himself to his feet.
“Yeah, can’t have the NCOIC getting screwed in the ass.” John agreed, standing up himself. This earned a groan from the two older men, and a middle finger from Legsy. “Alright, I’ll patch up your butt.”
Vandenberg contemplated the wreckage. “Guess I’ll get started on some actual furniture…Hey, Sikes!”
Snapshot’s voice floated out of his room. “Yeah?”
“Gimme a hand willya? The couch just gave and screwed Legsy in the ass!”
“…What?” Sikes’ head poked round the corner, as did everyone else’s with varying expressions of confusion and delight.
“You big bastards broke it already?” Murray grinned.
“Yeah, that’s right, laugh at the man with a bit of metal stickin’ out of his bum.” Legsy grumbled, wincing as he gingerly lifted himself out of the couch wreckage with his hand pressed to his left buttock.
Baseball just chuckled and went to fetch his medkit, while the Defenders put their heads together on designing a new couch. He passed Adam on the way, who was leaning against his door, smirking.
“Y’aight?”
“Yup.”
He gave his friend a slap on the shoulder and carried on.
Whatever was going on with Ava, Adam at least was okay. That was all they could ask for.
Date Point: 8y 5m AV
London, England, Earth
Sean Harvey**.**
Ava had once told Sean that she had learned early on in practicing her photography that rain didn’t show up well on camera. It could be the wettest, most miserable day ever, but all you actually got in the picture was a general sense of grey dampness. Rain in movies and on TV had to be hugely exaggerated to even show up.
Today, the rain would have shown up without the exaggeration.
Which meant that even at a dead run, the hundred yards or so between the bus stop and Sean’s house was more than enough time for every inch of them both to get comprehensively drenched. Sean’s shaking hands didn’t help matter, as he fumbled and dropped the keys, and by the time they’d managed to barge through the door and into the hallway they were both spitting water and shivering.
Other than that, it had been a successful date. They’d gone to a movie, eaten at Frankie and Benny’s, and had been strolling round the park when the first roll of thunder had driven them underground.
Sean was the first to speak. Or pant. “Jesus…CHRIST!”
“I hear ya. We shoulda got a cab” Ava clutched at her elbows and hugged over. She wasn’t out of breath, but she had never coped well with the cold. “Yuuuurgh.”
“Yeah.” Sean looked at her and made a calculation about size “I’ve got some dry clothes upstairs if you want. I’ll just shove everything in the tumble dryer.”
“You mean that thing works?"
“Course it does!” Sean said.
“You never use it.”
“Using the washing line’s just cheaper though, innit?”
He kicked off his shoes, stripped sodden socks onto the hallway tiles, and grumbled his way into kitchen. “Cup of tea?” he asked.
“God yes. Please.” Ava called through. A few seconds later she added “Man, everything’s wet."
“Yeah, give me a minute and I’ll go get you something to wear while the kettle’s on.” Sean told her, filling it.
“It’s okay, I’ll find something!” she called, and he heard her trot upstairs.
“Hey, what about your clothes!?” he called.
“They’re by the door!”
Sean frowned and leaned back to look out into the hallway. Sure enough, there was a sad little pile of wet cloth slapped down on the tiles by the door, and it wasn’t just the outers. There was a bra and underwear in there too.
He blinked, coughed, and considered what that meant.
Probably nothing, he decided. Ava wasn’t the type to drop hints that subtle-- she was more of the “lean against the door frame wearing goosebumps and a smile” school of thought when it came to the subtle game of seduction. That lumbering meathead Adam had forced her to be refreshingly direct.
She came back down a few minutes later with her hair wrapped in a towel and wearing one of his T-shirts, a pair of his board-shorts, and a black hoodie he’d picked up at Reading Festival years ago.
“You okay?”
“Warming up.” she replied, and took her mug of tea. “You’ve still not changed?”
“Well, if you’re okay with me wandering the house naked…”
“Why not? It’s your house.”
“Well, yeah, but-”
She leaned against the fridge. “But what?”
“Ah, never mind. It’s too cold round here. I’ma go get changed.”
“Sure.”
She’d set up on the couch and was wrapped up in a throw with the TV on by the time he came downstairs again. When he sat next to her, she just snuggled up and put her head on his hip.
He put his arm around her. “You okay?”
“Still cold.”
“I put the heating on for a blast.”
“Thanks.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching the news.
"-criticized by some civil activists in India, where eighty million people still lack access to clean drinking water. However India’s minister of water resources, Suresh Gadkari, was supportive of the idea."
“The greatest obstacle still bedevilling our efforts at universal access to sanitation and safe drinking water continues to be population. The declining cost of energy has helped us reach more people and improve their access to basic hygiene, but the fact is that our population is still growing, putting ever more strain on our already-overworked natural resources. If however we can encourage people to emigrate to an alien world where the water resources can be properly managed from the start, then that will take off the pressure here on Earth and allow us, for the first time ever, to seriously talk about reaching one hundred percent access to clean water. I’m personally very excited.”
“India and China aren’t the only nations interested in emulating the example set by Folctha, however. The USA and Russia have both also expressed interest in founding colonies of their own, and EU ministers in Brussels have also been considering proposals for a colony, despite some outspoken opposition.”
“Humanity has already spread to one world and killed it. Millions of unique alien species, extinct because of just one person. Now, this era of the Earth’s geological history is already known as the “anthropocene” and it’s defined by a mass extinction event. Wherever we go, we kill things! And until we get that basic problem sorted out, then I don’t care HOW many new antibiotics or whatever we find on these alien worlds, we’ve got no business going out there!"
French EU minister Noemie Perrin said that although such concerns were well- founded, there were still grounds for optimism.
“Bien sur, nous devons etre prudents, mais…<Of course we need to be cautious, but I don’t think that we will learn anything if we remain stuck on one planet. Already, contact with alien life promises to end our dependence on fossil fuels and has>”
Ava shifted against him. “Hey, Sean?”
“Yeah?”
He looked left, and she kissed him.
It was a gentle kiss, accompanied by a happy sigh, and it lasted for a good few warm and comfortable seconds. Ava didn’t kiss him all that often, but when she did…!
When it was over, he gave her a little squeeze. “Mmm. That was nice. What was it for?”
“You just make me feel loved.”
“By sitting here and watching the news with you?”
“By holding me, wafer-thin.” she smiled, then pulled herself up, put a hand on the back of his head and kissed him again.
And again.
And a third time, just below his ear, a move which he answered by putting a thumb on her chin, gently pushing her to tilt her head up, and kissing her throat, then a little lower on her throat, and a little lower still…
She grabbed his hand, worrying him that he’d gone too far, but instead she guided it up onto her chest and…oh, yeah. She wasn’t wearing a bra, was she? He could feel something small and hard press against his palm, through the cloth. Fuck that cloth. He lowered his hand, unzipped the hoodie, grabbed the bottom of her t-shirt and pulled it up, awarding himself a mental medal at the noise she made when he put his lips and tongue to work on her nipple instead.
Her hands weren’t idle, either. They roamed his back, curled in his hair, hauled up on his own clothing until he finally had to pull back and let her pull his shirt off.
She made a little laugh, and he was still trying to figure out if it was a mocking sound or a happy one when one of those roaming hands traced down his centre-line, from his chest, to his tummy, to his belt buckle, then just a little lower where she stopped, and pressed down, stopping his breath for an instant.
They paused, both breathing heavily, and then there was a new expression in her eye, a witchy one that he’d never seen there before.
She leaned forward, and kissed his throat. Then his chest. Then a little lower…and a little lower…
And a little lower.
Date Point: 8y 6m AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches.
Major Rylee Jackson
“Jeez! Powell, you got pretty!"
The advantage to having been promoted at about the same time as the SOR’s commanding officer was that Rylee could still crack a joke like that on seeing him for the first time in years.
That said, it wasn’t truly a joke. The SOR’s Crue-D regime had clearly agreed with Powell who, in addition to packing on the muscle, had shed a few apparent years. Several of the deep stress lines in his face were smoothed out, his hairline had advanced back down into territory it had once abandoned, and his nose was transformed- the old crooked break was now fine, strong and straight.
“Fookin’ everybody’s sayin’ that nowadays.” He’d been working on some of the endless pile of paperwork that was any commander’s lot, and stood up to greet her. “I didn’t exactly sign up for the fountain of youth, mind.”
“Got any for me?”
“You don’t need it.”
Surprise caused Rylee to shift her weight onto her back foot, and her smile widened a notch. “My God, are you being charming too? That stuff really IS a miracle drug!"
He actually chuckled. “Good to see you, Jackson. Congratulations on the oak leaf.”
“Good to see you. Congratulations on the crown."
Powell gestured to a seat, inviting her to sit. “Cup of tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee’d be nice, thankyou.” She settled onto the offered seat. “Straight black.”
Powell nodded, and hit the kettle’s switch.
“So you’re on a PR tour.” he said, rummaging through the cupboard beneath it to retrieve a sturdy cafetiere and a bag of decent-looking coffee. “The generals finally decided to shove you back into the limelight?”
“Eh, it’s a promotion fitness thing.” Rylee sighed. “Gotta keep climbing the ladder or else they kick you off it.”
“Yyyep.”
“And I’m the one who flew FTL first, so of course I get to dick around in front of the cameras for a few months rather than do something useful. You know they want me to do a fucking documentary?"
“Dreadful.” Powell deadpanned.
“End of the world!” Rylee rolled her eyes skywards, though she smiled. “Anyway, I figured if I took on a unit that’s currently all classified and stuff then by the time the footage is _de_classified I won’t have to answer stupid questions about it.”
“Hence why you’ve come to us.”
“I’d take it as a favor.” she said, a little less animatedly.
“Aye, I don’t see why not.” Powell agreed, spooning a generous measure of coffee grounds into the cafetiere. “Never know when I might need some clout with your mob.”
“That’s the spirit!”
Powell returned to his desk as the water boiled. “You must have known you’d wind up in the public eye after flying Pandora, though." He pointed out. “Why do it if you’re not comfortable with the fame?”
“Well there’s the funny thing. People are like 'Rylee who?' nowadays. A lot of folks have no idea who I am, y’know? I was thinking I’d be dodging paparazzi and the military would protect me, but it turns out the paparazzi don’t give a fuck because I’m always wearing the same clothes, and they can’t comment when I put on a pound or two ’cause I’m not on the French Riviera in a bikini every weekend. They can’t make any money off me, so the actual vultures are Public Relations. How’s that for bullshit?"
“Thought you were up there with Armstrong and Gagarin?”
“How many people actually know those names, though?” Rylee asked. “I heard one time that only 40% of the American public recognized Neil Armstrong and…Hell, something like ten percent of Americans think the Apollo missions were faked!”
“Aye, I heard that one too. I have my doubts.” Powell shrugged. “People are interested in space again. When colonising an alien planet’s on the cards…”
“True. And things have changed fast." Rylee agreed with him. “Hell, you know the total tonnage of private space vehicles launched into orbit now beats the combined lifetime tonnage of both NASA and the Russians? And most of that is Hephaestus, which spent less doing it than the Gemini program cost."
“Which means that you’re probably better known than you think.” Powell shrugged. “They’d have to be pretty fookin’ stupid not to want to get the best out of you, wouldn’t they?”
The kettle clicked off and he stood to pour the coffee.
“I know, I know…” Rylee conceded. “I just like to bitch about it, you know? I’d rather be flying.”
“You know, you are allowed to enjoy other things besides flying." Powell told her.
“You ever met a pilot who wanted to admit to that, though?”
He chuckled. “Nope.”
The cafetiere rattled when he set it down on his desk alongside two scuffed but sturdy mugs. “But I’d wager there are worse duties. You’ll like my lads, I promise you that.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Getting the interviews started already?”
“Hey, I’m going to take this job seriously.” She insisted. “I want to do them justice.”
Powell nodded as he filtered the coffee and poured it before answering.
“I have never worked with a unit that had a higher background rate of pranks, hijinks and general shenanigans.” He said, fondly. “They’re completely fookin’ nuts, the lot of ’em, and I totally sympathize. We’re all eating well above our energy needs to try and get some reserves up, and all the PT in the world won’t cut it nowadays. Every man jack of us is a fizzing ball of energy in the morning, and a half-trashed wreck come bedtime. And yet, discipline is not a problem here--they’re all mature, sensible lads one an’ all. It’s just…bonkers in their dorm when they’re letting off steam. But never once has it crossed the line, and I’m quite confident it never will."
“You make them sound like a puppy farm.” Rylee observed.
“They fookin’ are a puppy farm." Powell laughed. “In fact, hell wi’ it, that’s what I’m calling their dorm from now on. 'The Puppy Farm’. They’ll love it."
Rylee laughed. “Okay, yeah. It sounds like I’m going to have fun with these guys.”
“Oh, you are: They’ll love you. Hope you’re ready to take part in a boatload of selfies.”
“Eh, I think I can put up with that.”
Powell sipped his drink. “I take it you’re going to want me in front of the camera too?”
“I’d take it as a favor.”
“A few ground rules then: I’d rather we used callsigns rather than actual names. These lads have family, friends, and we’re doin’ summat pretty extreme here with the Crue-D and the training. Fair?”
“Fair enough. What’s yours?”
Powell hesitated. “Um…STAINLESS.”
“Nice!”
“The lads gave it me. It’s a damnsight better than the one I used to have.”
“Which was?”
“I’d rather not say.” Powell scratched his nose awkwardly. “Just say it harked back to a stupider and, er…more racist time in my life and leave it at that.”
Rylee blinked at him. “You don’t seem racist.” she said.
“I’m not, now. Once upon a time, though…You wouldn’t have liked me, and for good fookin’ reason. I’d rather not say more than that.”
“Hey, I’m not interviewing you right now, Powell.”
“Yeah but…Look, I don’t have a lot of mates. I’m not about to alienate one of the few I’ve got by sharing exactly what I’d have thought when I was an idiot fookin’ kid, arright?”
“I think I can guess, anyway.” she commented, drily.
“Rylee…” Powell cleared his throat. “Look, if you’re gonna go with an angle for the SOR, the best one you can go with is self-improvement. We’re not just aiming for better, we’re aiming for best."
“Owen.” She interrupted. “Relax. I’m just surprised, not upset.” Where he was sipping his coffee, she took a decent-sized gulp of it. “Hell, I guess I was the same, you don’t grow up black in Arkansas without…What I’m saying is, we’re all allowed to grow older and wiser.”
“Ah, to hell wi’ the older part, just so long as I keep getting’ wiser.” Powell chuckled. “I tell you what, I DON’T miss all the aches and pains I was havin’. My knees haven’t felt so good in years!”
Rylee’s smile returned. “…So. You’re okay with me doing this.”
“Absolutely.”
“And you want the whole angle to be self-improvement.”
“Well…” Powell looked to his right and slightly downwards as he marshalled his thoughts. “We both know at least some of this material is going to end up as a recruiting video, most likely.” He said. “Right now, the SOR has one operational unit, which isn’t even active yet. Now, we might be able to keep the training up just fine, but missions? One mission and we’ll be knocked on our backsides and have to build up again. Sure, we’ve got guys coming up the pipeline behind us, but the full unit MTOE calls for, uh…"
He rolled his head back and frowned at the ceiling, searching his memory. “Thirty six, seventy-two…About a hundred and eleven operators all told, plus three times as many specialists in support roles. All of those operators have got to meet some already high standards and then clear a rigorous elimination round before they so much as see a vial of Crue-D, let alone their spacesuit. And by the time they’re ready for active duty…" he gestured a hand down the mid-line of his own body. “Permanent physical and psychological changes.”
“You want me to stress that?”
“We’re only going to want people who can hack the idea of never being the same again. Go talk to Warhorse sometime--Staff Sergeant Ares. I used to work closely with his old man, who’s a slim, small, little guy. Not unfit or anything, just…small. Four years ago, the lad was just, like, a younger version of ‘is dad, but now he’s fookin’ huge! _A_nd he’ll still be huge when he’s in his eighties."
Rylee nodded, thoughtfully. “I mean…I’m just going to be narrating and interviewing on this thing, it’s up to the director in the end.” she said. “But I’ll pass that along.”
“That’s all I can ask for.”
They finished their coffee, and Powell indicated his paperwork. “I could do with some time to finish this. Why don’t you go meet the lads, form an impression of them? We’ll have a drink later.”
Rylee smiled as she stood up. “I look forward to it.”
Powell had been right. The SOR operators were a puppy farm--eleven enormous, intelligent, hyper-competent puppies who practically fell over each other to “tidy up” a dormitory that was already spotless to the point that only a training instructor in full Motivation Mode could have found something to comment on.
He’d been right about how well-known she was too: They recognised her without her having to introduce herself, and fought to get photos and, in Stevenson’s case, her autograph in a little book alongside assorted athletes, actors and celebrities.
Once they calmed down a bit and got used to the idea that she was there, though, she was invited to take part in “Bad Movie Morning”, which was apparently their weekly Saturday ritual. They watched 'Night of the Lepus’, a golden-age classic from the age of fedoras and dames in which an assortment of ordinary bunny rabbits filmed close-up lolloped and flopped around in a completely unthreatening way, composited behind footage of people screaming and running away.
Oddly, though, Sergeant Ares gave her an unambiguously frosty reception. It wasn’t anything overt--she doubted the young man even knew he was doing it-- but his attitude with her, while perfectly polite and respectful, was nevertheless decidedly cooler than those of his squadmates, and she noticed a few little frowns among the guys which suggested they were asking each other 'what’s up with Warhorse?’.
Which was why, when he went to cook between movies, she engineered an excuse that she needed a glass of water and joined him in the kitchen.
He stood aside to let her get at the faucet. “Ma’am.”
“Y’know, if you’ve got a problem with me, I’d like to hear it.” Rylee told him, putting it straight out there. “I’m going to be interviewing you in a couple months, after all.”
Ares blinked. “Problem, ma’am?”
“You’ve been kind of giving me the 'I don’t like you much' thing this whole time, and I’m curious why."
“…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” He stopped himself, but that sentence had revealed the nice guy underneath the chilly attitude. “…You never called the Tisdales, is all.”
“…Who?”
He frowned. “Mark and Hayley?”
Memory stirred. “Oh! I, uh…I never learned their…wait shit, Tisdale? As in Sara Tisdale?"
“Yeah.”
“She was their daughter?”
“Yep.”
Rylee dragged a chair out from under the table--a huge, metal, heavy one built by Rebar to SOR standards--and collapsed onto it. “Jeez, no wonder you- God damn!"
“You didn’t know their surnames?”
“We had fun together, that’s all!” Rylee told him. “We’re not friends or anything. We just…yeah.”
She frowned at him. “Actually, how did you even know about that?”
“My, uh…my girlfriend saw you with them. Ma’am.”
“Huh…” She went still and silent for a second, and then rubbed her face. “Christ.”
Ares scratched the back of his head. “I…Guess I owe you an apology.”
“No, no.” Rylee shook her head. “If I’d known I’d have called them. But, I didn’t and I guess that’s…Jesus, their little girl."
“And my friend.”
“…I’m sorry, Ares.”
“Was that an apology or condolences, ma’am?”
“Bit of both…” She sighed, and ran a hand over her head. Realising that her hair was out of its bun, she let it out and re-did it. “Thanks for being straight with me though.”
“You asked.”
She sat awkwardly silent as he studied a chart stuck to the refrigerator, and then he seemed to thaw out entirely. “So, hey. I’ve actually been kinda curious…”
“Yeah?”
“What’s FTL like?”
Rylee almost laughed. No wonder she’d detected the chilly attitude instantly, the question had been so guileless and honest that it was clear that disliking anybody just wasn’t in Ares’ nature.
“You know what’s weird about it? No special effects.” she said. “Like, none. It’s really undramatic, y’know?”
He pulled a bowl of soaked beans out of the fridge. “None at all?”
“Nope. It’s one of those weird quirks of how it all works, right? You’d think you’d see Lorentz contraction and blue-shifting and whatever, but in fact you’re not moving at lightspeed, technically." She held one hand up like a spaceship and orbited it with the other to illustrate the point. “As far as your own inertial frame of reference goes, you’re moving normally and it’s just that everywhere’s closer so you don’t have to travel as far. It’s only from the outside that you appear to be going faster than light. So, anyway, everything moves around, just way faster than usual. It’s all so far away that it’s just points of light, anyway."
“Man, that sounds kind of disappointing.”
“It is!" Rylee agreed. “I jumped these two huge space stations into Earth orbit a few years back and that was just like-” she stuck a finger in her mouth and flicked it out again to create a popping sound. “And there’s a station there. Warp most of the way to the moon?” she snapped her fingers. “It just gets bigger. FTL’s actually kinda dull.”
“That’s kind of a shame.” Ares said. He’d produced some celery and a knife and cutting board and set about combining them with bewildering speed. It seemed impossible that he wouldn’t slice off a fingertip, but in fact he didn’t inflict so much a scratch on himself.
“Eh. I can live with shitty special effects.” Rylee said. “It’s still an exciting time to be alive, y’know?”
“True.”
“Speaking of shitty special effects…” Baseball stuck his head in the kitchen. “We’re watching the Power Rangers movie next, if you’re interested Major?”
“Oh man, I’ve not watched that since I was a kid!” Rylee stood up. “See you through there, Ares?”
“I’ll be a few minutes.” he said. “But sure.”
Rylee gave him her best smile and followed Burgess back through into the living area, pleased to have cleaned matters up. It would make the documentary so much easier.
Date Point: 8y 7m 3w AV
London, England, Earth.
Ava Rios.
“You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“I was fucking terrified of losing my virginity."
Sean gritted his teeth and curled his fingers into the pillowcase She had both of her hands on his wrists, gently trapping him. “How…things have changed.” he commented.
Ava giggled and paused to grind her hips deep down onto him, a motion which sent a delicious shiver of pleasure right through her, so that her eyelashes fluttered and she bit her lower lip so hard that it hurt. Apparently it worked for Sean too, because his expression of furious concentration became desperate.
“Oh Christ…”
“It’s okay, lover…” she leant right forward and whispered into his ear. "Come for me."
She kissed his jaw and stroked his hair as he came down from whatever star she’d just sent him into orbit around, until he found his voice again and said something characteristically witty between great gulping breaths: “Fuuuuuck. Whoa-oh my…whew.”
She grinned down at him. “Good one?”
“Jesus.” He opened his eyes and swallowed, expression equal parts worshipful and concerned. “Did…are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” she promised, and carefully dismounted to roll down beside him. Neither of them moved very much for a few minutes until his breathing and pulse had returned to something resembling normal, at which point he cleared his throat and discreetly tied and disposed of the contraceptive he was still wearing.
“You’re sure?” He asked. “I mean, you didn’t-”
“I don’t have to, nibble.” she chided him, gently.
“Yeah, but this is supposed to be about-”
“Adam I’m fine, really!”
It took her a few seconds to interpret the change in his expression. “Sean. Shit.” She buried her face in the pillow, covered the back of her head with her hands and repeated herself, feeling a full-body cringe come on. “Shit.”
"Really?" He asked.
“God fucking dammit that’s…I’m so sorry.”
Sean sighed, stood up and went to the bathroom, which left her to sit up as well and blush violently by herself for a few minutes, hoping that the bed might maybe come alive and devour her before his return or something equally implausible to spare her a moment’s more shame.
When he came back in, he just sat next to her and rubbed her back. “You twit.” he said, lovingly.
“Sean, I am so sorry."
“Well, better this than the other way around.” he joked, with a slightly awkward laugh.
“…You’re not mad?”
“…Well, I’m a bit jealous…” he confessed. “…but not mad. I get it, I’m the 'other guy' here. I suppose I should be glad this is the first time it’s happened."
A laugh exploded out of her and brought embarrassed tears with it, which just made him laugh and kiss her below the ear. “It’s okay." he promised.
“You’ve got to be the only guy in the world who’s okay with hearing somebody else’s name in bed!” She told him.
“Well, if you’re having sex with me and it makes you think of a big strong soldier, maybe I should take it as a compliment.”
“Don’t go too far.” Ava said, deflating again. “God, I really am sorry, you know that?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve done it too.” He reassured her. “Broke up with Gwen in the morning, spent the afternoon with Ayesha consoling me, and just as she was blowing me that evening I called her Gwen. That was awkward!"
“Jeez, how many girls have you--actually, I don’t want to know.”
“Okay.”
The wall clock uncomfortably counted out twenty seconds before she finally sighed. “Okay, okay. How many girls have you been with?”
“Including you?”
“Yes.”
“…Do blowjobs count?”
“Yes.”
“Handjobs?”
She gave him a light backhand in the upper arm. “Sean!”
“Okay, okay!” He laughed. “You’re my sixth.”
“Oh thank fuck. I was worried you’d say something crazy like twenty.”
“Twenty?” he asked. “Jesus.”
“It’s good to know you’re not that much of a slut.” she told him.
“No it’s not that.” Sean waved a hand. “It’s just…Twenty is your definition for a slut? I went to school with a guy who claimed a hundred when he was eighteen, and I’m quite sure it was the truth."
“Bullshit!” Ava protested. “How do you even…?”
“A different girl every week for two years?” Sean suggested. “Apparently it’s not that hard if you know how.”
“What’s he up to now?”
“He volunteers with a HIV awareness program.”
“…Oh.”
“Yeah.”
After a silent moment, she leaned into him and made a sighing sound. “You’re sure you’re okay?"
“Ayesha, I’m fine! OW!"
She’d smacked him in the upper arm again, with a laugh. He joined in and tried to tickle her, she fought back, and it wasn’t long before the tickle-wrestling had them both ready to go a second round.
This time, she got his name right.
Date Point: 8y 9m AV
HMS Sharman, Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Major Owen Powell
Being a minute later than he’d planned heading for today’s training session meant that Powell was just late enough to run into Technical Sergeant Kovač coming down the hall the other way, struggling under a cardboard box that she could have fit inside. “Uh…Delivery for you, Major.”
Powell stood and brought his hands together in a single eager clap. “Outstanding.” he declared. “I ordered those a month ago."
“Yes, sir.” Kovač agreed, blandly neither assuming responsibility for the delay, nor assigning it.
Powell chuckled. “For cryin’ out loud, leave them there and grab a trolley. We’ll hand them out after today’s scenario.” he declared. “Assuming there’s enough for everyone?”
“Yes sir.” Kovač put the box down, gratefully. “I inventoried it all myself, everything’s as ordered.”
“Well done. We already planned how this was going to go, get them set up and ready for presentation once the scenario’s done. Don’t be late.”
“Yes sir.”
“Carry on.”
Scenario days were Powell’s favourite part of the SOR training regime. Gravball was fun, and the academic lessons were fascinating, but nothing quite matched the simple, mildly sadistic joy of seeing the lads tackle simulated missions in the warehouse.
The warehouse had been his personal request to HMS Sharman in the weeks before they’d come back here, and it had been the base’s willingness to accommodate his request that had finalized the decision. It was the size of an aircraft hangar and full of the very latest in gravity plating and holographic emitters, backed up by a dedicated staff of scenario planners and fresh-faced young specialists with the skills necessary to create, animate and deploy simulated hostiles via those emitters.
They had been given three simple instructions--the scenarios must be unpredictable, they must simulate the sorts of conditions and situations the SOR might find themselves in on actual missions, and they must be slightly beyond the lads’ abilities. Enough so that for them to actually complete the scenario and win would be unlikely, but not so much as to render the task actually impossible.
They had re-run one of the old scenarios last week, by way of a demonstration, along the lines of 'look how far you’ve come’. Not only had the lads completed it, they’d done so without suffering so much as a simulated scratch, even in the sections that they hadn’t reached first time through.
It had been an education for Powell too, seeing just what they were capable of. Ares climbing a rope up the kind of falling hallway trap that Kaminsky had once described, with his legs wrapped around Vandenberg, who was no lightweight himself, both in their suits and with a full combat load. Akiyama overriding the electronic lock on a door panel in seconds, though that was doubtless down to the fact that he’d ordered a gross of the most common makes of door lock in the Dominion and spent his spare time for most of a month tinkering with them.
All of the lads were like that now, though. They’d become addicted to self- improvement, to the point where if a day went past where they weren’t challenged, weren’t learning something new or advancing an existing skill, they got listless and boisterous. Keeping them stocked with books, tools and material to further their lust for personal perfection wasn’t just a training expense, it was a morale and discipline one.
Not that Powell himself was any different, of course. His personal quarters had gone from containing only three books--’The Art of War’, 'The Complete SAS Survival Manual’, and 'Masters of Command - Hannibal, Caesar and the Genius of Leadership‘--to containing two overworked bookshelves that each held dozens, covering the military history of the last three hundred years, and including Machiavelli, Plato, the Bible, the Qu’ran, the Bhagavad Gita, some of the better introductory volumes in the fields of psychology, the history and design of games, physics and communications, plus several classic science fiction authors: Niven, Pournelle, Banks, Simmons, Clarke and Asimov. And, because he’d been left squinting at the literary references in the Simmons’ Hyperion Cantos and Ilium, that had led to him buying Homer, Proust, Shakespeare and Keats into the bargain.
His old man would have looked at a room full of that many books and promptly declared that it could only belong to a 'poof’, and the reality of his son’s command, condition and intellect would have made not a jot of difference. Powell senior had been a deeply anti-intellectual man to cover for his own illiteracy, and quick to pin anything he didn’t like on 'poofs’.
Just one of the many reasons Major Powell so valued his own education. Not that he’d appreciated it when young, of course.
The physical effects of Crue-D were obvious, there for anyone to see. But now he cast his memory back a few years, and could see Jen Delaney, mastering marksmanship in a single lesson. Or Saunders, building a working starship out of scraps and salvage in a mere two weeks.
He was beginning to become seriously worried that the Corti might have badly miscalculated.
He set aside his worries about having created a monster when he realised that he’d easily loped the distance from the office complex to the training centre in hardly any time at all, at speeds that most people would consider a dead run, and without so much as a spare gasp of breath to show for it, even though that itself was pauseworthy. He was here to run a training operation: Cogitation could wait, for now.
For all its high-tech contents, the warehouse was controlled from what was basically a shed, fully half of which was computers, between which the team of four young men who organised and oversaw the exercises sat in a square, facing away from one another. There literally wasn’t room for more than one of them to stand up at a time, and Powell had given them special dispensation to not react to his entering except by straightening in their seats and looking toward him.
“All set up?” He asked.
“Yes sir.” Corporal Jenkins was the senior NCO in the shed, and the scenario team leader--he’d once been heard to describe himself as the “dungeon master”.
“Good, I look forward to it. Change of plan for the end of session today, though: report to the end zone once you’ve saved the footage and turned everything off.”
“Yes sir.”
“Right. As you were.”
He jogged the last hundred yards the Warehouse door. The lads were all suited up and ready to go, waiting for him in their EV-MASS systems and practically creaking under the weight of all the gear they carried for training.
“Arright lads, about that time again. Fall in.”
They did so, eager to get going.
“The scenario we’re gaming today is an assault on a Hierarchy space station, populated by traps and active defences under the direct control of a Hierarchy operator.” he explained. “Your mission is to reach the computer core, pull the data, then get that data off the station and into intel’s hands by whatever means are possible. We’re simulating that you’ve breached in from EVA. You’re going in blind, that means no hints about what threats you might face or what you might find. Any questions?”
They all shook their heads. “Right. Systems check on your suits, give us the thumbs up when you’re ready.”
He left them to it and climbed the ladder up into the observation gantry, a cabin that ran along the ceiling on rails from which the occupants were able to look down into the training area.
“Ready?” He asked, pulling the ladder up behind him.
“Ready sir.”
“Right. Wait for the thumbs up and let’s see how we do.”
He watched the men below go through a last round of confirming each others’ suits--a lesson that had been drilled into them by Drew Cavendish from day one --before they gathered round Legsy in a huddle to talk plan.
By agreement, the game controllers did not get to hear that plan. Powell did, because he wasn’t the one giving the orders--he was there to watch, observe, think about how he’d have approached things, and so far, he agreed with every decision Legsy was making, including the one about leaving the two Protectors behind, much to their dismay.
The huddle broke up, everyone headed for their respective loadout station to grab the equipment they’d decided they needed and Powell tuned in on Legsy again as he patted Ares’ upper arm.
"You okay?"
"Eh, you know me. I hate being left in the back."
“Yeah pal. I would too, but trust me, right? We don’t put our best at risk until we have to."
Ares’ silence spoke volumes on what he thought of that assessment. "Legs…"
“Nah mate. Said that for a reason. I’d rather have one of you bored and a jump away than fifty other medics right next to me in the fight, and you’d better bloody believe I mean that.”
The younger man didn’t say anything, just nodded, then grabbed Legsy’s gauntlet and drew him into the kind of body-slamming hug that would have pulverized bricks.
"You get through this without needing us, I’m buying the drinks."
“Fuck aye. See you after.”
Powell didn’t need to be listening on the radio to hear Legsy calling for the safety officer, who performed a final round of checks to make sure that every last weapon, round and grenade they had on them were training versions--blank rounds, dummy grenades, and the laser-based MILES training equipment. The lads formed up, gave each other a round of slaps in the head, fist-bumps, and other suitably violent masculine gestures, and Legsy aimed a raised thumb at the control box.
The simulated violence below unfolded. Knowing what they did about the Hierarchy, every simulated mission worked off the assumption that the mind in question knew they were coming, detected the intrusion within seconds, and that it would bring out its best and most potentially effective gambits first, but not unwisely.
What, exactly, those gambits would be was always an exercise in the games designers’ imaginations, informed by the sort of things they had learned from Delaney, Saunders, and Six, and their own sadistic machinations.
Cloaked assault robots with fusion blades for limbs. Several varieties of small flying drone, from the ones that stopped and deployed a plasma weapon, to a kind that the games techs had invented that were basically just a flying fusion blade, designed to flash at speed straight down a corridor and halve every man in it at the waist. Gravity traps, various kinds of turret, rooms full of hair-trigger explosives, rooms where the power cables had been wired like the grid on a bug zapper, even simulated human biodrone soldiers.
There had even once been a room full of sex slaves sporting the faces of a number of actresses and singers, an encounter so absurd that the simulation had been abandoned, and the two men responsible had been “motivated” to remember their responsibilities by means of having them train with Staff Sergeant Ares, under orders that he was not to be friendly about it.
Given how uncomfortable and time-consuming it was to both don and remove the suit, Ares had obliged with relish, though he had quite kindly carried the two broken perpetrators back to their rooms once he was done. There had been no such lapses of professionalism since.
Each simulation was designed to take a few hours. There was a lot of room in the warehouse, and the simulation techs worked all week to configure the next scenario ahead of training day. Beating the crap out of those two with Warhorse had probably spared them the wrath of their fellows. Or at least, the worst of it.
Today, there were no such shenanigans. The Aggressors were a blur, emptying each room of anything that even resembled a threat almost before they’d finished entering it. That was doctrine--it had to be assumed that nobody and nothing encountered in a scenario where the Hierarchy were involved was a friendly unless it was clearly and obviously not a threat and could not possibly become so, and even then was to be treated as suspicious until proven otherwise.
The Defenders were no less deadly, but their deadliness was more methodical. Laying sensors and mines behind them, carrying spare ammo for the Aggressors, watching the Aggressors’ backs, disarming traps and overcoming engineering and technical challenges. When the team had to climb “up” a long hallway that had had its gravity rotated by ninety degrees, the Defenders were the ones who deployed the ropes.
There were firefights against an entrenched squad of simulated Chehnasho troops, easily brushed aside. There was a desperate battle against a pack of flying blades, one of which only narrowly failed to “kill” Firth. There was a holographic Vulza--Price dodged a snap of its jaws, wrapped his arms around its snout and held on while Blaczynski bayoneted it in the eye. It took nearly twenty minutes for Vandenberg and Akiyama to disarm a particularly nasty electrical discharge trap, while the rest of the men dug in and warded off probing attacks by an increasingly desperate Hierarchy force…
Which turned out to be a distraction. No sooner was the trap disarmed and the squad retreating into the room than a gunship--an illusion, projected on the huge “window” that ran the length of the room - decloaked and began to fire indiscriminately through the glass. A quick jerk of the gravity approximated the room decompressing. They all grabbed handholds and so none of them were “spaced” by the simulated blowout, but finally, three of the lads were forced to obey the rules of the simulation and lie down inactive as their MILES systems reported incapacitating hits.
Powell leaned forward to watch, eagerly. Their performance while things had been going well had been exemplary--now he was interested in seeing how they performed when the shit hit the fan. Those were the moments that a unit truly showed its quality.
They didn’t disappoint.
One of the functions of the midsuit’s active padding was to close any breaches in the pressure hull, but still a penetrating wounding shot while wearing EV- MASS in vacuum was a deadly matter, demanding immediate extraction to a pressurised environment, before all else.
That was the Protectors’ job. Everyone in that room knew it. They also knew that the Protectors weren’t there, and that the lives of their comrades (simulation be damned, they were all too motivated to care about the difference) depended on getting them into that room ASAP, and clearing the way for them to do their job.
Legsy didn’t waste a second, and fired a grenade out of his gun’s M203 at the gunship, supported by a hail of rapid-fire from the others. The simulation decided that he scored a hit, which combined with the bullets did enough to badly damage the vehicle’s canopy and spoil its pilot’s view, causing the projected gunship to sway crazily and spray the exterior hull of the station with wasted shots.
Had the fight been real, the room would have been in vacuum which would have allowed Ares and Burgess to jump straight in to their buddy’s beacons. In reality, it was of course flooded with air. Fortunately, they’d planned for that, which was why the two Protectors had been walking along above their comrades a few rooms back, ready to drop in through hatches in the ceiling when summoned.
This they now did, arriving in the room just as alacritously as if they had displaced in, and Powell grunted in satisfaction as Burgess took immediate stock of the situation, grabbed the downed Vandenberg, hoisted him up onto his shoulders, and retreated toward the door into the next room that the Defenders were working on breaching, covered by the Aggressors as they continued to suppress the pursuing Hierarchy forces.
Ares got cocky. He tried to lift the remaining two fallen men simultaneously, rather than extracting the one who was in the more immediate danger.
There was no doubting that the young man was the strongest on the team, scoring over even Burgess by a fair margin, and that fact had been going to his head lately. Not in any overt, swaggering way, but just in his growing assurance that he was capable of anything. Powell tutted outwardly, but inwardly he was pleased, knowing that the kid was about to get the ego-check he needed.
There was some muttered astonishment in the control room at the fact that he actually managed it, getting Murray and Sikes off the ground and carried just fine, but Powell had done the maths. Ares may have been strong, but the simple physics of the situation--his mass relative to the combined weight of the two men he was lifting--simply didn’t work out in his favour. He was off-balance from the moment he teetered upright, and when he tried to haul them to the exit, he just couldn’t manage any real speed or momentum.
It cost him. The Gunship’s wild spraying hadn’t entirely ceased to be a threat, and its MILES laser strobed through the room for a second, scoring a hit on the kid’s left leg, and Powell smiled grimly as he heard a vigorous Spanish curse at the report that, although the suit’s impressive armour plating hadn’t been breached, the impact HAD broken a bone.
The honour system was important. They’d all been drilled from early on that “cheating” the wound results just meant doing themselves out of proper training and experience. Ares dutifully fell over and stopped using his left leg.
Sitting on the ground, he had far less leverage. With a groan of exertion he hauled Firth into cover that protected him from more stray firepower from the gunship, then began to drag Murray toward the exit door. He made good time despite having only one leg to work with, too.
Burgess deposited his patient with the Defenders as they got the door open, then dashed back across the room, grabbed Firth and returned him to the door with the same kind of ease that Powell might have hefted a box of printer paper.
Then he was back for Murray, and finally Ares.
The kid was smart enough to notice that, Powell knew. Doing one man at a time had allowed Burgess to clear four men out of the room faster than Ares had handled two. That wouldn’t be missed.
The simulation ended practically the moment the Aggressors retreated through the door. Legsy barked orders, and within seconds they had all activated their jump beacons--for training purposes, replaced with a red light--and the simulation shut down as the last one lit.
A siren hooted, the lights came up, and the lads all stood up, dusted themselves off, and made wobbly-handed, wobbly-headed gestures of mixed feeling at one another as they discussed the outcome, took off their helmets, bumped fists and commiserated with each other.
Powell took his time down the ladder and strolled thoughtfully across the concrete with his hands in the small of his back, giving the lads plenty of time to leave the course, sort their gear out and get lined up.
“Master sergeant.” he said quietly, greeting Legsy. “I’d like to hear your reasons for aborting the raid and pulling out, please.”
“Sir. The longer we took, the more likely the Hierarchy mind was to have just deleted the data. With all the lads up and running I was happy to take that chance, but after we got stuck on that trap and took casualties…”
“You deemed it prudent to preserve assets?”
“Yes sir.”
Powell nodded pensively and made a show of mulling over Legsy’s explanation.
“I agree.” he declared after some few seconds, and he knew Legsy well enough to spot the invisibly subtle cues of relief in his friend’s face.
He tucked his thumbs into his belt and looked up and down the line. “What we know of the Hierarchy says that they’re rigid thinkers, as suggested by the name.” He said. “They come up with good plans, but they rely on those plans too much. They don’t adapt well if their plan fails. They like to go away, think about it, seek the advice of a senior mind, and form a new plan.”
“With that in mind,” he continued “The way to fight them is through unrelenting aggression. Break their first gambit and keep the pressure on. Don’t give them time to think, don’t allow them a moment’s breathing room. So long as the situation is unfolding quickly, they’ll be panicking and caught on the back foot, and anything they put in your way is going to be only half- thought-out.”
“This is something that EVERY man on the team must take part in. You must appear to be unstoppable, so you must never stop. Never stop moving, never stop doing, even if it’s just handing out the ammo or swapping out your juice cartridge, and above all keep the pressure on. You cannot afford to be bogged down dealing with a trap that’s going to take twenty minutes to disarm. Find an alternate route, cut a hole in the wall, fookin’ go EVA if you have to. But do not ever stop moving. You understand?"
"Yes sir." They nodded, seeing and understanding what he was saying.
“Right. This isn’t the result we were hoping for today.” he said, and saw them all nodding and thinking. “…But it was good enough. Kovač!”
The sergeant and a handful of other NCOs entered with parade precision, having been waiting as ordered, and the operators all straightened up as they saw the berets being carried on trays towards them, knowing what it meant.
Powell started with Baseball. “Burgess. You did good work today.” he said. “Efficient, fast, bold. Don’t stress about not carrying as much as the Incredible Hulk there. Don’t doubt for a second that your speed is the unique skill you bring to this team--don’t lose sight of that.”
Burgess accepted the beret. It was black, with two pins on it--the Vitruvian Man emblem of the SOR, and a small circular pin adorned with a pair of green feet that Powell could tell he wanted to burst into a wide grin upon seeing. “Yes, we kept your bloody green feet.” he smiled, and stepped back, waiting. Burgess saluted eagerly, a gesture which Powell returned with rather more composure than he felt.
“Ares. You’re clearly strong enough to carry two men in EV-MASS, but you’ve got no control over the momentum. Just remember that one man saved is better than three dead. You’d have got them all without even tiring yourself if you’d taken it steady.” He handed over the second beret with the green-feet pin, and returned the younger man’s salute, keeping his immense pride in the lad to himself. It wouldn’t do to seem to have a favourite.
“For our Defenders…I know it’s not an emblem of your original training, but for you we’ve selected the castle. You’ve wonderfully fallen into your roles as the finest combat engineers ever, and something tells me you won’t mind, am I right?”
"Essayons, sir." Sikes commented.
“Well said.” Powell handed him the beret. “Just don’t become so focussed on working on the challenge directly in front of you, that you forget the bigger challenge of the whole mission.”
He shared similar words of wisdom and gestures of respect with the remaining Defenders, then turned to the last and largest group. “And for my fellow Aggressors--the dagger, the symbolism of which should hopefully need no explaining. You are the swift, the deadly, and the skilful. Attack from all angles, show no quarter or hesitation, and there is nothing you cannot slay.”
He stepped back. “This is a moment to take pride in yourselves, but it’s also a moment for humility. We’ve chosen the black beret for a good reason. Yes, the black of space obviously, but more important is that the black beret is the colour worn by many an ordinary infantryman and marine the world over. It is critical that we all remain grounded, and conscious of the fact that we are all just servicemen, fighting for the same reasons as any other."
“You have done what many hundreds of thousands in our home nations’ armed services could not…” he continued, but then gestured to Kovač and the men beside her. “…but you would not be SOR without our technicians and support staff. Which is why I want you to help me hand out berets and insignia to everyone else in this regiment. We are the tip of the spear--but without the wood behind it, a speartip alone is a poor weapon.”
"Yes sir." they seemed eager to do as he had said, and he allowed himself to smile at the fierce pride shining in their faces.
“Congratulations, gentlemen. This unit is now active.”
Date Point: 8y 10m AV
London, England, Earth
Charlotte Gilroy
Being tall and slim meant that Charlotte had always suffered in the cold, and there was just no substitute on dark frozen evenings for pajamas, loungewear, two blankets, a hot chocolate…and a nice warm boyfriend on the couch.
For once, they were actually hanging out at home, rather than Sean’s house. Their place was a student flat that she, Ben and Ava could just afford on their combined housing allowance. Two bedrooms, a tiny bathroom, and a small shared space that did the work of kitchen, dining room and living room all in one.
At least…She and Ben were hanging out. Ava was busy getting ready, and Sean was busy Ava-watching. If Charlotte had been forced to pick a word to describe his expression, it might have been “guarded”. Sean usually had the light of intellectual good humour in his eyes and a slight smile around his mouth, as if he’d got the joke on life and was just waiting for everybody else to get it so they could laugh together.
Seeing him look tense, stressed and serious was a new one on her, even though only somebody who knew him well would have noticed.
Something similar went for Ava, who was usually the very picture of composure and confidence, but today was a bundle of jittery happiness, flitting restlessly from minor adjustment to insignificant chore, allegedly to make sure everything was perfect, more likely to try and retain what little equilibrium she had left.
“He’s just got off the tube!” She announced, waving her phone at them.
Sean stood up and headed for the door.
“Sean?”
Sean cleared his throat. “We’re…out of milk.” he grunted.
To her credit, Ava’s happy buzzing ceased, and she rushed up to him and gave him a reassuring kiss. “Okay.” she said. “You go get milk.”
“I may be some time.” Sean replied, some of that humour returning, weakly, to his face.
“It’s okay.” She promised. “I’d like for you to meet him, though.”
“…I’ll try.” Sean promised unconvincingly, and let himself out.
Ava’s shoulders dropped as the door closed, but she picked herself up again after a second and turned around. “How do I look?”
“You know damn well you look amazing.” Ben told her, causing Charlotte to roll her eyes a little but nod vigorously alongside him. Ava smiled a little at the compliment, and went back to her restless bumbling around the flat.
"Have you ever seen her so nervous?" Charlotte whispered, once she judged Ava to be safely out of earshot.
"Nope."
They let her bustle some more until she suddenly laughed aloud. “Hah! Message from Sean: 'just passed a side of beef getting out of a taxi. Take it that’s your fella?’" She waved her phone again and giggled.
“Good to know he’s able to laugh about this.” Ben commented.
“…I know it’s hard on him.” Ava replied. “But…well, we talked about this before we started. What more can I do?”
The creaking of the stairs up to their door stopped Charlotte from answering. She just shrugged and smiled weakly.
Ever since Sean and Ava had opened up to her about their affair, she’d had serious doubts about it. Being in a committed relationship herself, it was hard to see how anything good could come out of cheating.
The instant change in Ava’s attitude dispelled most of those doubts. She practically flew to the door, glanced through the peephole, and then flung it open with a delighted noise.
It was like watching the dawn break on the first clear day of the new year after a long and dismal winter. Everything about Ava’s behaviour calmed and perked up, to a startling degree--in half a second she changed so utterly that it made Charlotte wonder if she’d every actually seen her friend relaxed before.
Adam was surprising. He was actually a little shorter than Ava and well- dressed in charcoal utility trousers and a light jacket over an NFL jersey, clothing calculated to make him look a little smaller than he really was.
This was largely futile, considering that after he’d finally been able to weaken Ava’s stranglehold hug on him, he had to turn slightly to fit through the door. He gave Charlotte and Ben a shy smile as he did so.
Ava made the introductions. “Adam: Ben, Charlotte.”
There was a round of “nice to meet you”s and “Hi”s with matching handshakes and it dawned on Charlotte that Adam was actually…rather dorky. He geeked out hugely over Ben’s tattoos when the Koi carp Ben was sporting today decided to swim up his sleeve and down the other arm just as they were shaking hands.
“Oh my God where do I get those?!" He demanded. “Can you turn them off so they don’t show?”
“Yep.” Ben replied, answering the second question first. “Mind you, these cost me a couple of thousand quid, and…” he extended a forearm alongside Adam’s own: The contrast was like comparing a shot glass to a pint mug. “You’re a bit of a bigger canvas, mate.”
“Yeah, but think about what I could have on there!” Adam chuckled. “I could watch movies!"
He was…likeable. Nice! And when Charlotte made eye contact with Ava as Ben slapped his forehead and bemoaned never thinking of that, the look she got back had an undeniable “told-you-so” element to it.
“Come on, meatstack.” Ava leaned forward and got Adam’s attention again. “We’re going into the city, remember?”
“Oh, yeah!” Adam stood up, then looked around. “I was kinda hoping to meet Sean, too, he sounds like a great guy. Isn’t he here?”
“He had to go home.” Ben lied for the three of them. “He wasn’t feeling well.”
“Aww, that sucks. Tell him I said hi, would you?”
“We will.” Charlotte promised.
And that was that. Ava gave them a grateful sort of shrug as she left, and they listened to him enthusing as she followed him down the stairs, about seeing Tower Bridge and the Eye and HMS Belfast and Buckingham Palace and…
“So.” Ben cleared his throat after the creaking stairs and litany of tourist traps had faded. “He’s…a really nice guy? How the fuck did that happen?"
Charlotte had to nod, watching the door a little warily, not quite sure what to make of this new information. “I don’t understand.” she agreed, and turned to frown her confusion at Ben. “He’s adorkable!”
“So why is she-? I mean, she’s gone from miserable to really happy these last few weeks!”
Charlotte thought about it. “Has she?” She asked eventually. “I mean, you saw how she lit up there, didn’t you you?”
“…Yeah.” Ben. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so animated.”
“Maybe she hasn’t been happy recently. Maybe she’s just been…"
Ben nodded. “…coping.”
Charlotte scratched at her bra strap, frowning at something only she could see in deep thought, until Ben slipped an arm around her waist. “Are we…okay with that?” he asked.
“I think…Yeah. Or at least, I am.” She replied. “I think if she’s doing it to cope, so she can get through and have more of that then, then…then I can understand."
“Yeah but…What about Sean?”
“That’s where it falls apart, yeah…” she agreed.
Neither of them said anything for a little while, and after a bit, Ben turned on the TV.
They were in the middle of a report about the Iranian nuclear weapons program when Sean finally returned with a shopping bag and the expression of a condemned man.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Sean dropped his bag on the coffee table and himself into the chair next to it, rubbing at his forehead as if he was trying to iron out the frown, and watched the news with them.
Clearly, he had other things on his mind though. “…So what’s he like?”
“He’s…actually really nice.” Charlotte told him, keeping her tone of voice delicate and sympathetic.
“I already knew that." Sean told her, dropping his hand into his lap and managing a weak smile.
“You did?”
“’Course I bloody do. Ava’s told us that enough times, hasn’t she?”
Ben and Charlotte exchanged a glance. “I…didn’t really believe it before now.” Ben confessed.
“Why not?” Sean asked him.
“Well, he keeps hurting her!”
“Right. Because he’s a fucking idiot. A really nice fucking idiot that she loves so much that I’m fucking lucky just to be the fucking crutch for their relationship!"
Sean surged upright, stood there for a second with his face turned away from them, and then heaved a huge sigh and headed for the door. “I’ll see you Monday.”
Charlotte scrambled out of Ben’s lap to try and talk to him, putting a hand on his upper arm. “Sean…”
He turned and made fleeting, unconvincing eye contact. “I’m fine, fairy." he lied, using the group’s pet nickname for Charlotte.
“You’re not, mate.” Ben pointed out.
“Well…better me than her then, isn’t it? She’s suffered enough.”
Charlotte’s hand dropped to her side, and he shrugged his jacket on. “I’ll see you Monday.” he repeated.
Charlotte didn’t stop him this time.
Date Point: Christmas Eve, 8y 11m AV
New York City, USA, Earth
Rylee Jackson
“Presentable?”
“Well, we’d have preferred you wear a dress, but you ARE here in a military capacity…”
Rylee suppressed a sigh, and turned it into a smile. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be comfortable in a dress.”
The makeup artist grunted her acknowledgement and stood up. “Well, you look good!” she said.
“You’re on in three minutes, major!” one of the clipboarded production staff informed her.
“I’ll let you prepare yourself.” the makeup girl said, and excused herself.
Rylee had to fight not to fidget at her dress blues or adjust her ribbon bar. She HATED staff duty, but there were worse things in life than going on evening talk shows, she supposed. Public Relations was an easy gig, even if it did mean she was stuck at ground level for the duration.
The worst parts were always the personal questions. They were inevitable, if you were the woman who’d first officially travelled faster than light, but why should they be? Give her questions about the technology, about Modified Alcubierre Fields, about the dynamics of exoatmospheric navigation and piloting.
Too many newspapers wanted to know if she was dating somebody, or something like that, and even if the American public were ready to truly embrace an African-American woman being the modern answer to Neil Armstrong, they still probably weren’t ready for their cultural icon to be unabashedly and pansexually promiscuous.
Not that it would have been anybody’s business even if she’d been in a traditional marriage with two kids. She’d sooner do a nude photoshoot than talk about family in the presence of a microphone.
She forced aside those kinds of resentful thoughts as the one minute warning was called, and gritted her teeth against the urge to tend to some last-second grooming. She’d only undo all the hard work of the production crew.
The wait ended abruptly--she heard her name announced, rapturous cheering and applause, the band striking up a jazzed-up version of the theme from the old 1960s Star Trek, and she pretended to be delighted and amused by it as she stepped out onto the stage, waving and smiling and shaking hands with the host --David…somebody. She was solid on the David at least, but…oh, no, his full name was part of the show’s name, which filled the stage. David Royce.
Settling onto the couch as the applause finally began to fade was a solid relief.
“What a reception!” Royce declared over the hubbub, then repeated himself as it got quieter. “What a reception! Wow. So, Major Jackson - or can I call you Rylee?”
“Rylee’s fine.”
“Well, thank you so much for coming tonight, it’s a real pleasure to have you.”
“It’s a real change of pace!” Rylee said, having already planned ahead of time that this was an entirely truthful sentiment that would nevertheless sound misleadingly enthusiastic.
Royce was sharp though. “For the better, I hope!”
Rylee gave him her best sheepish smile. “Truthfully? I mean, I’m so in love with my job that they had to drag me down here.”
She was rewarded with a ripple of laughter that told her she’d kept her tone light enough.
“I can see why!” Royce agreed. “You did a tour in the Middle East-”
“I flew a handful of missions several thousand feet above the Middle East." Rylee corrected him. She’d spent that entire conflict living comfortably in Germany, and was eager for there to be no confusion. 'Did a tour' made it sound like she’d been checking her boots in the desert every morning, and she didn’t want to overshadow the people who really had been putting up with the conditions down there.
Royce politely ignored the interruption. “-then you trained for and flew Pandora and now you’re a permanent fixture of the air force’s 946th Spaceflight wing. And I’m told you’re unusually devoted to your plane."
“I think we all are in the 946th.” Rylee said. “Y’know, there’s an extra requirement there, that we might wind up adrift out in deep space or having to land on a station or planet a long way from Earth and have to maintain or repair our own plane in the field, so all of the pilots have got a habit of getting right in there with the ground staff and mechanics, and being part of the plane’s maintenance.”
“That’s unusual?”
“Well, I think it was that willingness to roll my sleeves up and get elbow- deep in the machinery that actually got me onto Pandora, because…y’know, she was a prototype, a testbed, there was always something on the verge of going wrong with her, you know?" Rylee said. “But nowadays it’s a point of pride in the wing, you look after your sled. You get to know her and love her and…”
“Love her?”
“Oh yeah!” Rylee enthused. "Firebird’s like a ten thousand pound metal kitten to me! Every pilot in the wing could tell you about their sled’s little personality quirks."
“Okay, go on.” Royce challenged and humoured her. “What are Firebird’s?"
“Uh…nothing major. Just…little things like the way her Field-Assisted Landing System is always the first thing to need recalibrating, or the way the hum of the gyroscope changes as we fly…That kind of thing.”
Royce smiled, and Rylee knew that smile. It was the one that came before the questions started to get more personal.
“So…” he began. “is Firebird the only love in your life, or…?"
“I’m very career focused." Rylee said, dismissively.
“Your career can’t take up ALL your time though.”
“Military careers are…they’re not fair on any partner you might have, so I’ve preferred to not get drawn into anything long-term like that.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “Surely there are people you care about?”
“Of course there are!” Rylee said. “Some of them aren’t even human! I just don’t think it’s fair to devote years of your life to the service and force your partner to take second place. I’ve got nothing but respect for the guys and girls who can make it work but…Heck, the 'Dear John' letter is named for something that happens to soldiers all the time. And what about the kids? You ever see that picture of this little boy being handed his daddy’s folded flag? And he’s trying not to cry?"
She shrugged, and deflated. “I cried when I saw it.” she confessed, glancing nervously at the camera, even as the audience erupted into sympathetic applause.
Royce clearly decided that he couldn’t press the privacy issue any further without making himself look like the bad guy, so he moved on, introducing the scheduled commercial break.
“You’re doing well.” he confided, the moment the microphones were off. “Sorry if I hit a raw nerve there.”
“It’s okay.” Rylee assured him, surprised and pleased, and warming to him a bit. The makeup artists were rushing out, and she and Royce both endured a quick touch-up before the end of the ad break was called and it was back into interview mood.
“Welcome back to Tonight, Tonight and we’ve got Major Rylee Jackson here with us today, are you enjoying yourself so far, Rylee?”
“So far.” Rylee agreed, smiling.
“So, we’ve heard a few rumours coming out of defence circles lately about a few projects, SOR and JETS?”
“Oh, yeah, so these are both really exciting!” Rylee nodded, enthused to be back on professional subjects.
“Why don’t you tell us about them?”
“Okay, so, SOR and JETS stand for Space-borne Operations Regiment and Joint Extra Terrestrial Special operations, respectively.” Rylee said.
“Those sound like they’re more or less the same thing?” Royce inclined his head.
“Far from it!” Rylee shook her head. “The SOR are specifically going to be about missions in space, wearing an armoured spacesuit, boarding ships and stations, that kind of thing. Now, the thing about spacesuits is that they’re heavy, I can attest to that personally. An armoured one?! Doubly so."
“So these guys have got to be strong.”
“That’s right. Real strong. Crazy strong, and fit. Now, the problem there is that if they’re fighting in a heavy suit and being all big and strong, that means they’re going to run out of gas pretty quick, so they’re all about getting one specific job done, fast and hard. Right?"
“And JETS?” Royce mis-spoke the acronym, saying the word 'jets’.
“J-E-T-S.” Rylee corrected him. “So, the SOR are a permanent, dedicated unit, while JETS is a qualification that any serving operator can obtain that’ll qualify them to go offworld, and they’ll fill the opposite role - operations on the surface of alien planets, specifically Temperate-type worlds. Earthlike worlds, with life and rain and all that stuff, right?”
“Right.”
“So, JETS is this mixed, international and kinda large initiative where we’ll be able to drop these guys in and they’ll be able to do things like, uh, patrol in hostile territory for months undetected, or all the other stuff that special forces might do. No special spacesuits or anything, to all intents and purposes it’s the same as operations here on Earth, just with having to account for alien environments.”
“So the SOR are the really science-fiction ones.” Royce observed.
“I guess.” Rylee laughed. “But they’re as nice a bunch of guys as you could meet, they’ve…I mean, they’re committed to saving lives and serving other people in a BIG way, they’ve gone through hell to make it happen, and, I’ve met them, they’re all really humble, sweet guys. Y’know, they met me and they just wanted to take some selfies, and I was like 'who’s taking the selfie with who here?' because…yeah, I’m in awe of them, I really am."
“Did you hear the content of that leaked advisory?” Royce asked, referring to a minor scandal of a few months previously where a memo doing the rounds in the Pentagon had somehow found its way onto the Internet. Rylee was onto him now, and knew that he was only asking because that was his job, so she just nodded, calmly.
“Obviously, I mean, that’s a serious breach of national security, but in any case the content of that memo’s no more classified than anything I just told you.” she replied. “Which is to say that it’s not."
“Doesn’t it concern you that we’re still using alien-made shuttlecraft?”
“I’ve seen those shuttles in action,” Rylee said “And…yeah, okay, as a pilot, they suck. They’re idiot-proof, unarmed, unarmored civilian models, so they just don’t perform to the kind of high standard that the military demands…but they work. And, right now, we don’t have a human-made alternative that does.”
“Why not?”
“Well…okay, look, we got really lucky with Pandora and the TS/2, AND with some other projects like the V-class and the San Diego Class because people-- real, qualified aerospace engineers--had already put serious thought into designing them as, like, a thought experiment right down to every rivet and solder. And then when all the alien technology came along, modifying those designs turned out to be pretty easy."
“So nobody had designed an orbit-to-ground transport before now?” Royce asked, sounding sceptical.
“Transports aren’t like those other two.” Rylee pointed out. “You can make some assumptions about…how big and heavy the pilot of a strike craft is going to be, how many crew are going to fit onto a destroyer. But what about the transport? Until you know about how many people it’s going to need to carry and how much gear they’ve got with them and…”
She tailed off expressively, to indicate the long list of things that needed to be known before such a design could even be started. “Until you know all that, then you can’t progress beyond speculation. Then it comes down to compromises. A small ship’s harder to detect and intercept, but if it’s got enough engine and power on board to accelerate as hard as we’d like then there’s not much room for the cargo. ’scuse me…”
She took a sip of water before continuing. “Anything capable of meeting our performance requirements is going to be huge, and then you can’t actually use the flight deck on any of the classes of ship we’ve got right now. Not even the big retrofitted alien ones. So, that means docking ports. Well, neither the V-class nor San Diego have got docking ports, because none of our existing docking port designs were meant to be used on an accelerating starship."
She waved her hands expressively back and forth as she spoke, ending with a snapping motion to illustrate the problem.
Royce sat back. “So, do you have any idea when somebody will get it right?” he asked.
“I couldn’t say.” Rylee shook her head. “I’m not aware of any promising designs in the works, and if there were any I wouldn’t be at liberty to discuss them but…to be honest, I think we’re going to have to do without for a few years yet. It’s going to be a tough one to solve, I think."
“But you’re confident it will be solved.” Royce observed.
“Oh yeah.” Rylee nodded. “Eventually. But designing any vehicle just doesn’t happen overnight, let alone something like a shuttle craft.”
“Rylee, it’s been great having you on the show…”
“It’s been great being here.”
“Well, I hope you’ll stick around for our next guest, Daniel Mayhew is here to talk about Sweet Dreams, and we’ve got South African comedian Raymond Mahlangu, coming up after the break, stay with us, we’ll be right back!"
Chapter 29
The Fifth Year | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 9y 3d AV
London, England, Earth
Sean Harvey
First Contact Day had come and gone without much in the way of incidents for Sean. He’d had quite a lonely Christmas and New Year, too--the former had been spent playing EVE Online. The latter was forgotten - he’d woken up in Ava’s bed at her place, with Charlotte and Ben in the other room, a Homerian hangover, no clear memory of anything after about six pm the preceding year, and no Ava.
There was Ava now, though, dusting snow off the shoulders of the expensive blended wool coat that Adam had splashed on for her during his first winter visit as Sean let her in.
She gave him a warm grin. “Hey lover!”
Sean managed the first genuine smile he’d been able to produce in a couple of weeks. “You’d better stop calling me that, you know.” he replied. “We don’t want you to accidentally use it around Adam.”
If the suggestion put a dent in Ava’s mood, she didn’t show it. Instead, to his surprise she kissed him with a smile and brushed past him into the living room. “Well, I’ll keep using it so long as it’s true.” she asserted, lightly.
“…How long is it going to be true for?” Sean asked.
“Oh come on, you’re going to lay the heavy stuff on me right after I get back?” Ava teased. “Come on, how was your new year?!”
“I, uh…woke up in your bed with a splitting headache.”
“Not for the first time!”
“Yeah, but you weren’t there and I wasn’t naked.”
She tutted. “See, I know what you’re doing wrong there. You should have picked somebody up, had a good time.”
“In your bed?"
“Sure!” she nodded, casting herself down on the couch and tugging her scarf out of her collar. “Just change the sheets, you know?”
“Let me guess, you got laid at New Years."
"Oh yeah." She nodded, and her eyebrows emphasised the point. “He’s…very physical, you know? He likes to rough-house, and hug, and tickle, and…”
“Fuck your brains out?” Sean asked, in his best dry tone.
“You said it, not me!” She sat forward, concerned. “I’m sorry, are you…okay?”
Sean sighed. “Look. I love you. You know that, I’ve said it before. Seeing you so happy with somebody else is…”
Her expression fell, and so did her gaze, so that she was looking at the carpet.
“…It makes me really happy.” Sean finished.
Ava frowned at him “…That’s not how I expected that sentence to go.” she admitted.
Sean shifted seats and sat next to her. “I think if anybody’s going to get how that feels it’s you, though.” he said. “Being both…really happy for somebody, but also hurting at the same time because you know their happiness is coming at the expense of your own?”
She nodded, eyes downcast again.
He stood to make her a cup of tea, and was nearly to the door when she spoke again. “You know I love you too, right?”
He hadn’t been expecting that at all, and just turned to give her the very reference image of a bewildered stare.
“I mean it!” She added. Having unbuttoned her coat, she left it behind as she stood up and slipped her arms around his waist. “I love you, Sean. I owe you everything, how could I not?"
Sean blinked a bit as that sank in, and then wrapped her up in his own arms and held on, fighting back tears.
Sure enough, Ava had turned on her own waterworks, but this time it was a kind of happy cry, not the misery he was so used to seeing. “I guess I’ve got a thing for selfless guys.” she said.
“I’m not selfless.” Sean disagreed, shaking his head against the side of hers. “I still wish you’d choose me.”
“But you’re going to let it happen?”
“Yeah” Sean didn’t even hesitate on that one. “If it’s what you want.”
She sighed, and kissed him, gently, on the cheek. “Lover, in some ways you’re more of a man than he’ll ever be.”
Sean let her go, not knowing how to respond to that. “Cup of tea?”
She laughed. “Okay fine, be all British.” she teased. “I just want you to know that…I’m sorry. I know this is cruel on you.”
"C’est la vie." He shook his head, forgiving her. “We’re not calling it off just yet though, are we? There’s still a little while."
“I think we’re past the point where I need somebody to carry me, now.” Ava said, and his heart sank a little. “So…let’s just enjoy each other, okay? No more drama, no more…heavy stuff. Just love. Can we do that?”
“Nothing would make me happier.”
They kissed again, a deep and affectionate one that was a marked contrast to the unregulated release-valve for pent-up emotions that had been their relationship so far, and left them both smiling.
He felt warm and alive.
“So…” Ava said. “Cup of tea?”
Date Point: 9y 2m 1w AV
San Diego National Memorial, San Diego County, Southern California, USA, Earth
Gabriel Ares
The part Gabriel had trouble with was how clean the destruction had been.
A nuke the same size as the antimatter blast that had destroyed his home, his friends and his life would have thrust a spear of radioactive fallout deep into the heart of the USA, maybe even as far as Denver. Certainly, nobody would have been able to visit the Grand Canyon or Las Vegas again for centuries.
While the antimatter had created some very strange ionization effects at ground zero, these had faded inside minutes. It had, in its way, been a very clean wound. Buildings had been smashed apart, flattened or just plain vaporised. The crater had filled with sea water, creating a plume of steam that had been visible from space and which had altered the local weather. The wildfires had burned for months.
The whole city had been written off. There were only some sixteen hundred survivors or so, most of whom had moved on and tried to keep on living. They had lost a few--a cancer patient who’d been out of town visiting a specialist in Los Angeles, several suicides, and a young married couple who’d died somewhere up Mount Everest a year after the blast--but most of them were now established in getting on with the business of just being alive, and with new cities now being built on planets other than Earth…
Well, resettling San Diego would have just felt like walking on peoples’ graves.
Nature, naturally, had no such qualms, and in five years the debris field had overgrown with hardy shrubs like Creosote Bush and Manzanita, plus ferns and grasses. A few young trees had even found a home among the rubble, but by and large the ruins of San Diego belonged to wildflowers and delicate flowering bushes, the perfume of which was carried up the hillside by clean sea air.
It was beautiful.
The memorial planning had taken five years, and was intended to involve every one of the survivors, or somebody on their behalf. The idea was simple--an eternal flame had been set up, an elegant silver teardrop with holes around its equator that, when lit, should send flames flowing up and around the metal to lick off the top. It was mounted atop a five foot pole on a hillside overlooking the downtown crater.
The participants had all been asked to find a flat stone from wherever they had gone on to live, preferably as heavy as they could comfortably lift, and send it to the artist for preparation.
Adam’s slab of Cimbrean green slate, with its lone alien fossil, had caused quite a stir. He’d taken some of his precious leave time in order to deliver it, on the grounds that the artist might not believe that anybody could comfortably lift it, and Gabriel would have paid good money to see the look on the guy’s face when his boy walked in cradling an enormous chunk of alien geology in his arms.
That Cimbrean fossil now took pride of place. The artist had carved a groove to fit half the flame’s supporting pole and Adam’s contribution now sat at the heart of the tribute, peeking out of the top with the little spidery, whiskery thing that had once died in those ancient layers of extraterrestrial silt just peeking out of the top.
Everybody’s stone was visible, though. Even the very smallest one, a tiny palm-sized thing contributed by a little boy who had been just three months old at the time of the blast, visiting his grandparents in New Hampshire.
It was amazing hearing what some of them had got up to over five years. Moving off-world and joining the military seemed to be almost tame next to some of the stuff a few of the others had got up to. A beat cop that Gabriel had never met but shared SDPD history with had gone into the FBI and had talked down a hostage situation in Mississipi. There was a man from Linda Vista who’d become a monk, and a doctor from Alvarado for whom this was the first time setting foot on American soil since the tragedy.
For Gabe’s part, standing up for a long while was finally becoming less of a challenge. Five years of exercise and physiotherapy hadn’t repaired the nerve damage in his leg, but the muscles were stronger and steadier, his arms had strengthened to cope with resting his weight on his stick, and he no longer shook when standing upright for any length of time. It still hurt a bit, and always would, but he was spared the indignity of needing to sit down when so many others were standing respectfully.
There wasn’t a ceremony, exactly. They just circled the memorial, touching it, examining it, finding their stone and then, watched by the news cameras, the little boy stepped forward with a lit taper on the end of a pole, and touched it to the teardrop at the top.
It lit, flared, flickered, stabilized, and they watched the heat brown the metal.
Then, in ones, twos and threes, they turned away and left behind, having finally said goodbye.
John “Baseball” Burgess
“Okay, it’s a fucking sauna in here."
Warhorse had always struggled with the heat. He was just so big nowadays, and so dense, that he actively struggled if the temperature crept above seventy or so. Hell, ALL of the Operators were like that, but Adam had it worst.
A busy restaurant in LA during a heatwave was really not his environment at all.
“If you need to step outside to cool down a minute, it’s okay Grillsteak.” Ava told him.
John nodded his agreement, out of equal parts concern for his friend’s comfort, and seeing an opportunity to have a private word with Ava.
He’d been suspicious from the moment her forgiveness email came in after the move to Folctha. Even sitting down the deck of a C5, he’d been able to hear her shouting, and it had been FAR from the first such instance. It seemed like every letter or contact between Adam and his girl had gone tense or angry at some point, even when she’d sent him an envelope full of pictures of herself in pin-up poses wearing some of his old T-shirts--an event that Adam had been forced to endure much whooping, whistling and good-natured teasing about.
And then suddenly…all was forgiven? And there hadn’t been a single angry word since? Not so much as a bitter comment or a terse email?
John was certain he knew what that meant. Been there, done that, with two or three different girls in his life.
The problem was, he had no proof, which was why he’d been planning to talk to her very carefully and gently without going as far as an actual confrontation. Deep inside, he was a long way shy of impressed with her, even if he wasn’t quite ready to commit to angry just yet.
But, he had no proof.
Adam nodded, and gratefully excused himself to get some cool air, leaving Ava sipping at her Mojito opposite John.
“So…” he said, the moment his friend had awkwardly shouldered his way past the astonished diners and out of earshot. “Things are going way better with you two.”
She nodded happily around her drinking straw but didn’t comment.
That hadn’t gone as he’d planned it.
“I’m glad. Y’know, he was…off his game there for a while, after the move to Folctha.”
“Yeah.” she agreed. “I wasn’t exactly fair on him.”
That hadn’t gone as planned either.
Fuck it. Direct approach it was.
“Look…Ava, call me paranoid, but when things go from that bad to that good overnight, it makes me suspicious.”
“Are you a naturally suspicious person?” She asked, helping herself to a bread stick.
“If something seems too good to be true…” John replied, keeping eye contact.
She stopped chewing, and frowned at him as she swallowed. “What are you driving at, Baseball? Don’t dance around, put it out there.”
“…Have you found somebody else?”
She did something wholly unexpected and giggled. “Are you out of your-? Where would I find somebody to replace Adam?”
“Well…speaking from experience here, but maybe anybody who’s there might have been better for you, for a bit. Just to tide you over. Am I near the mark there?"
The couple of rapid blinks she managed and her slightly too neutral expression told him that he was. “Yeah? Speaking from experience, are you?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’ve cheated on your girls.” She stated.
“Once or twice.” he agreed.
“Why?”
“Young, dumb and horny. What’s your excuse?”
“I haven’t done anything to excuse.” She replied.
John saw right through that one--it may have had the words of a denial, but he knew an evasion when he heard it. “What, you think it’s okay?”
“Yeah, actually. I do.”
Things went off-script for John for the third time. “Uh…”
“Look, you said it yourself, he was off his game without me.” Ava told him. “Well, he’s still got me. And yeah, okay? It’s because I found somebody to ’tide me the fuck over’. You want to talk about what’s okay? Is it okay to yank somebody around by their heart for four years? Is it okay for you to shove your nose in and suggest that my whole life should be about Adam?"
She leaned forward, and the only other person that John had ever seen wear a steel glare like that was Major Powell. "Especially when you’ve done it yourself? Fuck you! I don’t owe you or Adam a goddamn apology."
A nearby diner cleared his throat and looked away, and she lowered her voice again. “Maybe you should stop thinking of me as 'Adam’s girl' or 'the thing that keeps him going’." she added, allowing the word 'thing' to freeze solid with contempt as she said it. “I’m Ava. I’m not his, I’m mine. And if I do whatever it takes to back him up and help him, it’s because I want to! You understand?"
“And I’m not just some meathead grunt.” John shot back. “I’m his brother, okay? I’m looking out for him. I’m not gonna let anybody hurt him.”
“You and me both.” she retorted, then sat back and picked up her Mojito. “We done?”
John paused, then nodded slowly and extended a hand over the table. “…it’d hurt him if we weren’t friends.” he pointed out.
“Yeah, it would.” she sipped her drink, not returning the gesture. “You proposing a truce?”
“Are we cool?”
“We’re not cool, no.” She replied, but leaned forward and shook his hand. “But you said it, I’m not gonna let anybody hurt him.”
Good enough.
By the time Adam returned with a waiter bearing a pedestal fan, he was delighted to find them getting along like old friends.
Date Point: 9y 2m 2w AV
HMS Sharman, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
James “Legsy” Jones
“Fair play, boys, I’m impressed…but for the love of fuck, why and how?"
“Come on, Legs. Both our Protectors are away, we wanted to surprise them.” Stevenson told him.
“With this?!"
“Hell yeah! They put those fuckin’ stupid Feet of theirs on everything, it’s our turn to leave our mark!"
“So the four of you painted a castle on our water tower.” Legsy put a hand to his brow to shade his eyes and get a better look at it.
“Only fair.” Sikes drawled. “They put little feet on everything, we put a frickin’ huge castle on ONE thing.”
“Quality over quantity.” Vandenberg nodded.
“That the motto of your love life, Rebar?” Price asked, and accepted a high- five from Murray.
“What can I say, your sister’s the best.”
“Oh, you fucking didn’t-!”
Rebar tried to scoot away and hide behind Titan as Price made a friendly grab for him, but Aggressors were, by training and vocation, so much faster and nimbler on their feet than Defenders. There was pretty soon a good-natured brotherly scuffle in the dirt, with Price grinding his fist painfully against Rebar’s head and both men laughing.
“Okay, you lot are way too full of beans.” Legsy commented, bringing the rough play to an immediate halt. “Tell you what. If you’re all so eager to prove that you can climb as well as our PJs do, there’s a load of windows on the main office building that’ve never been washed. I reckon the Major’ll be fuckin’ impressed if they’re all nice and sparkling clean at the end of the day, and he might give Admiral Knight the nod for letting that castle you put on his water tower stay there…”
“Aww, Legs!" Titan complained.
“What? I’m just making a suggestion.” Legs folded his arms and grinned. “Because otherwise you’re going to have to go back up there anyway and strip that nice castle you worked so hard to paint right off it again, aren’t you?”
The Defenders exchanged glances. “We’ll…go get the climbing gear.” Vandenberg said.
“Fuck aye.” Legsy nodded. “Have fun.”
He let them get on with it, and made a mental note to get the drone footage that Sikes had definitely taken, even if he’d deny it at first. It’d put the Major in a good mood to watch it, he knew.
“And won’t Adam an’ Baseball have a surprise when they get back…” he asked of nobody, turning back to admire the impromptu mural once again. Considering it had been done in the dead of night by four men in climbing gear fifty feet in the air, it was remarkably good. They must have been sneaking up there for days pencilling in the outline.
Adam and Baseball, meanwhile, would be back from leave in two days.
He gave it three days before there were Feet somewhere on that castle.
Date Point: 9y 2m 2w 2d AV
London, England, Earth
Sean Harvey
“Hey.”
“Hey. I saw you on the news. That’s quite a memorial they built.”
“Yeah.”
Sean smiled as Ava hung her coat up and kissed him, then frowned at the door. “No Charlotte or Ben?”
“Tonight’s…not really appropriate for them.”
Her tone of voice finally got through to him, and Sean sighed. “You’re calling it off, aren’t you?”
“You always knew I was going to sometime soon.”
“Always kind of hoped you wouldn’t.” he replied, but his heart wasn’t in it. He’d known there was no changing her mind.
“…Come to bed.” She offered.
“I thought you were calling it off?”
“I am.” she agreed. “So let’s make the last time special.”
“…Alright. Grab your coat.”
“Huh?”
“I want more than just 'come to bed’, duck. It’s a nice day out - let’s use it."
Bemused, Ava put her coat back on and he took her hand.
It wasn’t a lavish date--at the best of times, Sean barely had enough money coming in to keep on top of his bills, council tax and student fees, meaning that any romantic notions of paying for expensive romantic moments like horse- drawn carriage rides in the park or whatever were out.
Mostly, they walked, held hands, talked and just enjoyed one another’s company. Sean’s fitness had improved hugely over the years, from daily walks with her. Previously he would have been sore and tired after a mile--now, a three hour gentle stroll down Archway Road and through Holloway to the City and onto Garden Bridge didn’t trouble him at all.
Sunset was staining the day’s few high clouds a brilliant pink and purple by the time they stood together, looking out over grey waters and Soho, surrounded by the scent and hissing of plants in the breeze.
“You’re right.” Ava commented, after they’d been silent a minute or so. “This is…right.”
Sean put his arm round her waist. “It’s going to be hard, you know.”
“What?”
“Being just your friend.”
She looked down at her feet, blinking, then hugged him. “Please try.” she pleaded. “I’d hate to lose you.”
“You’re not losing me duck.” he promised, stroking her hair. “I just said it’d be hard, not that I couldn’t do it.”
She let go again, wiping her cheeks dry. “You’re a lot tougher than you look, you know that?”
“You seem to bring out that quality in people.”
She didn’t answer, just sighed and nuzzled up against him until the sun went down.
They caught the tube back, still not saying anything. They just held hands on the walk back to Sean’s house. Only once they were inside and the door was locked did Ava break the comfortable silence.
“Come to bed.”
Sean took her hand, and for the last time she led him up the stairs.
Date Point: 9y 5m AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Jessica Olmstead
“THREE! TWO! ONE!"
Cheers erupted as gravity settled on everybody like a comfortable warm coat.
Jess and Gabe both shared a sigh of relief. There was just something about low gravity that the human body never quite adapted to. No matter how familiar it became, no matter how good you got at adjusting your preconceptions on how big such a small difference really was, there was just something in the bones and muscles that hankered for good old nine-point-eight meters per second per second.
The engineers who had installed Folctha’s new gravity generator shook hands or exchanged high-fives, and then got on with the business of tidying up all of the generator’s functional bits into the pedestal of the sculpture that had been selected to house it.
It was just a modified warp engine really, and therefore disarmingly small-- Jess could have easily held it in one hand. It could have lived hidden away in any basement or office in Folctha, but public opinion had been that it should be somewhere that they could visit, and so by far the longest delay in installing it had been the wait while a sculpture had gone through the process of being commissioned and built, starting with approaching several different artists, then putting the matter to public opinion via Cimbrean’s burgeoning colonial internet.
The winning design was equal parts sculpture and water feature, an angular slate funnel named “Well” that echoed both the artificial gravity well that it would house, and also a source of water, for which purpose it caught the predictable nightly Cimbrean rains and allowed the very gravity it was generating to draw the rainwater through a filter, dispensing it via drinking fountain.
It now formed the centrepiece of New World Plaza. What had once been just a field amidst the temporary buildings of the early Folctha colony was now a brick-paved area with flower beds and market stalls that sold everything from clothing and blankets, books to hyper-modern gizmos like stasis fridges, solar-powered drone quadcopters and holographic TVs. There was even an e-tattoo artist, plus an assortment of missionaries, street preachers and pamphlet-dispensers.
Folctha, in short, had grown up. There was nothing left of the frontier huddle of little chalets and dirt roads. Nowadays everything was paved, the roads designed so that the utilities that ran beneath them could be serviced without disrupting traffic.
Nowadays, the buildings were three, four, five stories tall and a pale grey that looked white in the height of the day, hung with lights and banners of fibre-optic cloth.
Nowadays, the Faith Centre was just the first of many, the original Folctha Medical Center was now dwarfed by the Sara Tisdale Memorial Hospital, Delaney Row was a wide avenue lined with young silver birch trees and full of government buildings.
Everything was inspired by the alien palace that had once stood at the top of the hill, now rebuilt and permanent home to the Thing. Its looping geometric lines and rounded rooms had come to define Cimbrean architecture. Nobody seemed to mind that it was originally Corti architecture--the opportunity to riff on alien themes had been too good to pass up, and in many ways the coldly mathematical underpinnings of the original owner’s vision had been hugely exceeded and improved upon.
And now, finally, they were under Earth gravity again.
“You okay?” Jess asked Gabe. He squeezed her hand--despite his improving fitness, she never did quite manage to not worry about him. She knew he found it mostly endearing, but she’d rather irritate him sometimes than miss a moment when he genuinely needed help. He was good about admitting to those, when they came along.
“That actually feels better.” he told her quietly.
“Are you sure?”
“Mmhm.” he nodded.
“Chief?”
Cimbrean Colonial Security was Gabe’s success story--a modern, trim and professional police force whose high-vis yellow jackets were a familiar sight patrolling the city in pairs on foot, on bicycles, and in sturdy electric SUVs. Gabe had admitted in private that he would have preferred they be armed but Folctha was, after all, a British colony and the citizens had largely expressed a preference that their police force not be armed during their normal duties, reserving the firepower only for when it was needed.
“Yes, Hugh?”
“Bit of a disturbance down in the Alien Quarter, sir.”
Jess gave his hand a squeeze, kissed his cheek and pointed a thumb towards home with a wry smile. “I’ll see you later, 'chief’." she promised.
Gabe gave her a grateful smile and limped alongside Bailey towards the waiting CCS SUV.
Jess took in the dispersing crowd, and then headed for home.
She had to politely navigate a gauntlet of parents wanting to discuss their child with her. Despite the known detrimental effects of low gravity on a child’s growth and development, enough families had stuck it out, making do with trusting the small gravity generator that hummed gently to itself under Jess’ desk and the ones in gyms to make up the difference.
It wasn’t entirely clear if that trust was well-founded. None of the kids seemed to have anything wrong with them, but they were all growing up tall. Whatever the truth, the concerns had been enough to discourage anybody from trying to raise infants and toddlers in Folctha. Ever since the Tisdales had gone back to Earth, every new conception had been grounds for slight communal sorrow, knowing that one of their neighbours was leaving for however many years.
Hopefully, the gravity generator would change that. It would certainly save Jess’s job--if the current generation had finished growing up and no new youth had come along to replace them, the school would have been completely redundant.
Now, though, there was hope that some of those young parents might return, and that Folctha could move on with the business of becoming a real, permanent place for families.
All in all, the future was looking bright.
Date Point: 9y 6m AV
London, England, Earth
Ava Rios
“…so between your online portfolio and your material already being used by CAUD, you’ve popped up on our radar as somebody to watch. Would you mind-?”
“Is this guy bothering you, baby?”
The guy in the suit damn near swallowed his tongue when he turned around and came face-to-face with Adam.
"Adam!" Ava had learned not to throw herself too hard into hugging him nowadays. It was an awful lot like shoulder-barging a wall. Still, it was difficult to resist. “Oh my God, I didn’t think you had any leave left!”
“Just two days.” Adam agreed. “So, I’ve got a flight to catch in ten hours, but…come on, I wasn’t going to miss your graduation!”
She gave him a huge kiss. “Did you see the speech?”
“Yep, on the screen in the lecture hall upstairs. Saw you getting your scroll, too.” He beamed. “Who’s this guy?”
“Oh! Uh, Levaughn Thomas, this is my boyfriend Adam.”
“Staff Sergeant Ares, I believe.” Thomas shook Adam’s hand, regaining his composure.
“Uh…yeah! How’d you know?”
“I’ve got a working relationship with your father.” Mr. Thomas revealed. “He’s such a pleasure to work with."
“Ahh, you’re the Byron guy.” Adam nodded. “You offering Ava a job?”
Levaughn managed a smile that was microscopically less confident than usual. “Well…I was just getting to that.” he confirmed.
Ava inclined her head with a 'go ahead' smile, and Levaughn cleared his throat and handed her a card. “My contact details.” he declared. “Please, call me whenever you’re next on Cimbrean and I’ll be happy to pencil you in for a little chat.”
“I’ll be glad to!” Ava agreed, shaking his hand before slipping the card into her handbag.
“Damn.” Adam commented, watching Thomas leave.
“What?”
“Nothing, I’m just…not used to guys like him.”
“You mean you’re so used to drowning in testosterone you forgot that camp dudes exist.” Ava teased, and grinned all the more when a blush darkened his face. “So oh my God, you’ve got two days leave and you flew over here just to see me and you’re going to have to fly straight back out again?”
“Is…that okay?”
“You didn’t have to, beef stock." She kissed him. “But I really appreciate it.”
“And look at you! Getting job offers from the Byron group!” Adam retorted, and gave her an affectionate one-armed squeeze.
“Oh!” Ava pointed and raised her voice. "SEAN!"
To his credit, Sean apparently had genuinely not noticed them, and to his even greater credit, upon spotting Adam he didn’t show any sign of nerves or steeling himself--he just excused himself from his current conversation and trotted over.
“Hey.” He greeted her as they shared a chaste cheek-kiss. “Congratulations on the First.”
“So you’re Sean.” Adam stuck a hand out. “Heard a lot about you.”
“All good, I hope.” Sean winced a little at Adam’s grip, but kept his dignity on pure height. He was nearly half a foot taller than Adam, and while he easily lost out on mass, he won back in altitude.
“So good it’d almost make a guy jealous!” Adam boomed, and gave him a friendly, very gentle knuckle to the upper arm. “We’ll have to have a drink sometime, you and me.”
“Yeah?”
“Dude, you’re Ava’s best friend, that means you’re automatically, like, one of my favourite people.”
Ava hid a smile behind her hand and mouthed the words 'he is such a puppy' at Sean.
Sean laughed, and genuinely relaxed for the first time in weeks. “A drink it is, then.”
“So what are you up to, now that you’re a graduate?” Adam asked him.
“Oh, my uncle’s an investigative journalist.” Sean revealed. “I’ve always wanted to do what he does, and he promised to take me under his wing so long as I did well on my course.”
“Did you?”
“Well enough.” Sean looked forgivably pleased with himself. “Mostly I’m going to be carrying the bags and managing the phone numbers, but it’s all good experience.”
“You’re getting paid, right?”
“Please, I wouldn’t do an unpaid internship if you paid me.” Sean joked.
Adam chuckled. “I knew I’d like you.” he said.
Ava tapped him on the arm. “We need to go do the cap-toss and turn the caps and gowns back in. Are you okay waiting here?” she asked.
“I’ll be over there, under the aircon.” Adam pointed to an out-of-the-way corner.
“Okay.” she gave him a light kiss and tilted her head toward the doors, looking at Sean. “Shall we?”
Sean nodded. “Good to meet you, Adam.”
“You too, buddy. Take care.”
Ava made sure the door was closed before asking him. “So…what do you think?”
“You could do a lot worse, duck.” Sean told her.
“You think so?”
“Look.” Sean stopped. “It’s obvious you two just…light up around each other. I get it, It’s the Ava and Adam show. And I’m happy for you, he really does seem like a great guy.”
“I hear a 'but' in there."
“…Just…he seems so earnest, doesn’t he?" Sean chewed on a bit of loose skin on his lower lip as he thought. “I have this feeling like he’s the kind of guy who makes a plan and sticks to it and maybe doesn’t think through the consequences of that plan so very well.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Ava drawled.
Sean chuckled, but quickly became serious again.
“Just…be certain that he knows who you are and you know who he is. Okay?” He pleaded her. “Don’t rush in now that you’re on the last leg and fall at the final hurdle.”
“I think you’re mixing metaphors there.”
"Ava…"
She held up a peaceful hand. “I hear you, I hear you. And I promise, I will. I want to be happy with him, after all."
“…And if you can’t be?”
“Sean…” she glanced back to make absolutely certain that there was no sign at all of Adam, then stole a last and tender kiss with him. “I know somebody else who’d make me just as happy.”
“The only difference is…he needs you more.”
“He does.” She agreed.
“…Alright.” he nodded. “Let’s go do that photo and get rid of these things, and then you can go be a hero.”
They followed the shouting and gestures out onto the steps in front of the building, lined up as directed by the photographer, and unpinned their caps ready to throw.
The countdown started, and Ava couldn’t resist one last gesture--just before they threw their caps into the air, she took Sean’s hand.
Date Point: 9y 7m AV
London, England, Earth
Charlotte Gilroy
“Gosh. We really don’t have a lot of stuff do we?”
They really didn’t. Ben had sold off his course textbooks now that he no longer needed them, and between them their clothes and assorted possessions, carefully packed, worked out to two suitcases each and a half-dozen cardboard boxes.
“It’s just settling in, isn’t it?” Ben asked. “We’re graduates.”
“Yeah…Grown, responsible adults.” Charlotte laughed nervously, and raised a fist to face height with a scared smile. “Go us!”
Ben blinked at her, then put down the box he’d been carrying and rubbed her arms. “Are you okay?”
“…I don’t know where we’re going or what we’re doing.” Charlotte told him. “We kept forgetting to talk about it. Are we going up north, or over to Southampton, or…?”
“Oh!” Ben turned and dug through the box he’d just set down. “I had an idea there, actually…”
“You did?”
“Yep!” He replied. “Bear with…here it is!”
He handed her the kind of slim pamphlet so beloved of tourist attractions and the enthusiastically religious. She frowned at it. “Folctha?”
“Look, see?” Ben tapped the page, and his tattoos, with their usual immaculate sense of timing, chose that moment to animate the moon changing phases as it orbited the Earth. “They finished installing this big city-wide gravity generator last month, which means the whole of Folctha is constantly under Earth gravity now.”
“I don’t know…I mean, it would be nice to be close to Ava, but do we have any skills they’re going to want?"
“Well, I’m a civil engineering graduate, and you’re a midwife." Ben pointed out. “Now, A: they’re building new structures and roads and stuff all the time out there, but more importantly…before that gravity generator was built, nobody in Folctha could have babies because of the low gravity being bad for child development.”
Charlotte blinked at him, then at the pamphlet. “But now it’s turned on…they’re going to need midwives!”
“Sounds like a plan?” He asked.
“It sounds like an excellent plan!"
“Well, there’s one more part to it…”
“Wha-?”
Ben was already on one knee, and Charlotte’s hands flew involuntarily to her mouth.
“I love you, Charlotte. Will you marry me?”
The word “yes” needed a full two minutes to finally find its way out of her.
Fortunately, she remembered how to nod long before then, and by the time it arrived, she was already wearing the ring he’d sold his textbooks to buy.
Date point: Christmas Day, 9y 11m 3w AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches.
Ava Rios
“So…Here it is! Merry Christmas!”
There were a couple of options here. Either Adam had gone completely nuts, or there was something special about the building that he was standing in front of and beaming about. Either way, it wasn’t immediately apparent what the big surprise he’d been talking about all day might be.
She examined it as his proud smile wilted slightly. It was a four-storey new build, clad in the distinctive local pale grey stone that Folctha’s architectural planning board had settled on to play an important role in their vision for the city’s aesthetic. The whole of Folctha was going to look clean and shiny, and mercifully characterful, with its organic nest of curves rather than straight, bland lines.
This one was on Demeter Road, which hadn’t even existed when the pair of them had left Cimbrean. Now it was one of the town’s major thoroughfares, leading in one direction toward Delaney Row and Palace Hill, and in the other towards an outlying agricultural town called Demeter, which in turn had road connections on to Big Bay and New Bristol.
The ground floor was all windows, and plainly unfurnished, but the sign was in place: “The Dog House.” and below that, in slightly smaller letters: “Strength, Nutrition, Fitness.”
“A gym?” she asked.
“Yep! Titan’s always wanted to have one, so I chipped in the money to buy the building alongside him.”
“You own a building?!"
“Well, we both had that big homesteading grant to draw on and, y’know property prices are so cheap round here right now we figured we’d probably be able get something else each, too if we joined forces on this one…" Adam shrugged. “So, he owns the gym and the basement, and I own the rest.”
“Holy shit Adam!" She looked up and down the street calculating. “You realise that by the time you’ve paid the loan off this thing’ll be worth, like, triple what you paid for it?”
“Yep.” He beamed that big puppy smile. “It’s an investment.”
“So what’s the rest?”
“Come and see.”
He led her round the side of the building, to a well-lit parking area and a door with a number pad. “Code’s three-three-eight-six.” he said, entering it. The door buzzed and admitted them into a clean stairwell with a nice tiled floor, plus the fire exit from the gym and the door down to the basement.
Ava shrugged and followed him as he bounded up the stairs, to the top floor.
“Penthouse suite!” he announced, unlocking it with a key.
“Holy…Adam, this is gorgeous!" Ava stepped into it and looked around. The penthouse was a studio apartment, with the bedroom partitioned off from the open-plan kitchen and dining area by means of the bathroom. Adam must have accidentally intimidate the contractors or something, because the fittings and decor were amazing--white counters with dark wood surfaces, wood flooring, and warm indirect lighting throughout. It was maybe missing a few personal touches like artwork and furniture, but other than that…
What was more, it had stairs leading up to the roof which Adam rushed to unlock with a grin, beckoning her to follow.
“And the view from the roof…” he said, gesturing out across it.
It took Ava’s breath away. She could see the Palace, and the still-lit smart fabric spike of the Thing hall, currently pulsing through festive green, white and red. The alien quarter, protected from harmful Deathworlder diseases, pollens and spores by a triple layered dome of filter forcefields that glowed very faintly in the dark and dominated by the Gaoian enclave slash monastery. She could see the New World Plaza where this year’s Christmas tree was a beacon of warm light, and from which music could still be heard drifting over the streets and rooftops.
“You can see the lake from here too during the day, and: good news. From what I heard, it’s going to be getting a clean bill of health from the Reclamation Project pretty soon.” Adam told her, then turned to her. “What do you think?”
“I think…wow, you really got this right. You’re going to have a tidy fortune in a few years…What’re you going to do, rent this out, or…?”
“The two apartments downstairs, yeah.” Adam said. He took her hand and put something small, metallic and jagged in it. “The penthouse is yours.”
Ava was so surprised that she almost dropped the key. “You’re-? Adam, you’re kidding?!"
“Nope. You need somewhere to live, right? So, live here. If you want to pay rent on it, I can shove it in a savings account or something, whatever.”
He took her hand and gently towed her downstairs again--she was so stunned that she followed him automatically.
“Furniture’s coming day after tomorrow.” he said. “Sorry, I’d hoped to have it all in, but the timing…”
“It’s…don’t apologize, I…Adam, are you sure?”
“Totally sure.” he told her. “And, um…I was thinking…y’know, I’m back here now, you’re back here now, and I thought we could…” He brought his hand into view. It had a little black cube in it, which split down the middle. “…make up for lost time.”
It was a beautiful ring. A delicate moebius loop of white gold, spun back on itself so that it was almost two rings, joined by a blue diamond. It was exquisite, and she stared at it sadly.
The moment attenuated until Adam finally inclined his head slightly and asked, in a vulnerable tone she hadn’t heard since he’d asked her on their first date, “…Ava?”
She had to wind up into her question, her head moving in a slow shaking movement before she tore her gaze off the ring and looked at his face. This was all so amazing that part of her was sorely tempted to just hold her hand out, say yes and have done with it.
But Sean had still been right.
“…What am I to you, Adam?” she asked.
He frowned, lowering the box unconsciously. “I don’t…uh, what do you mean?”
“What am I to you?” she repeated. “What do I mean to you?”
“Well, you’re…” he began, then seemed to trip mid-thought. “You’re my-”
“I’m your? Your what?"
He shook his head again. “No you’re…you’re you."
“I’m your me?”
“No, you’re your you!"
She nodded fiercely. “And what. Am. I?"
He spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t know what you want from me.” he confessed.
She spelled it out for him. “Do you love me?”
She could see his instinctive response coming and snapped up a hand to stop him. “I know you do!" she added. “But there’s…look, over the last five years we’ve barely seen each other, and that 'barely' was mostly getting together every few months to…to screw as much as possible between your training sessions!"
“Can you stand there and honestly claim to love me, really love me, if that’s all we’ve had for so long? Do you even know who I am any more?" She waved her hand up and down him, gesturing to everything that had changed about him since they had been seventeen. “I mean…Do I love you or a memory of you? You’ve changed a lot, and so have I. If we’re going to work, if we’re going to be together, then we both need to know that we love each other for who we are now."
His mouth closed, and very, very slowly, he looked away. Ava deflated. “Then…Adam, corazon, I’m so sorry, but…this is all amazing, but…no. I can’t marry you. Not yet, not until…" She trailed off, knowing that she had to leave that door opening, but not knowing what more to say.
Adam pocketed the ring. “I’ll, uh…” he coughed. “I’ll…stay on the base tonight, I guess.”
She nodded, and stepped aside. Adam squeezed past her and out the door.
“You, uh…this place is still yours, for as long as you want it.” he told her. “I’ll…see you around I guess.”
Ava nodded. “Yeah.” she croaked. “See ya.”
He turned away and creaked unsteadily down the stairs, so she shut the door then leaned against it.
That done, she let go and slid down to the floor in tears. He’d looked so broken.
"GONE!! It’s all gone! All of it’s gone bye-bye WOOWOO seeya!"
“What happened to you?"
“One minute you’re defending the whole galaxy, and suddenly you find yourself suckin’ down darjeeling with Marie Antoinette and her little sister…”
Movie night for the Operators was frequently an exercise in cramming ten men onto a single oversized three-seat couch, custom built to SOR requirements by Rebar and crew. It was huge, strong, and comfy, with plenty of room for even their massive frames to sit and spread out.
At least, on a normal day. Movie night, on the other hand, taxed even its over-engineered limits when ten Spaceborne Operators crammed onto it in a tangle of limbs, using each other as pillows, sitting on each others’ laps, and thinking nothing of being so wrapped up in the puppy pile that it would once, in their younger civilian years, have made them deeply uncomfortable.
Nowadays? It was fraternal, and comforting. All of their training, the constant physical closeness, the team-building and the end result of all they had been through together meant they were entirely comfortable with almost too high a degree of physical intimacy.
This created occasional problems.
“Whose legs are these? Yo Titan, these yours?”
“How the fuck are they mine, I’m all the way over here!”
“Well one of you assholes needs to move his feet, I gotta piss!"
A few of the guys wiggled their feet experimentally while a crazed astronaut ranted on the screen. "You see the hat? I am MRS! NESBITT!!"
“Oh. Shit. Sorry bruv.”
“Man, get off me!”
The knot untangled enough for Baseball to squeeze out from under it and roll over the back of the couch, and they collapsed back inwards as the guys found new comfortable spots to fill the void.
"But…the hat looked good? Tell me the hat looked good…the apron is a bit much but-"
“Man, even Toy Story isn’t cheering him up.”
Adam sighed. “Nah, it’s…helping.” he promised.
“Pull the other one, pal.” Legsy admonished him.
Adam just snuggled into the couch a bit further and tried to watch.
““I just…can’t figure it out.” he said. “I was away from HER for all those years as well, you know? It wasn’t like being away from her for that long was easy for me either."
Akiyama spoke up. “Women are high maintenance, man.” he shared.
Price snorted. “Fuck off, you’ve got less experience with women than Warhorse does.”
Akiyama took the insult with a smile “You wanna talk about getting laid, little man?”
Price shrugged.“Okay, what d’you want to know?”
There was a collective “WOOAH!!” and a round of high-fives.
“Nah, boys, fuckin’…” Legsy tried to chime in as it died down, but Adam plainly wasn’t in the mood. He lifted half the guys off him at once, slithered out from under them, and stood up.
“I’ll…be in the gym.” he announced.
There was a long moment of silence after he’d gone. Nobody was paying attention to the movie anymore.
“He’s real tore up, ain’t he?”
“They were together a long time.” Legsy said. “This shit’s not helping, he doesn’t need a puppy pile, he needs advice.”
“You’re the one to give it then, Legs.” Price noted. “Go be big brother.”
“…Yeah. Think you’re right.”
Legsy waited until the movie was done before he intruded in the gym. Adam was casually swinging a bulky jerry can around one-handed like a kettlebell, working up a good sheen of sweat.
“Going kinda light aren’t you?” Legsy asked him. The gravity was set at 1G, Earth Standard, and if that can was full of water then it was far below Adam’s potential.
“You think so?” Adam asked. “There’s a spare right there if you want to join in.”
Legsy shrugged. His own fitness regime focused on speed and explosive force as a rule, but this wasn’t about him, right now. He picked up the can.
Or at least, he tried to. It wasn’t full of water, that was for damn sure--he barely rocked it when he tried to grab it, and he didn’t get it off the ground until he stood over it properly and treated it as a lift.
“Fuckin’…CHRIST!" he dropped it again. “What’s in that?”
“Buckshot.” Adam’s trademark goofy grin put in a cameo reappearance, a good deal more melancholy than usual but at least it was - finally - a break in his bad mood.
“You little shit, there’s no way you’re swinging THAT around like that, put it down let me…”
Adam shrugged and did so. Legsy had been half-right--the one he had been using was a bit lighter, but still far heavier than Legsy could have used for endurance training like that.
“Two thirds full.” Adam revealed. In the meanwhile, he’d picked up the big can and was now slowly and deliberately performing stiff, one-armed shoulder raises. The motion was much like a kettleball swing, but without the use of momentum to aid the lift, making it a much more difficult exercise. Legsy watched in silent admiration as, in the space of about a minute, he went from merely sweaty to dripping.
He set the can down, huffing with a satisfied expression. “I’m not heavy enough to swing the the big one without the suit. Not yet, anyway. Hell, even in the tighter and heavier midsuit ’Base and I switched to, and even with the added armor plating we wear now, and even with a full combat load, swinging it is tricky. The momentum just throws me around, man. Which…y’know, hurts.”
“Aye,” said Legsy. “Seems to drain you right quick, too.”
“Uh huh. Liftin’ really heavy makes me sweat so much I can get dehydrated in just a couple of minutes if I ain’t careful. But that’s only when I ain’t wearin’ the suit, and only if I do something big like this. So without the suit I work intervals and switch off between the two cans."
“You been at this since the movie?”
“Yup. This is my eighth set.” He picked up the lighter can and start swinging again. “Slowly gettin’ better. A few months ago? This woulda practically killed me. Now it’s just a good workout.”
Legsy said nothing for a long moment, then made a disbelieving little noise and shook his head. “Fuckin’ Christ mate, just how fuckin’ strong ARE you?”
Adam shrugged, put down the can, then burrowed around in his open locker and produced a little hand-sized notepad. When Legsy flipped it open, what he found pencilled in was a list of exercises, and numbers. They were all crossed off.
“What’s this?”
“World records.” Adam shrugged again. “It’s the Crude, man. Thanks to that shit, I’m probably the strongest person in the galaxy.”
“Yeah, maybe. Probably. I met that Saunders bloke we learned about Cruezzir from in the first place. He looked about as big as you, but taller. Longer bones, less mechanical advantage.” Legsy mused, then handed back the notepad. “And he din’t train like you, neither.” He added. “Is this…wise?”
“Probably not.” Adam conceded. “But, how long have we got until the resistance kicks in? I guess if Ava thinks I gave up on her for this, and maybe she’s right. Maybe I did….”
He trailed off, then reset. “I guess if she thinks that then maybe that’s all I have right now, is getting the best out of this stuff before I start to become immune.”
“Fuck me, you’re a stupid twat sometimes, pal.” Legsy shook his head. Adam frowned at him--it hadn’t been the typical laddish insult between brothers-in- arms, but had sounded like a genuine appraisal of his intelligence.
“What?”
“If she thinks you gave up on her, then that means she wants you to start workin’ on her again, doesn’t it!”
“Does it?”
Legsy sighed and laughed, shaking his head. “Siddown, Adam.” he said. “Let me tell you the ways of the women folk.”
Adam frowned at him, but obeyed, perching atop the same can he’d just been training with.
Legsy sat opposite him. “What exactly did she say to you?” he asked.
“She asked me…’what am I to you?'. Uh…what is she to me, you know?"
“Right…?”
“And then, she, uh…she told me to tell her honestly that I still love her after all those years going away and…that kind of thing.”
“Well that wasn’t exactly fair of her…” Legsy opined. “But alright.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…okay, gut response here, one word, first one that springs to mind…” Legsy suggested “…DO you love her?”
“Yes!”
“Good. Right. but here’s the next question: What IS love? And none of that 'Baby don’t hurt me' crap."
“…huh?”
“Eh, that’s maybe a bit before your time.” Legsy allowed. “But go on, try and answer it.”
“Well, it’s…” Adam thought about it. “Love, it’s an emotion, right?”
“Half right. You can feel love, and you can love, right? You can do love, not just feel it."
“A verb.” Adam nodded.
“Fuckin’ right. You’ve got love the, uh…” Legsy clicked his fingers as he searched his memory. “Whatsit, the noun?”
“Yeah.”
“So.…yeah. You love her, but you don’t love her, see? Noun love versus verb love."
“You’re saying she needs both?” Adam asked him.
“Secret one about women, mate: A lot of the time, the verb counts for more with them than the noun, like. And, secret one about blokes: by and large, we’re the other way round.”
“Come on!” Adam protested. “They’re more complicated than that. SHE’S more complicated than that!”
Legsy shrugged. “How d’you know somebody loves you?” he asked.
Adam scratched above his ear. “Well…I…I guess you…”
Legsy just raised an eyebrow at him, waiting.
Adam deflated. “I guess because they…show it. They do stuff for you.”
“Fuckin’ right! And ANY woman, complicated or not, needs to KNOW that you love her. Needs to have it SHOWN. Because blokes, y’know, we’re stupid buggers, we feel it and we’ll just go ahead and fuckin’ assume that they feel the same way, and carry on. Women, though? They think about love, a lot. They…a lot of the time, they love you so much they worry that they’re loving you more than you love them. See? They don’t just assume it."
“Ava’s not insecure, though.”
“It’s not insecure, mate. It’s…” Legsy’s gaze flickered about the room and he spread his hands, marshalling his words. “They don’t want to get ripped off. Right? That’s actually smarter than how we do."
“They want to know they’re getting a good return on their emotional investment.” Adam translated.
“Right! You got it!”
Adam sighed. “Yeah…I got it.”
“…so?”
Adam frowned. “…So…what?”
Legsy looked down and rubbed his forehead. “How fuckin’ dense ARE you?” he asked. “I’ve just told you that what she wants is to be SHOWN that you love her.”
“But she broke it off!” Adam exclaimed. “And…she’s right, we hardly know each other any more! It’s not going to be as simple as…as flowers and chocolate!”
“So start. Over." Legsy suggested. “Get to know her again, let her get to know you again. Go on a new first date! If that relationship’s over, then start a new one with her!”
“…You think we can do that?”
“Adam, pal…I reckon that’s what she wants more than anything.” Legsy told him, gravely.
He let Adam sit and think, until the younger man finally nodded. “I’ll…give it a few days. I need to work up my courage and…figure out what I’m gonna say.”
“Good idea. But if we get to Saturday and you’ve still not done it, I’m draggin’ you down there myself. Fair?”
“Fair”.
Legsy stood up. “I’ll let you get on and think, then.” he said.
“…Thanks, Legsy.”
Legsy just clapped a hand on his shoulder and left him alone.
“Ava!” Jess’ expression fell on seeing her former student’s downcast expression and smudged makeup. “Oh…honey, what’s wrong? Or is this one for Gabe?”
“This is…” Ava sighed, entering their apartment. “I don’t know” she said, simply, and shrugged. “Adam proposed.”
“He did?” Gabe asked, emerging from the kitchen.
“Yeah. Didn’t he tell you?”
"Madre de Dios, mi hijo es un idiota a veces…“Gabe sighed. “No, he…Are you okay?”
“Just…drained.” Ava sat down at the table. “I tried to leave the door open, but…I don’t think he really knows why I said no, or if he got that I really do WANT to marry him, I just…”
Her hair bunched up as she planted her elbows on the table and raked her fingers across her scalp, then threw her hands down on the table. “Five years, you know?”
“Sounds like you both need some advice.” Gabe noted.
“What’s to advise? We need to start over. But if it’s going to work, he needs to…God, this sounds so selfish, but he needs to focus on me a bit, right? Is that selfish?"
“No, that’s a marriage.” Jess replied.
“It feels selfish. I just…you know, I…I…”
“What?”
“…Can you promise me that this will never, ever get back to him? Ever?"
Jess and Gabe exchanged glances, but nodded.
“I, uh…” Ava took a cleansing breath and looked up at them. “I cheated on him.”
Gabe sat down, expression unreadable and creating a vacuum that she just had to fill.
“I…God.” Ava sat back and looked around the kitchen as she gathered her thoughts. “That sounds terrible…”
She wiped her eyes. “…I came this close to breaking up with him" she said, finally. “The only reason I didn’t is because this…friend…of mine, he helped me stay on top of it. He helped me feel…”
She cleared her throat, leaned forward and made eye contact again. “The one thing Adam told me time and again is that I’m what kept him going when things got tough. Right? But he wasn’t keeping me going, you know? All of that energy, all of that love, it was only going one way, and I guess I just…I ran out. And, and I needed somebody else to send some of that energy to me for a while. That’s half of it."
An uncomfortable half-minute ticked out on the wall clock, during which Jess surreptitiously blew her nose.
“And the other half?” Gabriel prompted.
Ava spoke to her own hands rather than look at him. “He’s a special operator now, you know? I have to get used to the idea that…that maybe one day he’ll go on a mission and only a flag will come back. That’s how it has to be, you know? And…What happens then? If I’m- if my feelings are so tied up to him, and that ever happened…I mean, if I’m not me first, if I’m all about him and he dies, then what does that leave me with?"
Behind Gabe’s back, Jess nodded. Gabe himself was just still, and a little old and damaged and attentive, leaving an intolerable void where his part of the conversation should have been.
“This…this is all coming out wrong. I’m making it sound like I, or…Dad, I’m sorry.”
Gabe just reached over the table and took her hand. “Don’t.” he said, gently. “Do you regret it?”
“No.”
The answer seemed to be the opposite of what Gabriel had wanted and expected to hear. “…You don’t?”
“I…learned a lot. About how to let go and, and…and how to…” she took a breath and started over. “I love Adam. Come on, how many guys are there in the world who’d go through what he has all so he can throw himself in harm’s way to protect other people? He’s my hero! And…If there’s such a thing as a soulmate, he’s mine, I know it. But I had to learn that I can’t afford to love him that much if I couldn’t live without him. Does that make sense?"
Gabe’s ability to just listen kept pulling her forward. “And…now I know I could. And knowing that I could keep going even if he died tomorrow…it kind of frees me to be able to love him as much as I want to. Please, does…does that make sense?"
Gabe finally looked down, and squeezed her hand gently. “I…guess it does.” he said, finally. “I don’t like to think about him getting…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
“I never thought about…mama and papa, or my school friends, or whatever.” Ava replied. “I didn’t like to think about death at all. But you have to, Dad. You have to think about death. They died, when I accidentally poisoned myself that one time I thought I was gonna die, I saw you nearly die when that guy shot you…Sara…and now Adam’s a soldier."
Jess shut her eyes and looked away, but Ava surged on. “You’ve got to think about it, and you’ve got to have a plan, because there’s no if involved. There’s just…there’s when. Isn’t there? And I had to know I was strong enough to keep going without him. I had to know…I had to know he wasn’t everything. I don’t think I’d dare to love him if he was everything."
There was an eternity where the only sound was the buzz of the lighting and fridge-freezer, before Gabe finally deflated. “…Entiendo." he murmured.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“I thought you said you don’t regret it?” Gabe asked.
Ava stumbled. “Well…no, I don’t.” She agreed.
“Then don’t apologise. It’s not…” He sighed, then looked back at Jess, who gave him a weak smile and took his hand over his shoulder. “It’s not something I’d have done, and I don’t know if I think it’s ever justified, but…we trust you, Ava. If you think you needed to do it…I wasn’t there, I can’t judge.”
Ava produced a weak smile of her own. “Thank you.” her voice was full of relief and true gratitude.
“You need to work on your communication, though.” Gabe continued. “There’s no way he’ll figure it out himself. You should have spelled out the problem, rather than just turning him down.”
Jess nodded. “Adam’s a remarkable man.” she said, addressing Ava. “But…you’re the only girlfriend he’s ever had. He won’t know how to figure out what you’re feeling, nor how to cope.”
“I can’t tell him what I did, it’d totally break him!" Ava protested.
“Jess is right, though.” Gabe told her. “Even if he never learns……what you did…he still needs to be told that it’s got to be a real relationship, not just two survivors putting each other on a pedestal and not really having a whole lot in common.”
Ava relaxed. “I knew you’d think of how to phrase it.” she said.
“Well, you’ll probably think of something better if you give it time to think.” Jess replied. “But…just make sure you tell him sooner rather than later, okay? He’s going to need to be told that you want to start over."
“And tell him to come talk to us!” Gabe added.
“I can do that.” Ava promised. “I’ll talk to him, when I know what to say.”
“Probably sensible.” Jess agreed. “Like you said--you never know what’s going to happen.”
Chapter 30
Operation NOVA HOUND | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: First Contact Day, 10y AV
Capitol Station, Capitol System, Dominion Space.
Officer Regaari, Clan Whitecrest Attache to the Mother-Supreme.
“You’re both courting a controversy, you know. A scandal, even, given how close you both are to me."
Regaari’s head-duck of agreement had an unconsciously immature, cubbish quirk to it that came naturally when Giymuy engaged her Mother’s instincts. The Mother-Supreme was now silver from eartip to foot and thoroughly venerable. Over the years of working together, her relationship with Regaari had thawed from purely professional, to something of a friendship, but she was still the Mother, and when she gave advice, deference was instinctive.
“I know…” he agreed, reluctantly. “’Human ideas, eroding Gaoian culture.’ I’ve been staying well abreast of the backlash. We both have, which is why we’ve only…talked about it."
“Even talking about it is 'heresy’, in some camps."
“That’s a human word.”
“Indeed it is.”
Regaari caught the sad irony in Giymuy’s agreement. “We’re a free society.” he pointed out. “Free to speak our minds, free to act and do as we please so long as we cause no harm. Aren’t we?”
“So it has been since before the females were united.” Giymuy agreed. “But, I note, we have never actually been cunning enough to codify those freedoms in law. And in the meantime some peoples’ ideas of what constitutes 'harm' have broadened, spreading out to cover a wider area but, I think, becoming shallower in the process."
“The humans need those things coded in law." Regaari pointed out. “In fact they were, from what I gather, something of a revolutionary concept when first introduced. We meanwhile have always taken them as self-evident. You don’t need a law granting people the freedom to.. to breathe, or to eat.”
Giymuy chuffed. “’We hold these truths to be self-evident…'" she quoted.
Regaari, being the one who had first introduced that document to her, recognised the quotation instantly. “Missing, of course, the irony that if they really WERE self-evident then they would never have had to write them down.”
Giymuy duck-nodded herself. “Meanwhile, we DID find them self-evident.” she observed.
“And yet you’re warning me that Ayma and I are courting controversy by preferring each others’ company.”
“Dare I whisper the word 'monogamy’?"
“It’s not…she’s had other cubs since mine. It’s just that we still enjoy each others’ company and…we still feel much the same as we did when we sired that cub.” Regaari stood and paced the room. “And this, somehow, is a brewing scandal. A male and a female liking each other and wishing to spend time together, rather than simply remembering one another as a fond, temporary dalliance? Perhaps those truths aren’t so self-evident after all, perhaps Gaoians have all just…thought too much alike up until now.”
Giymuy chittered loudly and at length at that one. “Oh!” she gasped, trying to recover. “If only we did! There would be no need for a Mother-Supreme and I could retire and live out my time surrounded by cubs and happy young Mothers.”
She regained her composure, and noticed the slightly offended set of Regaari’s ears. “Ah, I am sorry. You may be right. We are discussing the…adulteration of our culture by alien ideas, after all."
“That was probably inevitable the moment we made First Contact.” Regaari grumbled.
"We know that." Giymuy gestured to the station they were aboard. “Many Gaoians may not. And this is the root of our problem--we are being changed by these ideas whether we like it or not. These ideas of 'heresy' and 'taboo' are just as much a pollution of what it means to be Gaoian as…pizza, pancakes, meditation and monogamy. Then there’s poor Myun. I never imagined that I’d see the day when a young, healthy, intelligent and very pretty female was shunned because no male will court her for fear of the political consequences."
Regaari snarled a little angry laugh. “Oh yes. they’ll hire her to provide hand-to-hand combat instruction, but mating with the 'freak’?" He growled a little. “If she wasn’t young enough to be one of my cubs, I might approach her with a contract myself just to spite them.”
“Why not?” Giymuy asked. “You’re already flirting with scandal with Ayma, and you’d be actively seeking it by courting Myun. Why should age make a difference at that point? Maybe your example is all that’s needed to rehabilitate an outcast.”
Regaari fell silent. He was still considering the suggestion when the communicator in his pocket buzzed. He tapped it with a claw. “They’re ready for you in the council chamber.” he said.
“It’s about time…where’s my stick?”
Regaari handed it to her. Giymuy had many walking sticks these days, and each one was a calculated statement. For today, she had selected the natural, knurled one made of Cimbrean Pinkwood, a now-extinct species that had once occupied one small portion of a continent that was now long swallowed up by deathworlder terraforming. The humans had logged the lot rather than let it be ruined by the advancing tide of disease, and had sold the wood to collectors to drum up funds. Giymuy had snapped up three tree’s worth. Craftsmen from every clan on Gao and beyond had vied for the privilege of creating the sticks, desk and curiosities she had commissioned, predicting that the prestige of creating for her would improve their own mating chances.
Giymuy in turn had encouraged them by selecting lesser-known, obscure males for the privilege. The famous ones, she had reasoned, didn’t need the help. Now, the stick tapped sharply on the decorative stone tiles of the Capitol Station concourse as they left the Gaoian ambassadorial quarters. Dominion security guards--two Vzk’tk, two Kwmbwrw--fell in line behind the entourage of four Gaoian guards from Clan Flashfang, all painfully eager young males and all--Regaari had seen to this personally--trained to handle threats up to and including a human.
It was quite the little procession. Giymuy had chosen simple charcoal robes that offset her fur, and wore three loops of fine gold chain clasped to each ear. The effect was venerable and dignified, still understated, but enough to make her stand out next to Regaari’s severe black uniform, or her guards’ combat harnesses.
This was a big occasion: A galactic broadcast that had taken some negotiation to secure. Even Regaari didn’t know what the Mother-Supreme had planned for the address she was about to give to the Dominion Grand Council, but he was looking forward to it.
Every species had automatic membership and presence on the Grand Council, even if they were not Dominion members. Even if that species was an enthusiastic member of the Celzi Alliance, there were dissenters, ones who had chosen to side with the Dominion, representing their species. An unpopular minority at home, perhaps, but still there. The only vacant seats belonged to the declining species, who no longer cared to show up…And to the humans.
There was a space for them, but it remained unoccupied. Regaari wasn’t even sure if the deathworlders knew that space existed.
Giymuy created a stir when she walked right past the podium that had been set up for her, and instead strode into the area designated for humans. The susurrus this move generated soon became a white noise that only subsided when the chairman--a rotund VGork nearly as large as a young Guvnurag--slammed his gavel into the desk in front of him with enough force to dent the wood.
“Mother-Supreme Giymuy.” he began, addressing her. “That place is for the delegates from Earth.”
“The delegates from Earth, Chairman” Giymuy replied, speaking with surprising force and clarity for her age “Do not know that this seat exists. This council has never seen fit to inform them of it nor invite them to attend. I am taking the liberty of speaking on their behalf.”
The chairman slammed down his gavel again as the gathered species took to muttering to one another again. “Can I not persuade you to take the podium?” He asked.
“You can not, Chairman.”
The Chairman considered her for a while, then backed down. “Then please. Continue.”
Giymuy accepted the concession with a slight bow to the chair, then turned to address the Council as a whole.
“Gaoians and Humans share a fondness for Base Ten mathematics.” she began. “Which is why I note that, by the calendar of the planet Earth, It has now been exactly ten years since the Hunters raided their city of Vancouver. Less than three of their years later, the human race achieved faster-than-light manned flight for the first time. Those ten years have been…tumultuous and interesting, and often controversial.”
She tapped her stick down, twice. “The Dominion’s response to this singular deathworld species has been one of fear and mistrust. This stick I am holding is a symbol of why that fear is justified, being made from the wood of a tree now extinct due to them. I am not here to argue against the policy of the last ten years--the past cannot be undone--but to share a vision of policy for the next ten."
This time, the delegates were polite enough to remain silent and listen.
“The humans are here to stay.” she announced. “Even if we never see one again, even if they were to retreat behind their quarantine field and remain there, they have already changed the outlook of many species, on a great many things. Even now, the questions are being asked 'why haven’t we united to fight the Hunters?’, 'Why has the Dominion-Alliance war gone on for so long without ceasefire or negotiation?’, 'Why do we transport goods in vulnerable freighters and lose their crews to Hunters and piracy when displacement jump drives render the very concept of a freighter obsolete?’"
“I have seen personally just how powerful and dangerous humans are. I have seen for myself, some of the plagues that our one human visitor--my clan- Sister--could have unleashed on Gao, which would surely have killed our entire species if we had lacked the technology to protect ourselves. Humans are undeniably dangerous. But so too are the tools that were used to build this station. So too are fire, or the knives used to prepare food.”
She tapped her stick again. “Unlike those things, humans are thinking, living beings. Fellow intelligent life, which is a rare and precious thing in this galaxy. My clan-sister would have wept and been thrown into the kind of despair none of us here can imagine, if she had been forced to watch the Gaoian people die through no real fault of her own. They know, or are learning, that they are dangerous. Where it is already too late for them to prevent the damage, they are trying to repair it as best they can. Where it is not, they are taking precautions to prevent harm."
“On their behalf, given their absence from this assembly, I humbly beseech the council to-”
She was cut off. Blue lighting--the universal colour of emergency and alarm-- slammed on and a deep howl filled the council chamber. She was still standing bemused by it, ears twitching back and forth, when Regaari took her by the arm and escorted her with inexorable firmness, towards the exit.
“Regaari? What is happening?” She asked.
The male’s ears were pricked up and his teeth bared--sure signs of stress, alertness and concentration. He was listening to words that Giymuy could not hear, and reading words she could not see.
“The station’s under attack.” He reported, tersely.
“Who by?”
“That’s still being…” His ears rose, then flattened against his skull.
“Regaari?”
“…The Swarm of Swarms.” he quickened the pace. “The Hunters are back.”
HMS Sharman, Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Major Owen Powell
“FALL IN! Fall in and listen the fook up!"
The Operators had been in the middle of tidying up the barracks and doing basic chores like the washing up and laundry. They immediately dropped what they were doing and fell in around him, giving Powell their full and undivided attention. He didn’t skip a beat.
“Ten minutes ago our listening post in the Capitol system sent back its message buoy, reporting a massive spike in activity on Hunter communications channels and several sensor contacts. The Swarm’s attacking Capitol Station. Gear up and get on the shuttle, We dust off in three! Go, GO!"
Gearing up was a simple as grabbing the emergency bags that they all kept in the locker room for this exact reason and sprinting for the waiting shuttlecraft which had set down on the base’s helipad. It was a simple, stock Dominion model, little more than a dull grey cuboid with a window in the front and a door in the back. No human company had yet developed a version that the armed services liked well enough to buy, much to the grumbling of the people who had to use them, who were universally of the opinion that literally anything human-made would have been an improvement.
They were aboard and belted in in less than two minutes. Powell stood towards the front, gripping an overhead strap to stabilise himself as the little craft lurched skyward.
“Right, This operation is called 'Nova Hound’." he began, raising his voice over the engines. “Lucky for us, we’ve got an OPLAN for this exact scenario. The attack began ten or fifteen minutes ago. Our estimated response time is forty or fifty minutes. By the time we’re on scene, the defending fleet will have been brushed aside and the station itself will have been overrun by Hunters for a good half hour. Safe to assume that civilian casualties are total, and in this station’s case that’s a good twelve thousand people.”
“VIPs--council members, ambassadors, visiting dignitaries--have all got security details with them, which we believe makes enough difference. We have schematics for Capitol Station, we think we know where they’re likely to be holed up. Our mission is rescue and extraction of as many dignitaries and civilians as we can. Secondary objectives include causing as much damage as possible to the Swarm, intelligence gathering, and propaganda.”
“We’ll be deploying on Caledonia, which has been refit as a staging and hospital ship. The V-class destroyers are the frontline, they’ll hold the swarm by the nose. They’ve got the staying power and EWAR. Myrmidon will be serving in its new role as on-field energy support, keeping the V-class’ charged. Meanwhile, USAF TS/2 squadrons will deliver the killing blows and provide close screen. Both of them are there as a big distraction to let the men on this shuttle accomplish the real mission."
“Our overwatch is provided by JETS, led by Lieutenant Ross aboard HMS Caledonia. Jones, Murray, Price, you’re covert infiltration and assault. Your job is to drive the outboard and dive onto the station, effect quiet ingress as close to the target section as possible. Blaczynski, Firth, you’re on the boat too, as am I. We help secure our foothold then dig in and command."
“Once we’re in, the Protectors--that’s Ares and Burgess--and Defenders-- Stevenson, Sikes, Akiyama and Vandenberg--Jump in from the shipboard array. That’s the assault team’s cue to go monkey-shit on the Hunters, leave none of them alive. Delta sets up the evacuation Array then maintains our perimeter and runs combat camera. Protectors, you’ll be handling the refugees. Hunters usually kill outright, so there probably won’t be a lot of medicine to do, so you’re also humping ammo and gear for the assault team. The evac Array will be sending the civilians to the deck of HMS Caledonia. We’ll be using our default callsigns. I’m STAINLESS. Any questions?"
“Sir.” Stevenson raised his hand. “Do we bring a backup Array?”
Powell nodded. “Yes. Any further questions? No? Are we clear?”
“YES SIR!”
“Right. Give me your war names!”
“LONGLEGS!”
“STERLING!”
“HIGHLAND!”
“RIGHTEOUS!”
“STARFALL!”
“TITAN!”
“THOR!”
“REBAR!”
“SNAPFIRE!”
“BASEBALL!”
“WARHORSE!”
“And don’t you fookin’ forget it, lads. Let’s do this right.”
Capitol Station, orbiting Planet Garden, Capitol System, Dominion Space
Regaari
"Every shot we fire misses--they’re just NOT THERE any more. I don’t know where they learned a trick like this, but we’re losing ships fast out here, and inflicting no damage that I can see."
“No hope of holding the field?” Regaari was part of a wedge of Gaoians pushing against a tide of stampeding lifeforms. Already one of his men was badly hurt, having been kicked hard by a panicking Vzk’tk. His role wasn’t to push and shove and shout and try to make room--he was too busy co-ordinating with the largest and most senior craft in the Gaoian contingent of the security fleet, the CGC Winter Fire.
"None. Your ETA to the shuttle?" Its captain was a Whitecrest, one of Regaari’s Brothers, both by clan and, he suspected, a half-sibling genetically.
“Everything’s panicking in here.” Regaari grunted, then raised his voice to be heard as a flock of wailing Kwmbwrw became the latest obstacle for them to push against. “Most of them are running away from the escape ships for some stupid reason. How long can you give me?"
"If we let all the others die first? A paw of [minutes], six at the outside."
Regaari assessed matters. They had made it only a few hundred meters at best from the council chamber since the attack began. “Not good enough.” he declared.
"I know. I’m sorry, Brother, but at this point we have to treat everything aboard the station as lost. We may as well salvage some assets from this, and carry word to Gao of what-"
The link went dead with a sharp squeal in Regaari’s ear.
"Winter Fire, you broke up there." He told them.
Silence.
"Winter Fire, come in?"
"Officer Regaari, CGS Winter Fire is destroyed." one of the other ships sent. "We’re warping out. Nothing we can do--may as well save what we can. Sorry."
“Regaari!”
He turned. The Mother-Supreme was leaning heavily against a wall, panting and grimacing with a hand pressed to her chest. “Mother-Supreme?”
She slumped, sliding to the ground. Concerned males gathered round and Regaari rushed to her side. “Giymuy!”
“Oh, don’t…” she coughed. “At least my age is getting me first, before the Hunters do.”
The men exchanged glances, aware that they weren’t to be so lucky.
“We can still-”
“Don’t be so stupid!” she snapped, then her breath rattled horribly. She was clearly in hideous pain.
She continued In a gentler tone. “Regaari. You can escape. I will only slow you down, and so will these soldiers. Get…" she heaved and coughed, but fought through it. “Get to the diplomatic shuttle, and activate the emergency displacement recall…Tell them…” her strength was failing by the second, and when she repeated “tell them…” she was almost inaudible.
Regaari leaned in close. He only barely heard her last words.
He closed her eyes. “I’ll tell them.” he promised.
“Officer?” One of the soldiers asked him, clearly expecting an order.
“What?” Regaari asked, surveying the ceiling.
“What do we do?”
“First, you stand back.” Regaari ordered. When they did so, he aimed his pulse rifle and blasted the vent cover out of the ceiling with three precise shots.
“Second,” he said, slinging the rifle over his shoulder “you give me a boost up into that vent.”
They did so. Gaoian gravity was just a little higher than Galactic Standard, and between two of them, he was launched to the height of a ceiling that could accommodate even the tallest Rrrrtktktkp’ch or bulkiest Guvnurag. He caught the edge, swung there for a second, and then hauled himself up and into the air duct.
“And…third?” One of the soldiers asked.
Regaari unslung his gun and got his bearings.
“You kill as many of them as you can, and you don’t let them take you or your Brothers alive.” he told them. “Goodbye.”
HMS Violent, Cimbrean orbit, the Far Reaches
Commodore William Caruthers
“Signal from HMS Caledonia, Commodore. They say the SOR is aboard, suited up and ready."
Caruthers acknowledged the communication with a clear nod and eye contact. “By my estimation, that makes us ready to go.” he observed.
Violent’s Captain--Commander Anthony Miller--nodded. “I agree sir.”
“Signal the fleet to prepare to jump on my mark…”
He was pleased that it took only some five seconds before “All ships ready to jump, Admiral.” was called.
“Mark.”
Caruthers always felt cheated by the occasion of a jump. He would have liked a lurch, or a little jolt, or some tingling sensation, or even just a nondescript sense of something having happened. As it was, the only indication that anything at all had changed was the way his operations display began to populate itself.
The untrained eye would have seen only a mess. Caruthers, however, had a very trained eye.
The seven ships of his task group had translated through their wormholes and landed some ten thousand kilometers from Capitol Station. Far enough away that their miniscule signatures would be easily missed, close enough that the EM- spectrum latency shouldn’t throw off their targeting or electronic warfare.
As they arrived, HMS’ Violent, Vigilant, Victory, Vendetta, Vanguard and Viceroy each quietly released their passenger contingent of six BAE Terrier unmanned space vehicles--car-sized lozenges of thrusters, sensors and electronic attack modules designed to multiply their mothership’s electronic superiority and obfuscate the fleet’s exact size, composition and position.
The result was an immediate widening of their sensor net, and the Hunters weren’t bothering with subtlety. Even on passive sensors only, with the full group of seven warships and thirty drones deployed, he had an excellent idea of exactly what they were dealing with.
Capitol Station was a white, glass and chrome broccoli floret twenty kilometers long, ending in a tangled root of rust-brown mooring gantries and docking bays. describing a rough sphere around it with a radius of some five hundred kilometers was the Swarm, consisting of literally thousands of ships, including fifty or sixty which were a match, in terms of tonnage at least, for Myrmidon and Caledonia, both of which were by far the most massive ships in the human fleet.
They did not, fortunately, appear to be reacting to the arrival of the Deathworlders.
“Dragon’s teeth out.” he ordered.
The dragon’s teeth had been modified since the last battle at Cimbrean. Their canisters were now filled with high-pressure air rather than using explosives to disperse the minisatellite jump beacons, allowing them to be deployed without creating an obvious sensor contact. Violent’s hull rang as twenty such canisters were launched away from the ship on random timers, creating a friendly sphere of possible evasive jumps.
At a range of ten thousand clicks, and with the twin advantages of surprise and EWAR on their side, the fleet was now well prepared to weather a sustained firefight.
“Signal the fleet.” he announced.
“Ready sir.”
“Horatio.”
In the finest of military traditions, 'Horatio' was a prearranged code phrase, meaning that the fleet should load a specific type of ammunition, calculate a specific firing solution, and await the second phrase which would be the cue to fire. Caruthers gave them the thirty seconds they needed.
"Nelson." he ordered.
The answer from all six ships at once was an opening flurry of firepower, a two-to-three-to-one mix of gravity spikes, conventional anti-ship ammunition and specialist ammo that would hopefully go unnoticed alongside the rest of the firepower. Simultaneously, the EWAR opened up, strobing the Swarm with dazzling masers and flooding every band they were broadcasting on with powerful white noise.
Those gravity spikes were necessary. Without them the Hunter ships would just warp to point-blank range in the moment they were aligned along the correct vector, eliminating the human range advantage in an infinitesimal shaving of a second. The only counter to that was gravity spikes, delivered by timed- explosion rounds that filled the intervening space with heavily distorted spacetime against which warp drives could secure no footing, ensuring that the Hunters would remain firmly confined to subluminal maneuvers.
The three parts of conventional ammunition did their job equally well, however. Four of the larger Swarm craft were crippled in the opening volley, spilling the contents of their pressurized bowels as the human guns _thump_ed and hurled their payloads down a narrow warp channel which dissipated mere centimeters from the target’s hulls, allowing no possibility of evasive action.
The Swarm responded with animal speed, showing off just how efficient the Hunter cybernetic communications really were. All of those ships were behaving almost like a single amoeboid organism, spreading out and sending loose tendrils of high-speed ships creeping out and around, questing for a vector from which to try and warp the intervening distance and engulf or snare the outnumbered human task group. Several motes of light actually lifted off the surface of Capitol Station, abandoning their tick-like burrowing in pursuit of the prized Deathworlder quarry.
Caruthers allowed himself a satisfied nod. “Signal Colonel Stewart.” he said “Tell him they’ve taken the bait.”
Rylee Jackson
"Epic to Group: The Brits have engaged. All units fold your WiTCheS and accelerate to combat speed."
Rylee practically swore with relief. The tension had been killing her, and she obeyed the order enthusiastically, punching Firebird up to speed and aligning for the station as hard as her sled could accelerate.
Lurking near the star to recoup their lost energy from the extreme long-range jump from Sol had swiftly gotten dull. She was a combat pilot, and Firebird and her sisters were combat spaceframes. They belonged in the melee.
The wing reported ready. Stewart’s voice had an eager edge to match Rylee’s own feelings "Epic to Group: Off we go."
They jumped. Warping to the target station when the British ships had polluted its skies with gravity spikes was asking for damage, which is why the opening salvo had included beacon rounds that streaked through the Hunter formation and slowed to sublight velocities on the far side, inviting the TS/2s to enfilade the Swarm.
The sky went from empty, to being awash with red contacts, painted by the Royal Navy FOF and confirmed by the absence of friendly RFID. Fed by the combat controllers aboard Caledonia, her HUD indicated her assigned box and describing a cuboid some thousand kilometers long. At the kinds of speeds reached in starship combat, she would sweep through a volume that large in seconds.
Semenza was reciting his EWAR and weapons reports from only inches behind her head.
Things had changed in the last couple of years. The missile payload was gone, replaced with electronic attack pods that further multiplied their force’s ability to blind and confuse the Hunters. only the GAU-8/S remained for their onboard weaponry.
A targeting laser speared one of the big ships as she raked its flank with 30mm rounds, shredding its shields. Behind her, Semenza grunted in satisfaction. “Firebird one, fox four.”
Rather than launching the missile, he summoned one. There was a stockpile of thousands back on Earth, and one of them jumped into the fight at Semenza’s call, existing on the battlefield for barely half a second before it slammed into the Swarmship and mauled it.
“Data point. The fuckers are armored now.” Semenza noted. He was right. In their last fight, that exact same class of missile had dismembered a ship of that size. Now it had merely gouged a ragged chunk from its flank.
“Hit it again.”
“Wilco. Firebird one, fox four.”
The wounded Swarmship blinked out of existence, and Semenza’s missile spiralled drunkenly off into the black, too confused and low on power to select a new target.
“Data point. They can evade-jump now.” Semenza added.
An incoming contact became a cloud of gas and light debris as Riley vectored sideways and put a cloud of 30mm rounds in its flight path. Its own railgun rounds went wide, barely a hundred meters to starboard.
“Stay frosty.” she muttered.
Regaari
The vent did two things for Regaari.
It saved his life, allowing him to walk, then crawl through the narrower ducting, unimpeded and unobserved towards the hangar where the Gaoian diplomatic yacht was landed.
And it let him hear the screams. It caught and amplified them, so that he heard every one in hollow, magnified, metallic detail.
So many of them. Intermingled with the sounds of pulse gun fire, the flash and strobe of Nervejam grenades, and a new sound, a heavy explosive sound that reminded him of the action movies he’d watched with Xiu, years ago.
But mostly screams. Screams of terror. Screams of pain. Dying squeals and pleading. Defiant yells as some of the soldiers and security troopers went down fighting.
Sometimes, when he couldn’t hear the screams, he could hear the eating.
Those were the worst. He hardly dared move at all in those quiet sections, for fear that the slightest sound would give him away. He had to inch past, treated to a full view of what, exactly, the Hunters did with their prey.
But his luck held. Either he was silent enough to not give himself away, or else they were so enraptured by their feast as to not notice.
He crawled onwards.
Owen Powell
When it came down to it, the difference between riding an outboard launch wearing a wetsuit, and riding an extravehicular launch wearing an EV-MASS, was basically that the latter was quieter. No waves, no bird call, none of the little noises that had hitherto masked every covert infiltration of Powell’s career. Just silence, save for his breathing.
The craft itself was little more than a conical bank of capacitors mounted on a kinetic thrust plate, with latching points for the infiltration team and any heavy gear they were bringing to be attached and folded inside its little warp field. It almost looked like a black rubber launch. Across the huge distances involved it relied on computer navigation rather than a pilot, so there was little to do but program it, hang on, and hit the button on the control screen at the little vehicle’s nose.
He had never felt so exposed in all his life.
There was no jolt or anything--the inertial compensation provided by the warp field was too well-tuned for that--but it was still jarring for HMS Caledonia to vanish from behind them and for Capitol station--which had until now just been a nigh-invisible glimmer of light, suddenly be there, right in front of them. Twenty kilometers long and only two kilometers away.
Technically, they were smack in the middle of the Swarm of Swarms, but at the scales involved human senses were hopelessly inadequate for noticing that fact. Only the occasional streak of light across the stars--weapons fire, or a ship moving at sanity-fraying velocities--hinted that there was even a battle raging silently all around them.
If their stealthy approach was not stealthy enough, if the EWAR that was theoretically blinding every sensor delicate enough to spot them, wasn’t, then the only mercy would be that their annihilation would be so instant and total that none of them would notice it happening.
The last approach used cold-gas thrusters rather than the kinetics. The Launch was designed to have practically zero sensor signature, after all. It had been a precision approach--they were barely ten meters from the station hull, stationary relative to a large window, though the mirroring on the glass made it impossible to see within, only that the section was not lit.
They detached from the Launch and Powell turned a single gentle somersault to kiss against the hull, absorbing the last of his momentum with his knees just as they had practiced in zero-G training so many times before.
Breaching the glass was simple. Sterling and Highland hacked a simple square out of the glass with two simple swipes of their fusion knives. Air pressure did the rest, flinging the plate of glass out into space, along with a blizzard of small objects caught in the rush of escaping air.
Legsy heaved himself through. There was a moment of silence.
"Clear."
Powell hit the beacon on his belt as the Combat Controllers propelled themselves through the breach, and an inky cuboid, nearly invisible in space, simply appeared without ceremony next to him. Divorced of its power source, the stasis field collapsed and Warhorse, Baseball, Titan, Thor, Rebar and Snapfire were hanging next to him.
He let them through the hole first and, once through himself, settled onto the deck in galactic standard gravity. The Deltas deployed a forcefield seal over the breach and, at their nod, Legsy and Sterling burst through the door into the corridor beyond, pushing past the hurricane rush of air that flooded into their entry room. Their SMGs spat out their rounds with a noise that went right through Powell’s chest..
He was pleased to hear it. The silence of vacuum had been getting to him, and any sound was welcome, even if it wasn’t a pleasant sound--shrieking alarms, wailing aliens and the distant hammering of Hunter pulse fire, plus an unpleasant hissing. Apparently their forcefield wasn’t as airtight as hoped.
“Right. Let’s get into an airtight compartment.” he ordered.
They vacated the room and sealed the door behind them. Ares raised his SAW and fired a sharp six-round burst at something, and Powell suppressed some pride when he turned and saw that the kid had just bagged his first Hunter kill. He was in commander mode right now, he couldn’t afford to be sentimental.
Legsy, Highland and Sterling took point, storming down the corridor and ripping into a knot of Hunters that were tormenting a shuddering Guvnurag. All five of the monsters were dead before they even knew they were under assault.
The huge alien was in a bad way, bleeding horribly from where the Hunters had bitten the flesh right off her living body. Burgess went to work, and Powell took a moment to evaluate their position. It was some kind of a common area, full of benches and tables and the kind of alien-sized furniture that made good high cover for humans. Better still, there was plenty of room for the Defenders to deploy their jump array.
“This is our spot.” he announced.
The Alpha of the Brood-that-Builds
+<Interest> A human Alpha. The first we have seen.+
The Builder Alpha examined the perspective of the little insect-sized spy drone as it settled on the ceiling above the Deathworlder.
The human infantry had appeared from nowhere, storming out of a supposedly empty room on the station’s upper decks without warning. They might almost have materialised in that room fully-formed. Impossible, of course, but then again that kind of stealth was only marginally more credible, especially from a species so technologically behind the Hunters.
This particular specimen was clearly in command, having started by thrusting its arm out to indicate where its subordinates should go and what work they should do, and now poring over a diagram of that section of the station, directing the efforts of the other eleven.
The Alpha-of-Alphas was clearly intrigued also. It had a much more complete view of the battlefield than the Builder Alpha did, ensconced as it was in a kind of command throne that was designed to interface with its neural augmentations and greatly expand its ability to track and consider the situation. It had proven itself in battle against these humans, receiving only minor wounds at worst. Now it was proving itself as a commander and leader.
+<Correction> Not just an Alpha.+ it mused. +<Observation> Notice the markings on their armor. There are three different Deathworlder broods here. Each fulfills a different role. This is an Alpha-of-many-broods. It must be an individual of great importance.+
The Builder broadcast understanding and agreement. +<Fascination> Interesting that their broods function together through division of duty.+ it commented. +<Inspiration> And that displacement device! The possibilities!+
+<Satisfaction> Observing that device in action alone has been worth this trap.+ the Alpha-of-Alphas agreed. +<Thoughtfulness> And the specialised behaviour of their warriors can be translated to our own broods. This is valuable data.+
They watched the Deathworlders slaughter lesser Hunters by the dozen for some minutes. The violence was almost intimidating, even from a cloaked listening post far removed from the action. The lead team of three would enter a compartment, and every Hunter within that compartment would be dead almost too quickly to fathom, cut down by withering volleys of disciplined firepower.
There was an objective to it, though--they weren’t killing for the sake of killing. Instead, every time the humans surged forward, it was to claim another little knot of surviving Prey, plucking them from the Hunters’ grasp and securing the meat the opportunity to escape. Dozens had escaped already, most of them the important, high-value individuals whose deaths would have so demoralized the Prey across the galaxy. Each dignitary that escaped to whatever sanctuary the Deathworlders had established beyond their displacement array was a personal insult to the Alpha-of-Alpha’s plan.
Why they should do so was incomprehensible to the Alpha of the Brood-that- Builds. Why would superior lifeforms put themselves in harm’s way to rescue inferior ones that were not even the same brood or species?
It sensed that there was no answer to that conundrum within the remit of engineering.
For their part, the Hunters’ responses to human weaponry just didn’t seem to be giving them the edge that the Builder had hoped for. The guns were just too heavy, and needed to be held in too specific a way so as to avoid injury. If only they could capture a working example of the weapons the humans themselves were using…
As they watched, a family of spindly blue Prey were herded into the territory the humans had seized and vanished through the displacement device. Just behind them was the wounded Large Prey, actually being carried by two of the Deathworlders. The Builder revised its estimates as to human maximum muscle strength upwards by several percentage points.
+<Curiosity> Those two seem to prioritise the repair and evacuation of wounded Prey.+ it noted.
+<Contempt> Yes. While that is an obvious sign of weakness and wrong-thinking, it will also potentially undermine our intimidation of the prey.+ the Alpha-of-Alpha’s thoughts were tinged with anger at this damage to their propaganda victory.
+<Suggestion> I submit that we have gathered enough data. Those humans should be eradicated, their displacement device salvaged and we should capture that Alpha-of-Many-Broods.+ the Builder proposed.
It did not take the silence that greeted this idea for hesitation or contempt. The Alpha-of-Alphas had demonstrated its intelligence and cunning time and again. It was undoubtedly mulling the suggestion over, considering the merits and potential risks.
+<Resolve> Agreed.+ It sent, at last. +I will deploy the Strongest Brood.+
Regaari
Regaari’s luck ran out the instant he dropped into the diplomatic yacht’s hangar. Only the Whitecrest training that the Mothers would have so despised had they known of it kept him from dying the moment he dropped from the vent and onto the deck. He hadn’t seen the three Hunters feasting on a brother of Clan Farflight, but his pulse rifle snapped up and was firing the instant he saw them. Three solid hits pulped the one holding a bizarre long gun in a shock-absorbing assemblage, and he dived aside, throwing down a shieldstick to cover his retreat. Retaliatory pulse fire splashed against it.
The latest generation, available only to Whitecrests, could admit pulse fire from the defenders’ side, and he used that feature to return fire, killing the last two even as their final pulse shot shattered his barrier. That had been too close.
He turned to the ship and froze cold, realising that the Hunters had already crippled it, recognising the fact that it was a possible escape craft. He had no way off the station.
No, there had to be an alternative, something he’d overlooked…
A crawling sense of paranoia made him look up.
The Alpha dropped from the ceiling like something obscene from one of Xiu’s movies, and smashed his gun out of his hands. Half as big again as its subordinates and much more heavily augmented, it kicked him and Regaari felt a rib jar painfully inside him as the blow flipped him through the air to slide on his back halfway across the hangar.
Winded and injured, he still fought to find his feet, scrambling at his belt for his backup pulse pistol. That too was slapped aside by the Alpha, which used its other hand to grab him by the scruff of his neck and lift him off the deck, feet kicking and dangling.
He wouldn’t have been Regaari if he hadn’t fought for every last second though. Down to just his claws, he raked the nightmare’s face, costing it two eyes and badly lacerating the flesh around a cluster of cybernetics that replaced three of the others.
It replied by biting off his left paw just above the wrist.
It was an almost dainty gesture, and Hunter teeth were so sharp that Regaari was almost able to see it happen without feeling it. One moment it was his paw, the next it was a meaty morsel, frothing blood in the creature’s mouth, crunching and splintering as the hunter bit through the bone to swallow what had once been a part of him.
It laughed. There was no epithet in Gaori to describe how much he hated it for that. The…beast gloated, savoring its kill. He snorted nasal mucus and spat it into the creature’s remaining eye, too proud to give it the satisfaction of fearing it. He hated it, hated everything it stood for, and his last thought was to hope fervently that it would choke on him.
Instead, its head twitched to look over his shoulder, and it dropped him, bringing up one of those large long guns.
Those guns were clearly heavy though. Too heavy to respond in time. Its head exploded, painting a grisly slurry of meaty matter and cybernetic parts all over the deck, and the most glorious sight in the galaxy double-timed across the hangar, gun snapping from corner to corner in case of any lingering threats.
By all the clans of Gao. An actual human. Built like a bunker and faceless in an armored vacuum suit layered in technology, but unmistakably a Deathworlder. Nothing else could conceivably have moved so easily while carrying so much.
“You’re late.” he chided, out of pure bravado.
“You’re alive.” the human replied, setting to work on the stump of his arm. Regaari reached across to retrieve his pulse pistol with his remaining hand and holstered it. He was keeping on top of the pain, barely, and having that little task to focus on while the human stopped his bleeding by injecting some kind of foam directly into the wound, which hardened and stopped the blood flow almost instantly, kept him from crying out from the agony and fainting.
“Come on compadre, you’re not getting out of here on that shuttle." the human said. He slung his gun around his shoulder, tugged a smaller one from a belt holster, tucked an arm under Regaari and hoisted him firmly but gently off the floor. It was like being a cub again, riding on an adult’s shoulders.
The diplomatic quarters outside were exactly the kind of hell his imagination and sense of hearing had suggested as he’d crawled through the vents. There were bodies everywhere, many of them clearly cut down from behind as they tried to flee. Intermingled with them were Hunter corpses, however, clearly fallen where they had been feasting, many still with dripping shreds of flesh caught in their fangs.
Two more humans in those armored vacuum suits were firing stubby little black weapons at something through a doorway. Not missing a beat, his rescuer dropped his shoulders and surged past their firefight, shielding Regaari with his own body.
This brought them into view of another human, just in time for Regaari to watch him sidestep a charging Beta and punch it so hard in the side of its jaw that the head was all but torn off. The huge corpse crashed into the bulkhead and left a purplish blood stain.
“Whe-” Regaari began. He made it no further than that, because an explosion an order of magnitude larger than anything that had previously rocked them punished the deck. The lights died, and artificial gravity went with them for just a second before the damage control systems found an alternate power source for them. Emergency lighting, dark and blue, at least robbed the carnage of its more stomach-turning hues.
The humans clearly heard an order via some means he wasn’t party too, because all of them began to fall back under fire towards the recreational concourse. The one carrying him picked up his speed to the point where Regaari could feel a breeze in his fur.
There were Hunters on the concourse, but unlike any that Regaari had ever heard of. Gone were the usual cruel cybernetics. In fact, gone were whole limbs, and in place of the “natural” sickly white of Hunter flesh was a horrible wet meaty redness which bulged and pulled in grotesque ways as they moved. Whatever these Hunters had done to themselves had granted them the strength to move confidently and swiftly even layered in thick armor plates and while carrying large weapons.
They were huge, as big if not bigger than the Alpha that had nearly killed him, and moving with a sturdy, graceful precision that was more like a human’s motion, and these ones seemed to be handling their guns just fine, pouring a hail of firepower into the water feature that three more human soldiers were using for cover.
His rescuer’s gun hand came up and the pistol’s sharp crack was a very different noise to the heavy, explosive, industrial thunder being made by the Hunter weaponry. Unlike them, his aim was sharp and precise. One of the abominations choked and collapsed as the rounds ripped into exposed gaps at the sides and flanks, but two of its friends turned to face the new threat, with bullets sparking off shields and armour plates as they returned fire, squinting against the glare from the bright light mounted below the pistol’s barrel.
Regaari was jolted badly when his carrier then jinked into cover, and he was let go of. Even if the human was trying to be gentle, being carried by a Deathworlder was clearly a dangerous experience.
He kept his head down. There was more gunfire, shouting, the deck plating shook.
“They’re coming up the left!”
“They’re fucking suicidal…Baseball, Rebar, get up on the right there!”
The deck plating dented under their weight as the pinned three dashed from where they’d been hiding and made it into cover beside him. “Good shooting, Hoss.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“I took a hit, didn’t penetrate. Those guns of theirs hit hard though.”
“Watch the ones coming down the middle…fuck! NERVEJAM!”
"Oh no you don’t!"
Regaari felt like an icicle was pounded into his brain as a grenade went off nearby.
“Man down!”
“Get him back here! Suppressing fire!"
A storm of shooting. Heavy footfalls, more shouting, and something large was dragged into cover alongside him, one of the humans convulsing and twitching in his armour.
“They’re still coming!”
“Throwing grenade…FRAG OUT!”
An explosion that left his ears ringing in protest. Station damage alarms started wailing nearby, adding to the chorus of violence.
“How is he?”
“He needs to be jumped to triage right now, sir.”
There was a deadly, horrible pause. “Fookin’.…can we make the array?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“…Thor, demolish it. We’re EA jumping.”
“Major. He’s dead, sir.”
“…Aye. Grab the ETs and fall back, that way. Legsy, Highland! Cover the retreat.”
Regaari was hoisted up with Deathworlder strength and carried. There were three others with him: a Corti and two Kwmbwrw, who seemed to be equally as petrified by their rescuers as by the Hunters.
He could see over his carrier’s shoulder as they ran. The one in charge paused long enough to tap some commands out on the computer he carried, and the dead soldier’s armor started smoking, then burst into flames.
The one carrying him muttered something. His helmet decided that the sotto voce delivery was not intended for translation, but Regaari understood just enough English to understand him.
“…Goodbye, Sterling.”
“Get in this bag, quickly now.”
The Corti was clearly one of the political delegation, and not accustomed to taking orders gracefully. “What exactly is an 'EA Jump' and why am I being stuffed into a bag for it?" he demanded.
The human commander clearly had no patience for Corti games. “It means Exo- bloody-Atmospheric. We are going to jump out of this station and land on that planet, so put on the fookin’ bag!" he snapped. Behind his pressure helmet, his eyes promised trouble the likes of which no alien could comprehend if he was not obeyed.
The Corti squeaked and practically dove into the bag. Regaari had already been mostly into his, but he balked upon hearing this. "Jump?"
The human whose chest the bag was strapped to nodded, and pushed him down gently but firmly, helping him curl up inside it. “Yep.” he said.
“Is that safe?”
"Hell no. Beats being eaten by Hunters though." He tugged the bag over Regaari’s head and sealed it. It instantly pressurised, filling with sweet atmosphere that was a welcome relief from the meat-tasting foulness he’d been breathing.
There was a little transparent window for him to see out of, and through it he saw two of the humans each stick a large brick of something to the outside station wall.
There was muffled speech, then shouting as the humans who had stayed behind retreated into the room, still shooting. They slammed and sealed the door--an instant later, a titanic detonation shook the room.
“Claymore?” the commander asked.
“Yep. There’s more coming, but they’re being careful now.”
“Right. Last seal check, blow it on my go.”
The humans scrambled to check each other’s suits, and all loudly declared them satisfactory, then the one carrying him turned away and hunkered down and….
Losing his hand turned out to be only the second most violent thing that happened to Regaari that day. The first was any station-dweller’s nightmare-- the total catastrophic failure of an outside wall, and the resulting depressurisation that flung them and everything else in the room out into space. Crushing G-forces caused him to black out for a second.
"Hey. Hey, you still with me in there?"
The voice was coming from a small hand-held device attached by a coiled wire to the same panel on the inside of his bag that was providing Regaari’s breathable air. Tinny and quiet as it was, it still seemed loud inside the bag, which was basically silent apart from the faint sounds of the air being exchanged and of Regaari’s own body.
He grabbed it and tentatively pressed the button on the side. “Yes. I’m still with you.”
"Good news, man. We’re alive and reentering just fine."
Regaari had to produce a bitter chirp at that one. “Oh, yes. Everything is absolutely perfect.” he commented.
"Better than being eaten. What’s your name, compadre?"
“Regaari. Officer Regaari, of Clan Whitecrest.”
"Cool. Call me Warhorse."
Regaari pushed his nose up to the window of his bag, which was now a taut cylinder. He could just make out the human’s arms on either side of him and beyond that, only Capitol Station and tumbling, burning lights. 'Warhorse’ sounded more like a codename to him than the human’s real name, but he wasn’t going to argue. Goodness knew, he’d gone by plenty of assumed identities in his duties.
“So. Atmospheric reentry without a spacecraft.” he said. “I assume this suit of yours is equipped for it?”
"Technically, everything about this suit is so classified I can’t tell you shit about it, man. But, y’know, you’ll figure out if it is or isn’t by the way we do or don’t burn up." Warhorse told him.
“How comforting.”
"Hah!"
They fell in silence for a while. There was a pale blue glow just building up past the limb of Warhorse’s limbs when Regaari finally spoke. “I’m curious. Why?”
"Why…what, man?"
“The Dominion’s treated you-” he spoke in English as best as a Gaoian mouth could “-like shit. You lost a presumably elite soldier today…"
"One of the very fuckin’ best." Warhorse agreed. There was an emotional edge to his voice, but Regaari couldn’t interpret what that edge might be. Not that it was difficult to guess.
“Not to…belittle his sacrifice.” he said, carefully “But why?”
"Hey, I don’t know the why of it, man." Warhorse replied. "But my whole thing is saving lives. That’s, like, my job, my purpose in life. So, I’m just doing what I do, you know?"
“You lost a man.” Regaari repeated.
"Yeah. And I’m going to miss him like crazy, he was one of my brothers, man. But we SAVED like…what, fifty? Sixty?"
“That many?”
"Something like."
“Still, risking twelve elite human soldiers to save fifty or sixty ungrateful politicians…”
"A life is a life, man. Doesn’t matter if it’s human, Gaoian, Kwmbwrw, or that little grey fuck on Baseball’s chest."
There was a flicker of orange light. “Re-entry plasma?”
"Yeah. Forcefield should handle it just fine. Sit back and enjoy the fireworks."
“Ah, fireworks.” Regaari nodded. “I had a human friend once. She showed me video footage of fireworks. I always thought it would be fun to see them.”
"Human friend?"
“Shoo.”
The translator spat out Warhorse’s response in the form of the Gaori word for “footwear” with a questioning uptick.
“Her real name has this awkward sound at the start. Like shhh but more…buzzing."
“…Wait, not Jew? You had a Jewish friend?"
“I don’t know what that is. Her name was a longer and…flatter sound. She said she was Chinese-Canadian?"
"Aah, right. Gotcha. Yah, most other humans struggle with Chinese names too."
The plasma outside was now a steady orange torrent. The bag’s window was clearly photosensitive because it had darkened to welder’s-mask black in order to protect his eyes from the contrail’s incandescence.
Then the shaking started.
“Is it…meant to do this?”
"You got me, compadre. This is the first time I’ve done this."
“Not even in training?”
"Too dangerous for training. Hold on!"
Regaari curled up, resisted the urge to let his claws out, and shut his eyes, wishing against all rationality that he could be a cub again as he and Warhorse became a fireball together, and fell.
The eternity of being about to die ended in a metallic noise, the wheeze of cloth against cloth, and a jolt nearly as violent as the one that had flung them from the station.
“What? What was that?!” he asked.
He hadn’t thought to press the button on the communicator, but now Warhorse’s voice came through to him from outside the bag, slightly muffled but no more than that. They had atmosphere. “Parachute. Worst part’s over, compadre, we’re almost down safe. You okay?"
“What’s left of me is doing fine.”
"Bueno. Last hit coming up in three…two…"
Regaari grimaced as there was a thump and several jolts, before the human fell down backwards, careful to let Regaari fall on top rather than the other way round.
There were some more metallic clinks, a rustling of fabric, and then the top of his bag tore off. Warhorse looked in. “You okay?” he asked.
Regaari climbed out of the bag as best he could with only one paw and collapsed on his back, gulping like a stranded fish. “I never want to do anything like that ever again.” he stated.
Warhorse just lay beside him and chuckled. The chuckle turned into a laugh and he surged to his feet and ripped off the helmet and mask of his pressure suit, revealing a stubbly fuzz of head-hair on deep nut-coloured skin. Still laughing he threw the helmet high into the air, shrugged off the parachute harness and rucksack, and then spread his arms and howled.
The noise was agony, a primal noar of defiance aimed at the universe which impaled Regaari’s sensitive ears and straight through into the pain centers of his brain. Warhorse seemed to have gone mad, jumping and swearing and punching the air, always returning to that same "WOOO!" sound. Regaari watched in alarm as the human did a double backflip in what must, to him, have been extremely low gravity, then stooped, ripped a stone from the turf that was as big as Regaari’s head and threw it hard at a nearby tree before collapsing, giggling, on his back.
The stone hit the tree with such incredible force that it lodged in the wood.
A second later, creaking, crackling, hissing and groaning, the tree fell over.
Warhorse’s laughter died and he sat up. “Jeez.” he said. “Did I do that?"
Regaari scowled at him. “This is the only known class two planet. You’re a native of a class twelve. You could probably ruin this planet’s whole biosphere just by breathing on it, if you aren’t careful."
Warhorse blinked at him then stood up. “Didn’t catch one word of that, man.” he looked around “Where the fuck is my helmet?”
Regaari picked it up and offered it to him, feeling his arm wobble from the weight.
“Thanks, man.” Warhorse wriggled it back onto his head, muttering angrily to himself. "Fucking amateur, Ares, don’t be stupid…Never remove your helmet, dumbass."
“I said." Regaari repeated, when it was back on and the translator was working again “That we’re standing on the only known class two planet in this galaxy, and you’re from a Class twelve. You could do serious harm if you’re not careful.”
“Shit.” Warhorse nodded agreement. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“You’d better not do that either, or you’ll definitely kill this world." Regaari added.
“I know man, I live on Cimbrean.” Warhorse told him, twisting the helmet back and forth until it was firmly in place and the docking collar re-engaged with a solid 'snap!’
He checked it was seated properly by throwing his head back and forth a bit and wriggling his shoulders. “Thanks for the reminder, though.”
“How heavy IS that helmet?” Regaari asked.
“Twenty-five pounds base weight.” Warhorse replied, “Which, yeah. Sucks.”
He rearranged some of his equipment and shrugged the ruck on again as if it was nothing, causing Regaari’s boggling over the helmet to intensify. He’d experienced for himself just how strong Xiu had been, but between the stone, that rucksack, and the easy way he had carried Regaari himself and all that other gear back on the station, it was plain that Warhorse vastly outstripped her.
The human pressed firmly on the side of his helmet. “STAINLESS, WARHORSE.” he announced. “Arrived DZ, one healthy ET in tow, I’m at, uh…” he checked the device in his hand and reeled off a string of numbers. “Seeking cover and awaiting orders.”
There was silence for a few seconds and then -
"WARHORSE, STAINLESS. I have your DZ. Seek cover, rest up. Turn to tac-net three niner four Tango November Juliet and await further. Out."
Warhorse grunted and looked around, scanning the horizon with those predator’s eyes. “There.” he pointed. Regaari squinted, and could see the shimmer of water cascading down a rocky outcrop, carving a little tree-haunted valley.
“How far is that?” he asked.
“Eh, three clicks or so. I jog further than that before breakfast.”
“Ah, yes. Human endurance running.” Regaari sighed. “I’m going to slow you down, aren’t I?”
“Nah, man. Climb on.”
Regaari flattened his ears disbelievingly. “You can’t be serious.”
“Gravity this low, I need something to weigh me down" Warhorse replied. “Besides, what do you mass, like ninety pounds? I could lift you one-handed in twice this gravity, no problem.”
The translator fed him a Gaori measurement that sounded about right, so he nodded, imitating the gesture he’d often seen Xiu use. Warhorse just returned the gesture and waved a hand towards the pack on his shoulders.
Regaari paused, then twitched his whiskers resignedly and did as the human suggested, clambering up the bag to sit atop it. It wasn’t dignified, but Warhorse didn’t appear to notice the extra weight.
“Man, we should put a machine gun up there for you or something.” he chuckled.
“How about optics, or that map of yours?” Regaari suggested.
“Good thinking. Binos are in that front pocket there.” Warhorse handed up the map device. It was alarmingly short on detail, and Regaari said so. Warhorse just nodded. “Relax, intel’s got our back. We’ll have a better map pretty soon.”
They headed out. Warhorse quickly settled into a steady rhythm of big, long bounding strides that ate up the ground, and just kept going. It wasn’t quite running, so much as a vigorous, fast march, and it was deceptive. Regaari wouldn’t have guessed they were moving very fast, but when he glanced behind them he saw that their landing site was already distant, and receding.
He played with the 'binos‘, adjusting their width, having to set them to their widest to fit his own face, but once he did so and toyed with the wheel on top and its functions, he swiftly got the hang of it. It was…strange, handling a piece of human technology, made by humans for human use. It certainly didn’t feel like a lower-tech species’ gear, either. It may have lacked a few of the advanced features that he’d have found in a Gaoian equivalent, but optically it was superb. The only real burr in his fur that he could find to complain about was their heaviness.
Warhorse wasn’t even breathing heavily when they stopped again.
Regaari chittered a little on a surge of cynicism. Their resting spot was as stereotypical of a low-class world as could be--a gentle glade fed by a clean bubbling stream with a pool in which slender, silver little fish were undulating. Idyllic.
Warhorse ignored it. Instead he let Regaari off his back and shucked off the ruck, before examining the dressing on Regaari’s arm. “Any pain or itching?” he asked.
“No. But it feels like the paw is still there.” Regaari said. It was a strange sensation, he could still “grip” and move his “fingers” but of course nothing happened except that what was left of the muscle sheath in his forearm twitched pathetically as it tried to flex and twist to pull on the now-absent tendons of his now-absent paw.
He sat down and stared at the dressing as Warhorse made a satisfied noise and pottered about, setting up a basic camp.
“You okay?” he was asked after a while. Regaari chirruped a bitter little laugh.
“I’m supposed to be one of the elite.” he said. “Clan Whitecrest, foremost commandos and security specialists of the whole Gaoian species, but next to the Hunters I may as well be a cub. Next to you…"
Warhorse had set up next to the pool and was digging through his bag. “Nah, man. You’re a fucking badass.” he replied.
“What was that expression? Pull the other one. Only, please don’t because I’d like to get off this planet with at least three whole limbs."
“Totally serious, compadre. What did you do to that hunter? Clawed out two eyes and spat in the third? And that was a fuckin’ Alpha. You’ve got spirit, bro."
Regaari snorted. "Spirit doesn’t count. Only results matter." he snapped, dismissively.
“You got the result, though." Warhorse said. When Regaari twitched a disbelieving ear at him, he nodded insistently. “Seriously. You’re alive. You held out long enough for the cavalry to reach you and you saw that son of a bitch dead. Result."
“You’re just trying to pep me up.” Regaari told him.
Warhorse nodded. “’Course I am. Best way to do that’s with the truth, though. You’re still kicking, it’s not, and the difference was you going down swinging. Spirit gets results, man.”
Regaari sat silently and watched. The human soon made a satisfied noise and pulled out a handful of flat brown packs of some kind, and scooped up some water from the pool in a little bottle. There was a pump of some kind in the bottle’s end, and after a few enthusiastic strokes of that, the water was forced back out through the filter nozzle.
“Are you…filtering and purifying that?" Regaari asked. “This is a class two planet, you don’t need to.”
“Basic survival rule where I’m from, never trust the water.”
“We’re not on where you’re from.”
Warhorse paused, then shrugged. “Eh, a good habit’s a good habit.” He held up the little brown packages from the ruck. “Hungry?”
“You’re eating now? We only just landed."
“Every chance I get. Never know when the next opportunity’s going to arrive in a situation like this.”
“But how are you going to cook it without a fire? If you build one, won’t the Hunters-”
“Relax, we got that covered. Besides, there’s a long way to go ahead of us, I’m going to need the nutrition, whereas the Hunters only might come looking for us."
“Oh. Well, I do like human food…”
“Eh, this is just an MRE, not fine dining. Kind of the tastier alternative to those ration balls.” Warhorse said, opening the package and tipping most of the contents out onto his lap. He tipped a little sachet of white powder into his bottle and shook it, turning the water a vivid pink, then took off his breathing mask and sipped it.
“What’s that?” Regaari asked.
“Juice. Electrolytes, sugar, hydration.” Warhorse sipped again and licked his lips, frowning. “Supposedly it tastes like cherry.”
“Supposedly?”
“Look, you want one of these to try? Because I can eat whatever’s too much for you.”
“…If it’s safe.”
“It’s all been treated with gamma radiation man. Totally sterile, I promise.”
“Then…yes please.”
Warhorse nodded and examined the available options, “…I warn you man, this shit’s…this is the high-performance version, it’s meant to get a fuckload of energy into me first and foremost. The culinary experience is, like, a distant second.” he pointed out.
“I’ll try it anyway. You’re right, nutrition in a situation like this is important.”
Warhorse nodded, and stuffed the rest of the MREs back into his pack. “Damn right.” He ripped the top off a couple of transparent plastic bags, slipped the unappetizing green pouches of food inside, and then added a little water before returning the bags to their cardboard box and leaning them against a rock. Within seconds, steam was rising from the boxes.
“How does that work?” Regaari asked.
“Chemical reaction.”
“Clever.” Regaari commented. “No flame, no smoke, minimal heat signature.”
“That’s the idea.” Warhorse agreed.
Regaari watched him cook, silently calculating how to eat his meal one-pawed. His nose twitched involuntarily when Warhorse kneaded a little sachet and then spread the off-white paste it contained onto his dry crackers--the scent thus unleashed was creamy and rich, hinting that his dismissive assessment of the meal’s quality had probably been unfair.
Sadly, when Regaari sampled the crackers while waiting for the main course to be ready he was sorely disappointed, and Warhorse was right--while the beverage was clearly supposed to taste like fruit, what it mostly tasted of was chemistry.
“What’s this?” he asked, opening and sniffing it. The scent was pungent and sugary.
“’s called a HOOAH! bar.” Warhorse said. “I wouldn’t, man, that thing’s got, like, a thousand calories in it.”
The translator paused while translating that figure, and Regaari could see why. It must have been doing an internal error-check to make sure there wasn’t some mistake. That was half a week’s nutritional intake for a Gaoian male. “That many?”
“Yep.” Warhorse took the bar off him and bit into it, chewing vigorously. "Giveff your jaw a workout, too." he added, around the mouthful.
“Exactly how many calories do you need?" Regaari asked.
“Me, on a light day? At least ten thousand or so.” Warhorse replied. “But this is gonna be a really active day, so…a lot more. Anyway, main should be ready.”
Between a small rock and leaning the bag against what remained of his left forearm, Regaari was able to hold it steady enough to poke at it with the spoon. While it certainly looked appetising enough, his nose was practically being overwhelmed by the rich scent. He tried it.
One mouthful was enough. “Great…Father Fyu!” he coughed.
Warhorse just laughed. “You okay?”
“It’s like eating a candle!”
“Like I said, man. Performance first, pleasant eating experience second. Don’t worry, you gave it a pretty good go for an ET.” he said, ripping his own bag open and mixing in the contents of a tiny glass bottle of red sauce.
Regaari licked the sauce out of his fur, regaining his composure. “ET?”
“Extra-Terrestrial. It’s a friendly way of saying 'non-human’."
“You have other ways?”
“Sure. 'ET' is friendly, 'non-human' is all formal and proper, and 'xeno' is an insult."
Warhorse inhaled most of his meal in three efficient scoops. "Ffo- thiff human friend off yourff." he said, around the mouthful, before swallowing. “Joo?”
“Close enough.”
“How’d you meet? There’s not a lot of us out here. She an abductee?”
Regaari made an affirmative ducking nod. “Yes, about…eleven Gaori years ago now, one of our settler transports was raided by mercenaries working for an-” he raised his paws and made a 'finger quotes' gesture that Xiu had been fond of, only realising that the effect was spoiled a little by his missing paw after he’d done it. “’Unauthorized researcher’."
He snorted. “So the Corti Directorate claims, anyway. They killed all the males and abducted the females and cubs.”
Warhorse’s expression darkened, even as he leaned over and stole Regaari’s leftovers. "Coño de madre." he snarled. The translator didn’t seem to have a readily available equivalent, but the intent was clear.
“Shoo was picked up separately, but kept in the same holding cell.” Regaari continued. “Thanks to her, they were able to escape.”
“Where do you come in?”
“There was…political fallout. Ayma--the leader of the abducted females--fought fang and claw to get Shoo adopted into the Clan of Females. Most of the other females sided with her, of course, but some of the male clans…”
“Yeah?” Warhorse took another mouthful "I thought you guyff mofftly went along with the Femaleff?"
Regaari chittered. “I thought 'you guys' were dangerous disease-ridden predators?" he countered. “Granted, many of the clans are ruled more by their testicles than by their brains, but the females don’t hold absolute power, just a strong influence. They may hold the veto, but they still want to mate as much as the males do."
Warhorse chuckled again. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” he agreed. “What did you think?”
“I didn’t. I was too focused on the blow to my career.”
“Your career?”
Regaari made an uncomfortable noise. “It’s…complicated.”
“I’m a medic, compadre. I can handle complicated."
Regaari wobbled his head sideways in a 'fair enough' gesture. “I…had some disagreements with the clan.” he said. “This was early in our negotiations with the Dominion, and I was part of the inquiry into the missing transports. We had all of the circumstantial evidence we could have wanted that proved there were Dominion species involved, and that this 'unauthorized' researcher was anything but, but nothing concrete. Meanwhile, I found out that the Whitecrest Clan--and several other powerful Clans--were all preparing as if our membership of the Dominion was a foregone conclusion. Buying shares and equipment, training and indoctrinating our new Brothers a certain way, that kind of thing."
“You suspected corruption in your own ranks?” Warhorse guessed.
“No. I wasn’t so cynical back then. I was appalled, of course. As far as I was concerned, even circumstantial evidence that the Dominion was involved in our transports going missing--and complacency is collusion, as far as I’m concerned--was reason enough to abandon the negotiations on the spot and approach the Celzi Alliance. Of course, now I know that the Alliance is just as bad, but…”
He shook himself. “…Rather than discussing the matter with some of my more seasoned Brothers, I took it straight to one of the Fathers, convinced that it was an honest oversight, and that when they saw the evidence we had gathered, the mistake would be corrected.”
“Bad move?”
“The Father I approached was one of the…hmm…quiet conspirators. Not one of the obvious beneficiaries of the deal, but still very much involved, and who stood to gain.”
“What happened?”
“He promoted me.”
Warhorse paused in pouring the last of the gravy into his mouth. “Come again?”
“To the rank of Whitecrest attache to the Mother-Supreme, part of her executive staff and, if need be, her bodyguard. A prestigious career move, on the face of it. The reality…” he sniffed.
Warhorse just sat and listened, so Regaari pressed on. “The reality was I was now not involved in the investigation, was no longer part of the Clan’s decision-making process, was a pariah in the inner circle and, though I theoretically had the ear of the Mother-Supreme, actually using it might have been seen as meddling in Female affairs, which would have politically and reproductively ruined me.”
“They de-clawed you.”
Regaari winced. The turn of phrase was intimately disturbing for Gaoians. “That’s an…accurate description.” he conceded.
Warhorse nodded his understanding, starting in on the second HOOAH! bar. Regaari shook his head in disbelief. “What do you have in there? A black hole?"
“So what happened?” Warhorse asked, ignoring the jab.
Regaari grinned, emulating the human gesture. “Shoo did.”
Date Point: ten years earlier, 12d AV
Yei Wa City, Wi Ko Yun province, Gao
“So why are you bringing this to me, and what is it?”
Kinoro’s ears swiveled uncertainty. “Security footage from the Corti facility those females escaped from.” he said. Regaari’s own ears signaled his skepticism.
“I’m not involved in the investigation any more, remember?” he pointed out. “Father Taaru saw to that.”
“This is…relevant. We may need you to, ah, influence the Mother-Supreme."
Regaari’s ears flattened. “This footage had better give me a compelling reason to do so.” he said.
“You’ve heard that the leader of these escapees, Ayma, is petitioning to have the alien recognised as a Sister?”
Regaari ducked his head. “Yes.”
“This is footage of that alien in combat.”
They watched it. The alien was very definitely alien--long of limb, compact of body, and remarkably poised, but it wasn’t until she almost ripped one of the Locayl jailers in half that the source of that poise became apparent.
“So strong." he muttered, watching as the alien darted across the room and practically flattened the second Locayl.
“We’re still working on theories as to how biology like that is possible.” Kinoro told him.
Regaari watched as the footage cut to the alien female cutting a swathe through an assorted grab-bag of the galaxy’s mercenaries. “What’s the best one?”
“I’d bet five years of celibacy that the Dominion’s assertions that deathworlds can’t support intelligent life is wrong.” Kinoro replied.
“Plausible.” Regaari conceded.
“And terrifying.” Kinoro continued. “If I’m right then that…thing…is a bomb waiting to explode."
“Is she? Look here, she’s fighting differently now that she’s figured out the strength disparity.” Regaari slowed down the footage to point out the subtle changes in the alien’s fighting style. “Wounding, rather than killing. Showing restraint, despite not having a good reason to.”
“I’m sure its compassion will be a great comfort when the deathworld plagues it undoubtedly carries get loose on Gao and kill millions of our people.” Kinoro sniped. “Billions, perhaps.”
“Have any of the females shown signs of infection?”
“…No. None.”
“Then you know what I see, Brother? I see a poor pre-contact life form, who- knows- how-far from home and probably feeling very confused right now.” Regaari looked his Brother in the eye. “And I intend to say as much to the Mother-Supreme.”
“You’d defy our clan Fathers a second time?”
“What will they do, crown me the Emperor of Gao and call it a punishment?” Regaari scoffed.
Kirono growled. There was a flash of teeth before he restrained himself--in older and less civilized times, that would have inevitably led to a snapping, claw-bearing fight. “Your own Brothers and Fathers… ” he began-
“Are wrong, Brother.” Regaari interrupted, ejecting the little crystalline data wafer that Kirono had brought him, and pocketing it. “I’m loyal to the clan, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree with the Fathers automatically.”
“You DO have to obey their orders, though.”
Regaari’s ears pricked. “They’re ordering me to influence her?" he asked.
“Well…no…Not ordering as such…" Kirono backpedalled, and with good reason. The whole clan’s mating fitness would suffer if the Females felt that Giymuy was being bullied by the Whitecrests.
“Then I shall use my best discretion and judgement.” Regaari asserted. “Just as the Fathers trained me to.”
Date Point: 10y AV
Planet Garden, Capitol System, Dominion Space
“You fought back.” Warhorse observed.
“You’re damn right I did." Regaari said, spitting the English word. He couldn’t see Warhorse’s mouth any more--the human had replaced his breathing mask and was reclining against a rock, but he saw the way the skin around his eyes and face stretched and wrinkled. There was a smile under that mask.
“Dude, you’re fuckin’ scrappy, I like it!”
Regaari didn’t get the chance to respond, as the radio chose that moment to flare.
"Operation NOVA HOUND, STAINLESS. Our Evac’s arranged, see your tablets for RP Alpha. You have five hours to get there. Individual orders follow." there was a pause then: “_WARHORSE, STAINLESS. Your route to RP Alpha takes you near THOR’s projected LZ, and I can’t raise him. Determine his statu_s.”
Warhorse nodded, though of course his commander couldn’t see it. “STAINLESS, WARHORSE.” he replied. “Orders received and understood. Out.”
The second the link was cut, he swore, loudly: "Me cago en Dios!"
Regaari scrambled to his feet as Warhorse lurched upright. “Is that…?”
“I fucking pray his radio’s just out.” Warhorse replied. He scowled at the intel tablet, looked around to get his bearings, then grabbed the ruck. He’d diligently re-packed it after they were done eating, and Regaari winced at the sheer weight of it as the human shrugged it on before stooping and offering him two linked hands for a step. “climb on.”
Regaari didn’t argue. Wherever 'RP Alpha' was, it was nowhere nearby and he would just need to rely on Warhorse’s strength and endurance if he was ever to get out from under a thundercloud of Hunters. Warhorse handed him the binoculars and intel tablet as soon as he was settled.
“Keep me on course.” he said.
HMS Violent, Capitol System
Commodore William Caruthers
“You’re certain they’re after you, STAINLESS?”
There was a delay in the response. With the strike team having made an exoatmospheric exit from the station and abandoned the rescue operation, the fleet and spaceplanes had scattered to extreme distance and gone dark. In practical terms, with each one being most likely alone inside a radius of several light seconds, they were impossible to find. Violent was nearly six light seconds from the planet now, and that meant plenty of time to wait for the photons of their conversation to wing their way back and forth.
"Completely, sir." Powell’s voice was low-resolution and distorted by distance and the audio compression, but perfectly intelligible. "The weapons they fired at me looked like a ripoff of that Irbzy-whatever stun gun, but they were aiming the lethal stuff at the lads. They’ve got me pegged for a commander, and they want to know what I know."
“We’re prioritizing your extraction.” Caruthers decided. “The Yanks are at DEFCON two right now, with the armour the Hunters seem to be using right now it’s the only sure way to secure orbital supremacy long enough to extract you. STAINLESS, your men are secondary to the objective of preventing your knowledge from falling into enemy hands. We cannot afford to give them any more inspiration."
He counted out twelve seconds under his breath.
"Understood completely, Commodore. I also recommend that we ready an RFG strike to my suit beacon should my vitals show I’ve been incapacitated."
Caruthers turned to Violent’s captain and raised a finger with a nod, indicating that it should be made so.
“We’ll go at fourteen hundred hours as per your recommendation.” he said. “Good hunting.”
Planet Garden, Capitol System, Dominion Space
Regaari
“There. I see…” Regaari worked the focusing control as best he could one- pawed. “It’s hard to tell. A dark patch that shouldn’t be there, that way.”
Warhorse glanced up, and corrected his course, puffing like some ancient steam contraption from Gao’s early industrial era.
Regaari lost sight of the anomaly as the terrain dipped, and when Warhorse pistoned up the rise on the far side of that dip, Regaari nearly fell off him because the human stopped dead.
“Oh, no…”
Humans were so expressive in their grief. He’d seen it with Shoo, and now Warhorse was projecting his sorrow even through a bulky suit of fully enclosed armour. He sagged for a moment and then pushed forward, until they reached the edge of what was, unmistakably, a fresh crater.
The suit at the bottom of it was effectively intact, though it had been badly ablated by re-entry: blackened, melted and burned away. From the contortion of the limbs and the crushed flatness of the torso, its operator had not survived. Warhorse sat down with a thump.
Regaari climbed off him, sketched a gesture of respect with his remaining paw, and let Warhorse grieve. The same shields that had allowed Warhorse and him to reach the ground safely had plainly failed in Thor’s case, or else never deployed at all. In either scenario, the suit had demonstrated that it was a hideously tough piece of equipment, having reached the ground and still recognisably being the same object. To fall from space and leave an impact crater and STILL be identifiable? Not a pleasant way to die, but as a technical accomplishment it was daunting.
He hadn’t really considered what Deathworlder engineering might accomplish, before. Shoo’s intelligence and insightfulness had been obvious, as had her culinary artistry, but her sheer physicality and intensity had frequently overwhelmed those qualities, with the result that Regaari had simply never turned his thoughts to humans as engineers, builders and inventors.
He was still ruminating on the fallen suit when Warhorse moved, slowly raising his hand to the communicator on his shoulder.
“STAINLESS,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “WARHORSE. THOR is KIA. EAR field failure.”
“…WARHORSE, STAINLESS. Copy that. Did the field jump array he was carrying survive?"
“Uh…that’s a Negative, STAINLESS.”
"WARHORSE, STAINLESS…Grab a memento, mate. Destroy the suit and continue to RP Alpha. Out."
Warhorse stood up again, then stepped down into his fallen comrade’s crater and ripped something from the front of the ruined suit, a patch of some kind. He did something Regaari couldn’t quite see and then stepped back as, again, the suit began to smoke and then burst into seething, angry flames. There wasn’t much left to burn--the destruction was already pretty well total.
Warhorse sagged, and spoke to the charred thing in the crater. “…Vaya con Dios, brother."
He knelt and gestured Regaari up onto his back again, checked the intel tablet, turned north, and marched.
Warhorse was clearly in no mood for talking for most of the remaining distance to RP Alpha, wherever it was, and Regaari let him work in silence. Instead, he pulled out his pulse pistol and, with some difficulty thanks to his missing paw and the human’s steady gait, made a few tricky adjustments that he’d first learned when he was barely out of cubhood.
He was becoming seriously impressed with the medical technology the humans had brought with them. His missing paw should have been a source of debilitating agony. Instead, it was a ghost, a phantom presence on his wrist that felt, when he wasn’t paying attention, like the real thing. If nothing else, the anaesthetic in the dressing was highly effective.
It was probably designed for Deathworlders, he decided. That meant he was trusting the human not to have badly miscalculated and given him an overdose, but he was beginning to seriously trust Warhorse.
His thoughts were broken by the communicator.
"WARHORSE, LONGLEGS. I have eyes on you, pal, and you’re being stalked."
Regaari’s fur started crawling instantly and he put a hand to his holster. “Stalked?” he asked.
“Don’t look around.” Warhorse told him. "LONGLEGS, WARHORSE. Hunter?"
"Reckon so. One of the big fuckers that got STERLING. See that stream to your left? Take a water break, lure it out in the open when it catches up with you."
Warhorse looked left, and Regaari did the same. The surface of the stream in question was an invitation all by itself, and he realised he was growing really quite thirsty.
“Will do.” he said. “WARHORSE out.”
They paused. Regaari couldn’t sense anything amiss, but apparently Warhorse could, because he stood still, listening for a few seconds, then grunted and stooped by the water unclasping his mask.
Regaari watched. Where he would have had to lie on his belly to lap at the water--undignified and uncivilised to a modern Gaoian--Warhorse just carefully put his gun slightly aside, ready to have it up and firing at an instant’s notice, and dipped both hands into the stream to form a shallow bowl, which he raised to his mouth.
“Not filtering it this time?” Regaari asked.
“Appearances.” Warhorse muttered, not actually drinking the water. He tilted his head slightly. “Hear them?”
“Hear wha-?”
Regaari was interrupted by a pulse round, which glanced off Warhorse’s upper arm. From the size and sound of it, it had been a heavy pulse, the kind with enough juice to fling humans about and break limbs. Sure enough, even the winging blow spun the bulky Deathworlder around his axis and dropped him sprawling in the local grass-equivalent.
Regaari’s dive for cover saved his life. The bolt aimed at him would have reduced him to a nasty pink paste.
Warhorse was up, though. Aside from knocking him around a bit, the pulse weapon hadn’t apparently done anything at all to him except make him angry. He returned fire, gun producing a heavy slamming sound that Regaari could feel with each shot as a hammer-blow in his chest. One of the Hunters was torn to bits, dismembered by the firepower that ripped through it.
The other, as 'Longlegs' had predicted, was one of the big, grotesque, wet- red naked musculature ones, and it was layered in heavy shield emitters that spat and flashed as Warhorse’s bullets hit home but failed to penetrate.
It lunged forward and Warhorse took a smart step away as deadly fusion-edged talons raked out, neatly shearing off the end of the gun.
The Hunter was fast, nearly as much so as a human. Two pairs of those fusion claws swiped and slashed, and Warhorse survived only by throwing himself backwards and then scuttling away on all fours, staggering to his feet to gain distance. The Hunter followed, and that would have been the end of Warhorse and Regaari both, had a lightning bolt of berserk and mountainous Deathworlder not erupted from among the shrubs without any warning.
The Hunter had just enough time to register the existence of this new threat before it hit home, and after that there was no more Hunter.
“Coulda sworn you did better’n that in training, pal.” the cavalry declared, once the Hunter was in several pieces. Both men extended their gloved hands and bashed them together.
“These ones are gonna be trouble.” Warhorse replied. “I- LOOK OUT!"
The third Hunter--another big one--had a cloaking device and a plasma gun, and that would have been the end of Longlegs and Warhorse both had Regaari not shot it.
The humans, in fairness, took the way that the beast disintegrated in a horrible slap of wet matter in their stride, and did a thorough check of their surroundings for threats before turning their attention to Regaari, who was licking the burn on his remaining paw and kicking out the grass fire that was threatening to burst up around the glowing puddle that had once been his pulse pistol.
“Fuckin’ ’ell.” Longlegs declared, while Warhorse scooped up some water and dumped it on the ruined gun, producing a fog bank and an angry hiss. “The fuck was that?”
Regaari licked his burnt paw again. “If you know how to rewire a pulse gun the right way…” he said, then gestured to the nasty mess of former Hunter that was swirling away downstream. “You only get one shot, but better one shot that counts than a thousand that don’t.”
The humans exchanged glances. “I like this one." Warhorse said.
“I can see why.” Longlegs agreed. “We’d better get moving. They’ll know where their mates were. Our best bet is to get to the RP.”
“Right. Let me just fix his paw. He needs at least one working.” Warhorse agreed, then turned to Regaari. He grabbed something on his harness and the bag fell off, clearly designed for quick release. “Legsy, If you need ammo, check the pockets on the left side.” he added.
Warhorse’s thick, armored fingers were strong enough to accidentally crush Regaari’s bones to powder, but his trust in the human medic was well-placed. Warhorse’s grip was merely firm, and he applied the dressing with paradoxical precision and delicacy while Longlegs reported the contact to Stainless and grabbed some of the offered ammunition.
The process took only a few seconds before Warhorse stood and hoisted his bag back on. “Okay, hop up. That’ll do you for now. Let’s go.”
Regaari didn’t argue. Right now, the safest possible place in the universe seemed to be Warhorse’s shoulders.
RP Alpha turned out to be a cluster of buildings atop a gentle swell in the ground. the planet Garden was a park world, Class 2, with only the bare minimum of tectonic activity that was necessary for life to arise in the first place. It had no impressive rocky up thrusts or great slabs of broken crust resting at angles atop the layers below, only gentle swells and rolls and grassy hills.
“Ruins?” Warhorse asked.
“This planet used to be the embassy world for all species.” Regaari explained. “Then the station was built, and because it’s more convenient to dock with a station than land on a planet…”
“Right…” The humans paused to sip from their water supplies. The water was strangely coloured, like the instant juice had been. There must have been something in it to replenish them, Regaari supposed.
“Whose was this then?” Legsy asked.
“I don’t know.” Regaari told him. “My people are nearly as new to the galactic stage as yours, after all.”
“Right.” Warhorse repeated.
“STAINLESS, LONGLEGS. I have eyes on RP Alpha, one ET and WARHORSE with me.”
"LONGLEGS, STAINLESS. Better get down here quick, we’ve spotted ground forces approaching from the north."
Legs raised his binoculars to the north, and nodded, before turning to Warhorse. “Double time.”
“Hold on, scrappy.” Warhorse said, and set off at an actual run.
Regaari turned his own borrowed binos to the north, and felt his hackles rise. “They’ve got tanks?” he asked. “I’ve never even heard of Hunter tanks before."
“Tanks we can handle.” Legsy assured him. “Or rather, the angels can.”
“Mythical beings?”
“Nah mate. Fuckin’ spaceships.” Legsy raised his own binoculars and examined the approaching Hunter column as they jogged.
Regaari imitated him. “Why aren’t the Hunters landing directly on top of us?”
“Look up.”
Regaari did so. Nothing much happened for some seconds.
“What am I looking-”
He winced and shielded his eyes as there was a tremendous flash in the sky. It faded almost instantly, but left a purplish-green blob of afterimage behind. “…for?”
“Our angels have got orbital superiority.” Legsy’s translated voice had a note of satisfaction in it.
“Was that…?”
“Tactical nuclear…fusion warhead.” Warhorse spoke. He was labouring worse than Legsy, but then again he was carrying at least twice as much weight, and it certainly didn’t seem to be slowing him down. If not for his heavier breathing and the sheen of moisture beading on his face, Regaari might have guessed he was almost finding the run easy. “RIGHTEOUS’ll be…having fun, eh Legs?”
“Too fuckin’ right he will. Nobody ever gets to play with the big toys.”
“Fusion weaponry is not a toy!” Regaari protested.
“It is when it knocks those big swarmships out.” Legsy pointed gain. It was hard to see in daylight, but there were definitely distant bright trails describing stately lines in the sky. Wreckage, falling from orbit.
They burst from the brush and shrub and picked up the pace across the open ground around the buildings, pounding up the shallow incline onto a paved road surface.
"LEGS and WARHORSE, STAINLESS. I see you. Third building on your left."
Both men angled for it.
“Last in?” Legsy asked as they came to a halt in a heptagonal ground floor lobby. Eight other men were at work inside, taking the stairs four at a time in the low gravity as they shuttled ammunition and equipment higher up into the building.
“Nothing like a fuckin’ Corti on your back to make you want to get where you’re going ASAP.” One of the soldiers said. He and Warhorse exchanged one of those fist-slam greetings. “Yours seems cool.”
“He’s cool as shit! Scrappy, this here’s Baseball.”
“Scrappy? My name’s-”
“Nuh-ah, man. We’re on mission.” Baseball interrupted. “We’re using your war name.”
“…Scrappy seems like the kind of name you’d give a pet." Regaari protested.
“How ’bout 'Dexter’?" Warhorse suggested. “With the arm, and he’s a killer, bro.”
The reference--and Regaari knew enough about humans to know that it almost certainly was a reference or in-joke of some kind--went right over his head, but he decided that 'Dexter' sounded much more dignified than 'Scrappy’. “It’ll do.” he agreed. As he’d suspected, the humans all grinned behind their masks, indicated by a creasing of their eyes.
“Dexter it fookin’ is.”
This human could only be Stainless. He gave Regaari an interested look. “You think he’s worth summat, Warhorse?”
“He’s a soldier sir.” Warhorse declared.
“Right. If you’re up for it, mate, I need somebody up in a window keeping an eye on the Hunters. We’ve got a range marker a click out, a little bridge. Let RIGHTEOUS know when they start crossing it, okay?”
Regaari gave him a human nod. “Can do.” he declared.
Stainless handed him a communicator. “Press this bit to talk. It’s made for us so you’re gonna have to push pretty hard…”
Regaari squeezed it. As predicted it needed some pressure, but he could do it. “STAINLESS, DEXTER. Communications test.”
“Loud and clear, and translated too. Our evac’s incoming but we need air and orbit superiority first, that’s what the holdup is. When I call that it’s coming, head for the roof. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man. WARHORSE, Titan’s rigging explosives along the north road, resupply him. Legsy, nick BASEBALL’s SAW and get yourself set up in a ground floor window. Understood?”
Regaari snapped a “Yes sir!” that was identical to the two humans’. This seemed to meet everyone’s approval.
“Good. Go.”
Firebird
"Shuttle’s away, escort form up."
Rylee swung Firebird onto the little ship’s wing and, not for the first time, cursed that no Earth corporation had yet produced a satisfactory craft analogous to the role filled by the cheap, boxy models sold in their millions across the Dominion. It was a flying brick, spaceworthy and airworthy only by dint of excessive reliance on its forcefields. No jump drive, no emissions dampening, no nothing. If she’d had her way, they wouldn’t be using them.
She was going to have to use all the clout she could muster to get that shortage fixed.
They’d at least been able to slave the useless little thing’s navigation computer to the network that allowed them to warp and jump in the vicinity of their own gravity spikes by shutting the traps down just long enough. Without that, the ground-pounders would have been fucked.
They aligned, blink-warped, and the planet Capitol went, in an infinitesimal moment that contained nothing more than the suggestion of incomprehensible speed, from being a nigh-invisible turquoise dot in the infinite night, to a great curve of blue and white that filled half the world, garlanded by smashed swarmships.
The bastards were fighting back hard, and they’d learned a few tricks, but she indulged in a grim smile inside her helmet at knowing that they had lost only two TS/2s in the battle, while Hunter casualties must surely be numbering in the thousands.
“RIGHTEOUS, FIREBIRD.” She called. “We’re in your box.”
"FIREBIRD, RIGHTEOUS. Got an incoming heavy column down here, line up for an RFG drop on my call."
Semenza made an eager “Oooh!” noise. “I’ve always wanted to do one of those.”
Rylee lined up, while her wingmen swept out to clear the box of any lingering hostiles. “So have I.” she agreed.
<Delight> +Fusion weapons deployed via wormhole, too close to evade! ExoAtmospheric deployment of individual ground units! And the communications cyphers! I salivate to sink my teeth into those!+ The Alpha Builder was broadcasting joyous paroxysms like a messy eater spraying prey-blood all over its fellows.
The Alpha-of-Alphas radiated a good mood. It leaned forward slightly in its throne <Amused rebuke> +Continue to pay attention, and you will be fed further morsels I am sure. These deathworlders are not stupid, they will have many secrets in reserve that they have not yet revealed.+ it declared. <Regret> +A shame that Alpha-of-Many-Broods is going to escape capture.+
<Query> +You are certain?+
<Assertion> +It is the most likely outcome. They move with remarkable speed across terrain.+
<Observation> +The Broods are closing in on their refuge…+
The Alpha-of-Alphas gestured resignation. <Dismissive> +But we lack air and orbital control. There will be more deathworlder surprises. I do not doubt that the capture will fail, but we will learn more from it.+
It snarled, baring all of those vicious teeth. <Anticipation> +Every such secret gets us one step closer to devouring them.+
Dexter
Regaari set down the binos and gripped the communicator’s button for all he was worth. “RIGHTEOUS, DEXTER. They’re crossing the bridge.”
"DEXTER, RIGHTEOUS. Copy that, y’all watch this shit and tell me how much it hurts them."
Regaari’s fur rose a bit. The human 'Combat Controller’’s voice had been full of a kind of malicious anticipation which was equal parts infectious and worrying. “RIGHTEOUS, DEXTER…watch what, exactly?"
There was a pause. RIGHTEOUS was presumably busy. A few seconds later, he got back on the line.
"DEXTER, you sir are lucky enough to have a front row seat for the first ever deployment of a Rod From God. Enjoy the show. RIGHTEOUS out."
Firebird
“RFG dropped!” Semenza crowed. Rylee hit the retros and shared his glee at watching a tungsten-tipped steel bar the size of a telegraph pole leave them behind and streak down into the atmosphere.
“Shuttle escort, let’s follow it down.”
Dexter
Regaari first saw it as a star in the western sky.
It hung there, low and proud, drifting only a little to the north for nearly a minute, while a flood of Hunters crossed the little bridge he had been watching. He had been wondering what was so important about that bridge, but suddenly he saw the genius of it. Those tanks could only cross one at a time.
The star was drifting a little faster now.
Then it wasn’t drifting. It was a streak of light, a blaze of pure heat that-
He averted his gaze just in time, but even so the reflected flash off the back wall of the abandoned office he was sitting in was dazzling. When he looked back, he could see the ground settling back into place, and an expanding orb of displaced air and water vapour racing outwards.
It knocked dust from the floor of the office and shattered windows when it swept over them with a gut-punch of pure volume that ripped an involuntary alarm cry out of him. The bridge was presumably gone, as was the road for hundreds of meters on either side of it, though that was mostly speculation on his part--there was so much dirt and smoke hanging where the Hunter column had been that actually seeing the bridge itself was a fantasy. When he surveyed it through the binoculars, all he could see was a beige cloud and a lone hunter, broken and dying in the road.
He watched it expire, then put the binoculars down. His paw was shaking.
“Humans are crazy…” he muttered.
Alpha of the Brood-That-Builds
<Epiphany> +Of course! So simple, yet so effective! No need for dangerous and expensive antimatter, no need to mine and enrich fissionable elements! Just drop a steel pole from orbit! Beautiful!+
The Alpha-of-Alphas stroked a claw down one of the cables that connected it to the swarm. <Observation> +It seems…crude.+
<Insistence> +Crude it may be, but Alpha-of-Alphas, greatest one: This is the weapon with which we shall destroy them. With the resources needed to build a single swarm-ship, I can assemble enough of these to destroy a hundred cities.+
<Satisfaction> +Then this hunt has served its purpose: I tire of it. We will intercept that shuttle and kill them. Begin the dismantling of the prey-station. Meat to the maw!+
Dexter
Something didn’t add up, by Regaari’s reckoning.
Nukes notwithstanding, the Swarm-of-Swarms was immense, and the Hunters were always one step ahead of everybody’s best when it came to cloaking technology. If there was even a ship there for the humans to detect and nuke, it was there because the Hunters either wanted it to be, or else didn’t care enough to hide it.
Which meant that the humans didn’t have quite the orbital superiority they thought they did. Which raised two questions: Why linger and lose ships?
And why not just flatten the embassy compound from orbit?
He exercised a little creative interpretation of his orders and decided to keep watch out in other directions besides north. The Hunters hit by the 'Rod From God' weren’t going anywhere, and Regaari had seen enough intelligence on Hunter raids to know that they were far from stupid.
Quite the reverse. They had a uniquely sadistic cunning.
Which was why he was able to save the team’s lives. He was looking right at the dropships when they decloaked in the south, on final approach.
“Hostile contact, south!” he reported, desperately squeezing the radio until his claws creaked. Down below in the courtyard, he saw the Nova Hounds look up and south, then dive for cover.
The opening salvo of coilgun fire that marched up the street therefore did nothing worse than punch some craters in the road surface and knock loose some masonry. The humans, whether by luck or incredible reflexes, escaped unharmed, though Snapfire’s outer fabric suit ripped down his arm to reveal the armor scales beneath.
“STAINLESS, DEXTER, looks like…twenty Hunter dropships just decloaked two hundred meters to our south. They’re landing to drop passengers, the column to the north still isn’t moving.” He elaborated.
STAINLESS’s voice was tight, focused and precise. "Roger. Nova Hounds, reform the line, face south. WARHORSE, get the ETs upstairs. DEXTER, how many Hunters?"
“As many as three hundred, STAINLESS.” Regaari told him. The dropships took off again, engines making a tooth-grinding buzz as they angled up and over the roof. The Nova Hounds opened up a rippling volley of gunfire, which the Hunters returned with interest. The street became a bilateral hailstorm of withering firepower, pock-marked with craters and fallen concrete where the Hunter coilguns had blasted the architecture loose to create cover for the advance..
"Where are those dropships going?" STAINLESS demanded.
Regaari calculated in his head, and felt his ears plaster themselves to his head. “STAINLESS, DEXTER.” he reported. “They’re intercepting the shuttle.”
Firebird
"Multiple bogies! Where the hell did THEY come from?!"
Rylee snapped right and spat two short bursts at the new contacts. Anything coming in like that was definitely hostile. “Stay frosty! RIGHTEOUS, FIREBIRD, I have hostile aircraft on our approach vector, repeat, bogeys in the box!”
"We see them FIREBIRD, plan’s unchanged. Escort that shuttle."
Rylee threw them into a sideways drift to avoid a coilgun round. “Semenza, light ’em up!”
Semenza was proving his value again, his voice was as level and cool as a frozen lake. “No missiles, boss. We’re in atmo. EWAR only from me.”
“Shit, yeah. Call targets.”
“Called.”
Warhorse
“REBAR, Low on ammo!”
“I gotcha!”
The Hunters were using something that looked like an old Bren gun. Long- barreled, slow to aim and firing a steady rhythm of fat, heavy bullets that would have hit like a train if they found their mark. Thankfully, the monsters didn’t seem to know a damn thing about bracing or supporting the weapon correctly, and weren’t strong enough to handle the kick.
The human return fire, meanwhile, was savagely precise--every time a Hunter popped its head out of cover, it got blown away, and the cannibal fucks were losing half a dozen for every ten feet of ground they advanced, but there were a lot them still upright and advancing and the air was full of lead. Adam gritted his teeth as two alien bullets punched clouds of grey dust out of the concrete next to him and dropped, skidding on the increasingly gravel-strewn asphalt to fetch up next to REBAR, who slammed his last magazine into his M16 just as he arrived.
“Good timing.”
“Sure.” Adam left him four mags and then was up and running, delivering ammo to SNAPFIRE.
There was no time to think. With no gun of his own, there was only time to keep the others fighting.
Firebird
The TS/2s spread out then lanced in, picking Hunter strike craft and filling the sky with ammo, but their GAU-8/S guns weren’t really designed for dogfighting. Two Hunters burst, falling apart in rains of flaming metal, but that left twelve more.
The shuttle pilot was doing his part well at least. Every time the Hunters drew a bead on him, he skipped out of the way, usually creating an opening for the TS/2s, but he was under constant threat.
Four more bogies down, then a fifth. Rylee gritted her teeth against the G-forces as she shunted a jolt of power through the thrusters, sweating away precious capacitor reserves and saving the difference by pulling it out of the inertial compensators, sending them skidding across the sky, rattling as they hit the thermal coming off the RFG’s ground zero.
Two bursts. Two bogies down, five left. Four left as FIREDOG rampaged past her, gun howling. The Swarm’s technological superiority counted for squat when the human pilots had millisecond reaction times and could tolerate acceleration that would have killed their Hunter counterparts.
“Shit! That one!” Semenza’s cool cracked. Rylee saw why instantly--it was on the shuttle’s six, and the shuttle just didn’t have the agility to pull off the evasive manoeuvres that its pilot needed.
Only one way to save the mission. Her vision greyed as Firebird leapt forward on a lightning bolt of extra juice to the engines, drawing a groan from Semenza, then they sat on their instrument panels as she fired.
The Hunter evaporated.
The coilgun round that would have killed the shuttle instead took out Firebird’s left wing.
Stainless
"Fallen angel, fallen angel! FIREBIRD, going down hard!"
Somehow, Jackson kept her sled level on spitting and stuttering yellow emergency forcefields that spread out like the flaming wings of her stricken craft’s namesake. She fell in a glittering halo that lashed out and grabbed on to the buildings, bleeding off the hurtling wreck’s momentum by gouging out torso-sized chunks of concrete and steel from the buildings.
She still skidded half the length of the street once she hit, but the fields had done their job--she landed intact.
Powell cursed, then grabbed his communicator. “FIREBIRD, STAINLESS.” he demanded. “Any survivors?!”
The reply was a few seconds in coming, and came with a grunt of exertion. "STAINLESS, FIREBIRD TWO. Two out of two survivors, but my pilot’s leg is all busted up."
Time was tight, but they still had two able-bodied PJs on the team and the stricken TS/2 was on the right side of the line at least. “DEXTER, status of that Hunter column?”
"STAINLESS, DEXTER. The column’s still stopped at that bridge and reeling from the orbital strike. Minimal threat."
Powell had to admit, the Gaoian was proving to be worth a few multiples of his weight in gold. “WARHORSE, BASEBALL, secure that air crew!”
"On it!" The two young men promptly handed off their cargos of spare ammunition and got up and dashed towards the downed spaceplane.
“SNAPFIRE, REBAR, cover them, TITAN, Legsy, fall back and defend the door!”
All four men grabbed their own packs and hustled, falling back in a disciplined pattern under fire, covering each others’ retreat. That left only the combat controllers, who had formed a rifle team in the ground floor window, HIGHLAND, who was up in the third floor window sniping the Hunters wherever they tried to take cover, DEXTER, and Powell himself.
“CCTs to the roof.” he ordered. He touched the communicator again. “DEXTER, STAINLESS. Get to the roof.”
The Gaoian sounded relieved. "Yes, STAINLESS."
There was shouting from the door and the Protectors returned, with Warhorse carrying Rylee Jackson over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, trailed by her WSO. Her leg was a mess, flight suit stained crimson around where it had been cut open and field dressed.
“You’ve always got to be the centre of attention, don’t you?” Powell asked her, falling back on humour to cover his genuine relief that she’d not got herself killed.
She managed a weak, bravado-fuelled grin and extended a fist though she was sweating, shaking and tight-faced from pain. “Good to see you again, Stainless. Looks like your boys turned out okay.”
“Don’t fookin’ thank me until we’re home.” he replied, though he bumped her fist in return, then turned to Warhorse “Get her to the roof, mate.”
“Yes sir!”
More explosions sounded outside, punctuated by chattering gunfire. REBAR and SNAPFIRE fell back into view, firing back down the road before ducking for the door. TITAN was caught in open ground and three rounds sparked against his armour, knocking him off his feet. As he tried to stagger upright, a fourth round hit and penetrated and he collapsed, groaning around a hole in his abdomen.
Powell didn’t even need to give an order. Before he even had the chance, BASEBALL leapt into action, putting the pitching arm for which he was aptly named to work and hurling a frag grenade into the heart of the Hunter advance with such force that it lodged in one monsters’ chest, knocking it off its feet and sending the rest scattering for cover before it went off. He pounced on TITAN and dragged him into the safety of the building even as a burst of renewed firepower missed his head by inches before they made the safety of the doorway.
Fortunately, the Hunters weren’t braving the SAW yet, but that wouldn’t last long at all. Much closer and they’d be in Nervejam range.
"STAINLESS, HIGHLAND. More Hunter dropships decloaking, north. They’re mobbing us."
Powell grimaced “CCTs, where’s that shuttle?” he demanded.
"STAINLESS, STARFALL, It’s on final approach, landing twenty seconds. Got a lot of Hunter bogies coming in though, we need to be gone in one mike."
It would have been nice if time had slowed, if he’d had a minute to think through the options carefully. But the decision was foregone. Somebody was going to have to stay down here and hold the Hunters off long enough for the shuttle to take on passengers and dust off.
It was the kind of decision that Powell hated. He hated it especially this time because his options weren’t limited--there WERE no options. Both the CCTs were on the roof, Murray was three floors up, the two PJs had their hands full, and really, this was a job for a close-quarters combat specialist.
But that man was going to die. No maybe, no last-minute rescue. He was ordering a man to his death, and there was only one right option, because the alternative was for everyone to die.
He clamped down hard on his self-hatred and gave the order.
Dexter
The human shuttle pilot had nerves of steel, Regaari had to give him that much. Hovering level with a building’s roof while aircraft thundered overhead was…
He didn’t have time to think about it further. Warhorse emerged from the roof access door carrying another human in a flight suit and yelled at him, gesticulating with his free arm. "Dexter, get in the fuckin’ ride!"
Regaari scrambled in, squeezing as far in as he could while the Corti, Kwmbwrw and the humans piled in behind him. Being built to the scale of Dominion species, they still had plenty of room, but there was one missing, even though the ramp was coming up and they were ascending.
“Where’s-?”
Stainless shot a glare at him that could have eviscerated anybody in the shuttle. Then he leaned against the bulkhead, slid down it, put his head between his knees and his hands on the back of his head, and shook.
Master Sergeant James “Legsy” Jones
He would have liked to go down shooting and hollering.
There was no time for hollering. There was no time for anything. Just shoot. Just fight.
Just buy them time.
He’d taken BASEBALL’s SAW and fired it until the box was empty and the barrel glowing. That alone was enough. He saw the shuttle take off and streak into the sky. Mission accomplished.
Then he fought with his SMG until he ran out of magazines. The last of the TS/2 fighters jumped out with _thump_s of inrushing air, recalled once the shuttle was no longer in danger of being intercepted.
Then he fought with his pistol until there were no more rounds to fire. For honour.
Then he fought with his knife.
Then his fists.
He held out long enough to still be standing when the second Rod From God hit, sent to destroy the wreck of Firebird, and his suit.
The Hunters didn’t get the satisfaction of killing him.
+<Admiration>+
The Alpha-of-Alphas generated a mental note of disapproval aimed at the Alpha Builder, but the lesser being was not paying attention. It had watched a lone Deathwolder fight a hundred of its muscle-grafted experimental “Strongest Brood” warriors, and arguably win.
Everything from the biology, to the weaponry, armour and tactics spoke of wealthy fields of research to come. For a Builder, there was no greater anticipation.
If only that equipment had not been destroyed.
+<Deference> If the Alpha-of-Alphas desires it, this one can begin work on the next generation of innovations immediately.+ it suggested.
+<Blunt disinterest> Do so.+
The Alpha Builder pretended not to notice the emotional context. It simply stood, and departed, already mentally preparing the calculations and experiments.
Left alone in the dark and silence, the Alpha-of-Alphas finally indulged in an unashamed broadcast of its emotional state only once it was sure that there truly were no Hunters within broadcast range..
+<Admiration>+
Regaari
The strangest part was that they recovered, and how.
Caledonia’s flight deck was different to how he remembered it. The shuttle set down with a half-meter’s clearance in a space otherwise filled by crates, equipment, work benches, tool racks and a structure of piping and plastic sheets in the corner. Medics stepped in, carting the two wounded humans away on gurneys. Regaari’s amputation was examined and declared to be as clean and well-dressed as if he’d had it off in an operating theatre. There was nothing to be done for it, at least not that was available on the ship.
He barely paid attention. He was watching the Nova Hounds.
Once out of the shuttle, they had been attended to by technicians, who helped them remove the outer layer of their suits, revealing a variety of shades of browned and white skin, but uniform hair length.
Beneath that was the armour, gunmetal scales that clearly formed the bulk of the suit’s weight, as each man sighed a profound sigh of relief once they were off.
The suits were taken away to be dismantled, serviced and cleaned as a powerful musk hit Regaari’s nostrils. Each one of the Nova Hounds smelled of sweat, salt and exertion, and the dark grey bottom layer was black with moisture in several places. It was also, clearly, better than skin tight, as they had to wriggle out of it.
Warhorse’s had worn through at the left armpit. He just snarled like an angry beast, grabbed it with his right hand, and tore the underlayer right off his body in a ragged strip.
Regaari blinked. He’d known the human was strong, but seeing what that strength looked like was something else entirely. It was almost…ugly. Uncomfortably reminiscent of those red-raw Superhunters, he could almost see the strands and fibers of muscle under the skin, so many muscles. Bulging power in places Gaoians didn’t have places.
They surprised him further by removing their garments altogether and then retreating behind the plastic screen for a shower. Xiu had always been squeamish about removing her clothes, he remembered that. Even when bathing, despite being in the company of beings who biologically and psychologically couldn’t find her attractive, and despite that Gaoians viewed clothing more as being practical and useful rather than necessary, she had seemed to go to great lengths to avoid letting any more of her skin be visible than was inevitable.
The Nova Hounds didn’t seem to care. Though they did return from their ablutions wearing loose, comfortable clothing.
None of them had any kind of an expression. They just found an array of mats and blankets in the corner, and sat down upon them still and silent, staring at nothing.
Before long, every last one of them had fallen asleep.
Not long after them, Regaari found a spot near Warhorse, curled up, and fell asleep himself.
He woke to heat. It was stifling, humid and pungent in the flight bay, and his chest was already heaving and panting cool-ish air across his tongue before he woke up.
Somebody was making simple music by tapping steadily on something, which made a hollow metal thump. Somebody else was syncopating it by tapping on two or three other things--crates, equipment, the shuttle hull. There was an actual instrument involved, the twangy one that Xiu had called a 'guitar’. He didn’t know very much about human music, but he thought he recognised a genre called 'blues’.
He sat up.
“Hey. Wondering when you’d wake up.”
Regaari stretched. Warhorse was sat next to him against the wall. He was putting what looked like pictures back in his pack. “How long…?”
“Eight hours or so.”
Regaari sat up more. “I thought we were leaving Capitol?” he asked. “I was expecting to be in a Gaoian hospital by now. And why is it so hot in here?”
“We’re in low-emissions mode, containing our heat so the Hunters don’t see us.”
“Okay, but why?" Regaari demanded.
“They started dismantling the station. Guess we’re staying here to watch them do it, figure out why. Until then, we’re cargo.” Warhorse shrugged. “Sorry man. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on your arm and we’ve got a field hospital set up in the other bay. You’re in good hands.”
Regaari ducked a nod. “I know. And, I’m grateful. Without you, the Clan of Females would never have known who Giymuy’s choice to replace her as the Mother-Supreme is.”
“Is that, like, appointing an heir, or just a recommendation?”
“A recommendation. But one that’s usually listened to, from what I gather. I was only a few days old when Giymuy was appointed.” Regaari shrugged. He’d learned early on that humans and Gaoians had that gesture in common.
“Gonna have to be a few days, man.” Warhorse told him. “They’re stripping the whole station and…y’know, it’s a big station.”
Regaari chittered, a touch bitterly. “It’ll take them months to appoint a successor anyway, even with her recommendation." he said. “I’m going to miss her though.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yes. She wasn’t just somebody I worked for. If she’d been younger…” he trailed off. “Though, Ayma might not have approved.”
“This the Ayma that fought so hard to have your human friend adopted into the clan?”
“That’s right. She’s also the mother of my most recent cub, and.…She and I…” he made a little growling noise, the equivalent of a human clearing their throat. “It’s…complicated.”
“Man, I know how that feels.”
“I doubt it.” Regaari countered. “Monogamy is the norm in your culture. In ours, it would be something of a scandal.”
“You two are exclusive?”
“I’d like to be.” Regaari confessed. “I…haven’t told her as much. She and I went through a lot together, but I don’t know how she’d take it.”
Warhorse made a loud, explosive sound that was probably a laugh. “Oh, MAN. I definitely know how that one feels!" he exclaimed, then calmed. “At least, the going through a lot together thing.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Brother, I am the WRONG man for female advice.”
They sat in silence for a while, until Regaari noticed that Warhorse--and some others of the Nova Hounds--were giving him strange looks.
“What?”
“You’re panting.”
“Well…yes.” Regaari said. “That’s how we deal with heat. We pant, you sweat.” he gestured to the fact that everybody on deck was stripped down to the bare minimum they could get away with, and even that was dark wet and sticking to the skin.
“That’s amazing."
“Why?”
“Just…ah, man, it just triggers some weird instincts I guess. Forget it. Maybe we should fill one of these crates with water for you… ”
“Great Father Fyu, no.” Regaari protested. “Wet fur smells worse than you do.”
This caused Warhorse’s expression to get even stranger. It was almost like a smile, but wide-eyed rather than narrow-eyed. Regaari had no idea what it meant.
"What?" he demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Fine, keep your secrets.”
He endured the occasional smiling glance for a while longer, listening to the music while Warhorse sighed and retrieved a few things--hard copy prints of some kind--from his bag and began to flip through them.
“What are those?”
“Uh…Ah fuck it, you’re not human. This is Ava.”
Regaari scrutinized the pictures. 'Ava' had plainly set up and taken the images herself, and they were obviously a mating display. It was the only way to explain the curious poses and the odd choice of clothing, both calculated to show off her body to best effect while still hiding away those parts of her anatomy that he knew humans were peculiarly squeamish about. The prints had a slightly worn, often-handled look around the edges.
He had to admit, even across the species barrier, he could see the appeal. When you came down to the mechanics of it, there were only so many ways to be bipedal, and only so many ways to birth live young through a plantigrade biped’s pelvis. The four mammary glands on a Gaoian female were at the waist and small, as opposed to a human’s high and large pair, and the bald skin was totally unattractive, but the curve of flank and hip was almost identical, aside from being more pronounced in humans due to the larger muscles, shorter torso and longer legs.
“Not that I’m an expert.” he declared “but if I had the mouth for it, I think a wolf-whistle would be in order.”
Warhorse laughed at that, then sighed as he looked at the pictures again. “I hope she gives me a second shot.” he said, wistfully.
“A second shot? She turned you down?”
“We…went through a lot together. Then we went through a lot without each other, and I was dumb enough to think that she’d just…”
Whatever word he was searching for went un-found. There was a general looking- up and then standing-up as Stainless stepped onto the flight deck, rather more professionally turned-out than his men in a full body uniform of some kind, rather than the sleeveless, short-legged things the rest of the Nova Hounds were wearing. He was even managing the impressive feat of managing to look comfortable in the heat.
“Fall in.” he ordered, quietly. Everyone gathered around him in a rough half- circle, the Nova Hounds themselves at the front, and all of their technicians, attendants and support staff forming a second row behind them.
“First things first. Titan’s going to be fine. Was a nasty injury, but he’s had surgery and a Crue-D shot, so he should be up and about in a day or two. Major Jackson suffered a fractured fibula and some nasty lacerations, but her early prognosis suggests a full recovery and return to duty in due course.”
There was murmured relief, which fell silent again as Stainless raised a hand.
“We, uh-” he began, then cleared his throat. “We’ve had the unhappy privilege of watching three legendary men burn brightly today.”
Heads lowered. Regaari watched Baseball put his arm around Warhorse’s enormous shoulders and pull him close.
“All of our lights will go out in time.” Stainless continued. That mobile, malleable, expressive human face was alive with muscles wrestling under the surface, fighting to maintain dignity. “All of our journeys reach their end. What counts at the end of it all is how that journey was spent, and I for one will consider myself blessed that, for a while, I was able to journey alongside these epic three, and call them my comrades, my friends…and my brothers.”
He swallowed, lowered his head for a second, then raised it again and Regaari admired the strength that he managed to force into his voice.
“Let these mementoes enter the history of this new regiment, and mark the start of a tradition. We will never leave a man behind. Whether he comes back with his shield, upon it, or in keepsake only, he comes back. We all make it home, one way or another."
As nods of agreement created a gentle susurrus around the bay, he produced three small, battered items from his pocket.
“Staff sergeant Brady Stevenson. Thor.” He laid the little patch of cloth that Warhorse had salvaged from the crushed armor on the table.
“Sergeant First Class Leo Price. Sterling.” A metal tag on a chain.
“Master Sergeant James Jones.” Another swatch of cloth. “…Legsy.”
By now, all the seven men standing directly in front of him had their arms interlinked across one another’s shoulders or around each others’ waists. Around the bay, deathworlders were standing at attention, some fighting back their emotions, others displaying them openly.
Stainless took a deep breath. “It’s still early days for the SOR. We’ve been blooded today, and despite our losses, we acquitted ourselves superbly under the most difficult circumstances, in keeping with the finest traditions of our parent units.” He declared. “I expect that we will go on to great things in due course, which is why I’m going to conclude with what I hope will be the regimental motto, so listen closely. Remember this.” heads raised and gave him their full attention.
“…’What a piece of work is man. How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties. In form and moving how express and admirable. In action, how like an angel: In apprehension, how like a god!’"
He set his jaw and saluted fiercely. Every one of the humans present copied him. “When gods fall, we will remember them.”
Twenty humans spoke as one. "We will remember them."
Two torturous days passed, punctuated by a steady rhythm. First, a siren would sound, marking the moment when their orbit carried them below the horizon from the Swarm’s perspective, and the ship would wake up, flinging out its forcefields and radiating all of its accumulated heat towards the sun in a concentrated beam with breathtaking efficiency.
Regaari could actually FEEL the temperature drop, until he was comfortable again and the humans were sighing with relief even as their breath condensed on newly chilled air. Chores would be done, the water would be recycled and people would take comfort showers and use the latrines, making best use of every moment that the ship could operate normally before its orbit carried it back into line of sight with the Hunters and they were forced to endure another three hours of mounting heat and humidity as best they could.
In hindsight, not taking Warhorse up on that bath idea had been wise. He would have been shivering and at risk of hypothermia at the cold end of the cycle.
They spent the time watching movies, huddled around a tiny tablet computer in a way that must surely have made the heat worse, but at least it was entertainment. He wound up sitting on Warhorse’s shoulders again so as to have a good view.
Regaari had watched a number of movies with Xiu, and had mostly enjoyed them, though he had wondered what in Gao’s name she got out of ‘horror’ movies. She’d mostly watched them from behind her hands, squirming and occasionally shrieking while the poor traumatized Gaoians had been even worse affected. Humans could be dark in their storytelling it seemed.
He’d not watched a movie like this one, though. It almost had a Gaoian in it: too short, oddly proportioned, with digitigrade feet and strange facial proportions and markings that suggested a chromosomal disorder, and clearly built on Deathworlder anatomy, making him stockier and far stronger than any real Gaoian, but still…
"Why would you wanna save the galaxy?"
"Because I’m one of the idiots who LIVES in it!"
It was ridiculous, but also a huge amount of fun, and certainly distracted from the relentless heat.
He was required to check with the hospital set up in the bay on the opposite side of the ship every few hours, and was surprised when they removed his dressings--the stump underneath had healed perfectly, unbelievably fast, though who had snuck him a dose of Cruezzir, when and how were a mystery. When he got back to Gao, he’d be ready to receive a prosthetic the moment he landed.
Finally, orders were given, objects cleared away, loose equipment battened down and everyone settled down ready for the jump, which passed with a barely- perceptible jolt in his stomach.
At once, the cooling cycle started, and this time, the temperature stayed down.
The long wait was over.
Major Owen Powell
HMS Sharman had a few design quirks that had been intended to keep it inside the footprint occupied by the original camp, and one of these was its narrow hallways and corridors. The narrowest of which, Powell was certain, was the one outside his office.
Throw in that SOR men were universally large, and that made getting past one another a challenge sometimes, which was why he paused at the intersection on seeing Ares coming towards him. The younger man picked up the pace to squeeze past him at the corner.
“Shouldn’t you be seeing Ava, Sergeant?” Powell asked. “She’ll be worried about you.”
“We were just…organising the wake, sir.” Adam explained.
Powell nodded. “Good. And I’ll be bloody well upset if you lot don’t drink every drop of alcohol on this planet, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Powell exhaled through his nose, aware that he was going to miss having an NCO with whom he could get away with sharing a joke.
But then again, that hadn’t been the nature of his relationship with Legsy to begin with, either.
“Goodnight, sir.” Adam said, and turned to go.
“Ares…”
The young man turned to face him again. “Sir?”
“…Legsy and I were in the habit of sharing a post-mission drink. You’d be…very welcome to join me in keeping that tradition alive.”
Adam blinked at him, then nodded, swallowing. “I’d like that.” he managed.
“Come on.”
Powell unlocked his office and led the way in, visiting the top of his filing cabinet and retrieving a bottle of Glenfiddich and two cut crystal glasses.
“One for us, and one each for anybody who didn’t come back.” he explained, pouring just enough for there definitely to be whisky in each glass, but not enough that four of them would actually get either of them intoxicated.
They chimed glasses, and knocked them back. He was slightly impressed that Adam had no worse reaction to it than clearing his throat and a slightly pinched expression for a second, considering it was probably his first taste of whisky.
Powell poured the second pair of drinks. “I’m recommending Price for the Victoria Cross and Legsy for the George Cross.” he said. “And as far as I’m concerned, Jackson and Semenza deserve the Medal of Honor, they saved the bloody lot of us…but they’ll probably settle for less. There’ll be a few other decorations getting handed out too… .” He paused, and shrugged. “We’ll see how it goes. Not sure I care about medals right now.”
They drank again. Adam had the look of a man who wanted to ask questions but was restraining himself.
“You’ve got permission to speak freely right now, lad.” Powell told him. “Make use of it, I don’t grant it often.”
“Just…a question sir.”
“Go on then.”
“…How are you holding up?”
“Christ, remind me not to let you ask freely too often, you get right down to business, don’t you?”
“Sorry, sir, I-”
“No, no. Fair question…” He appreciated it, in fact. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and drank his third glass while he thought. Adam copied him. “I’m not…I try not to be a weak man, but ordering a friend to his death…" Powell put his glass down and reached for the bottle one last time. “It beats you up.”
“I’d be…kinda worried if it didn’t, sir.”
Powell poured again and nodded. “True. And it’d be a lonely fookin’ job if I didn’t get on with my men, you know? It just…it needs to be understood that the mission comes first. When it’s one man versus every man…I can’t, I won’t be fookin’ sentimental about it. I have to send the right man for the job…whoever that might be."
“I didn’t get that when I signed up.” Adam confessed.
“Well, what about now you know what it’s like?”
“Sir…speaking candidly?”
Powell handed him his glass. “I thought we bloody were.”
“Well then…if I was the right man for the job…I guess I wouldn’t just expect you to send me, I’d want you to."
Powell nodded, staring at his glass for a moment. “Aye. And I reckon Legsy would have said the same.”
They toasted and drank for the fourth and final time.
“Go on, Sergeant. You’ve better things to be doing and prettier people to be doing them with than commiserating with your commanding officer.” He said as he set his glass down. “I’m…coping.”
“Yes sir. Good night.”
“Good night, sergeant.”
“You’re approaching a commune of females and cubs, male. Who comes?”
Regaari knew not to underestimate the females who took guard duty outside the communes at night. Ceremonial though their role was, they took it seriously, and would be expert shots with those pulse rifles. Not that they ever DID shoot anybody, but it paid to respect that fact.
He halted in the light.
“Officer Regaari, of Clan Whitecrest.” he announced. “Formerly of the executive staff of Mother-Supreme Giymuy.”
“Regaari?” one of the guards stepped forward to get a better look at him. "Wā sāi! it IS you! We thought you were dead!"
He waved his left arm to show off his new cybernetic paw. “I very nearly was.” he said.
“You know him, Sister Myun?” The other guard asked.
“He is who he says he is.” Myun assured her. “I’ll escort him.”
“Who are you here to see, male?” the second guard interrogated him, clearly not satisfied with Myun’s reassurance. To judge from Myun’s resigned and impatient body language, this was nothing unusual.
Maybe he should court the young female after all…If nothing else, Myun would benefit from knowing she had allies.
“I’m here to inform the late Mother-Supreme’s chosen successor of her nomination.” He announced, picking the one of the three truthful answers he could have given on the grounds that it was probably the least controversial.
“Hrrmm. You may enter.” The guard finally stopped glaring at him, though she didn’t unwind exactly.
Myun just flicked her ears irritably and walked alongside him through the commune’s doors.
“Did she choose Ayma?” she asked.
“Yulna.” Regaari revealed.
Ayma’s voice made them both freeze on the spot. “That makes sense.”
She had been cuddling and rocking a tiny newborn in the moonlight, almost invisibly still, and chittered a little at the way both Myun and Regaari flinched. “Yulna’s a good choice. She won’t be afraid to speak her mind.”
“I will…leave you two alone, shall I?” Myun stepped away a little, out of earshot.
Ayma made an amused face. “That poor little Sister has watched too many human romance movies.” she declared.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, she’s convinced you and I are 'an item’, or something." Ayma growled a little, wryly. “You’ve seen those human movies, you how know they react. They get jealous over mating partners. That’s not us, is it?”
“Well…” Regaari’ paused, then nodded, burying his disappointment. “…No. You’re right. It’s not.”
She stood and gave him a friendly nose-rub, as of old and close friends. “I like you too much, Regaari. I’d hate to fall out with you over mating contracts.”
That, at least, was a dose of welcome, soothing cold water to balm his burned self-esteem. “You do?”
“Oh yes.” Ayma glanced up and down the commune concourse and then leaned in conspiratorially. “If I had to choose just one…wait, what happened to your paw?!"
She’d tried to take it intimately, and had found herself holding smooth carbon fiber instead of fur.
He grimaced at it. “It’s…a long story. I’ll tell you what happened over breakfast, if you’ll do me a favour.”
“Name it.”
“It’s about Sister Myun… ”
Starship ‘Negotiable Curiosity’, Deep Space
“I think we’ve found one of them.”
"One of them? I thought we were looking for a single escape pod?"
There was a sigh from the ship’s owner and commander. "Yes, Hzzkvk, we’re looking for a single escape pod, but the ship launched two."
Hzzkvk blinked at his Corti employer. “But…Bedu, if the ship launched two, why are we only after one?”
Bedu repeated his weary sigh. “Because the client is paying us five million Directorate Currency Units for the escape pod with one of your 'cousins' on it, and NOT for the other one."
“But why-?”
Mwrmwrwk interrupted him, saving Bedu’s headache from progressing any further. “Client says, client pays, we do. No more questions.” she snapped. Bedu nodded subtly at his Kwmbwrw pilot, thanking her.
“But-”
“Hzzkvk!” Bedu snapped, then mellowed his tone. “I tell you this as a colleague of three years: the subject of your species’ remarkable intelligence is the focus of frequent discussion among the Corti, and may I say that you yourself are a type specimen for the exact qualities that we find so fascinating. Nevertheless there is a time for not asking questions, and this is one such, hmm?"
Hzzkvk was practically glowing with pride. “Why…thank you Bedu!” he said.
“Indeed. Please be so kind as to man the scoop field should we need to bring them aboard?”
“Of course!”
Once the gangly blue shape of their junior crewman had left the bridge, Mwrmwrwk shot her employer a questioning glance.
“What?” Bedu asked her.
“I’ve never known you tell a direct lie before.” she said, quietly.
“Nor did I this time.” Bedu replied amiably.
“So…Vzk’tk intelligence really IS a subject of frequent discussion among the Corti?”
Bedu granted himself the luxury of satisfaction at his own cleverness. The Kwmbwrw was by no means an idiot herself, and that meant that if he’d snuck his veiled insult past her, then Hzzkvk would never notice it.
“Indeed.” he told her. “We often find ourselves wondering how a species so terminally dim ever managed to invent the wheel."
Mwrmwrk took a second to process that, then made a kind of fluttering, purring noise in her chest--her species’ equivalent of laughter. “I see…And, we’re coming up on the liferaft.”
“Does the transponder code match?” Bedu demanded, examining the little puck- shaped craft on his screen.
“Please.” She clucked, annoyed. “That was the first thing I checked.”
“Very good. Run the disruption and scan their contents.”
“Won’t they notice?”
“If they are who we want, it will not matter, and if they are not…well, they will never find out what happened. Please, run the scan.”
Mwrmwrk raised a hand to acknowledge the order, then followed it. A second later, data poured onto Bedu’s command screen.
“Three deathworlders, alas.” he noted. “All quite badly injured, too. Fine, stop the scan. We had better pick up that other ALV wake."
“Are you sure they won’t have noticed?" Mwrmwrk asked, already changing course. Behind them, the escape pod blinked away as the slight change in their vector translated to a separation of light seconds in a heartbeat.
“At most, they may have felt a sensation of time…having done something strange." Bedu conceded. “I doubt they will pay it a second thought.”
Demeter Road, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Adam Ares
The little wooden 'Eden' sign that Sara had once given them rattled when Ava opened the door. She paused on seeing him and then threw herself straight into a hug with such force that, despite the disparity between her mass and his strength, Adam had to take a step back to absorb her.
“Oh my god, Adam!” she couldn’t even fit her arms all the way around him. She’d been right: things had changed. “Are you okay? People are saying Legsy didn’t come back…?!”
“Yeah.” Adam nodded “He, uh…”
Ava made a sad, almost childish little sound of loss. “Are you…alright?”
“I wouldn’t have come back if not for him.” Adam told her. “Or Leo, either. They…None of us would.”
She retreated into the apartment and sat down on the couch. “Goddammit.”
Adam shut the door as he entered and sat next to her. “Yeah…”
There was a melancholy silence for a little while, which Adam finally broke. “Legsy…gave me some advice, before we headed out. This may not be the best time to follow up on it, but…”
“…What?”
“He…helped me figure out what you are to me.”
Ava blinked at him, then turned to face him, giving him her attention.
Adam took her hand. “You’re…this amazing, gorgeous, talented woman that I’d like to get to know better.” he said.
Ava paused, but then a smile broke through on her face like the dawn rising. “Yeah?”
Adam nodded.
Ava looked at him for a long, contemplative moment and then sighed, and he could see the tension and misery flow out of her as she wiped away a tear.
“…It’s a date.” she said.
++End Chapter 22++
While Deathworlders chapters will always be published completely for free, with the aid of my backers on Patreon I’ve now been able to take more time for writing! Pledging a single dollar per chapter gets you access to my behind-the-scenes blog where, among other things, I keep a running tally of each chapter’s word count as it’s written.
Other benefits may become apparent in due course…
Chapter 31
22.5 Interlude: Outlets | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date point: 10y 5d AV HMS Sharman, Folctha, the planet Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Major Owen Powell
It always rained in Folctha at night.
It wasn’t a downpour or anything. Just a steady, businesslike vertical wetness that neatly filled the role of precipitation, got moisture out of the cooling nocturnal atmosphere, and sluiced everything ready for the day to come.
Future shifts in Cimbrean’s biome as more and more of its native ecology died off and was replaced by immigrants from deathworld Earth might one day unbalance that neatly scheduled hydrological routine, but for now the rain was a nightly feature. Covered walkways and canopies were a feature throughout the town therefore, and the Royal Navy base of HMS Sharman was no exception.
Paradoxically, it seemed, the navy didn’t like getting wet.
All in all, it was a welcome relief from the fierce heat and noise, and the increasingly pervasive scent of alcohol.
Besides. Owen only did a good impression of an extrovert. Deep down, his was a soul who needed a little quiet and isolation, a little mental elbow room to make sense of the world.
Not that there was much to make sense of. Three of his lads dead, and an old comrade - a friend, even - ordered to take a fatal last stand so the rest of them could live. That he’d retained any composure at all when the rest of the lads had called on him to say a few words was down purely to iron discipline.
He’d had to deliver them slowly and deliberately, with lots of throat-clearing and swallowing.
Things had started off slowly, quietly and with no small amount of awkwardness. There had been tears and mostly the Wake had been an exercise in everyone sitting together in silence, and drinking.
Then somebody had said something - Owen didn’t even remember who - and there’d been a little laugh. Then there’d been a joke, a happy anecdote about how Stevenson had got his callsign. Murray had shared the story about Price being caught in a situation that had been truly innocent, but had involved a young mechanic, some WD40 and an eye irrigation and had looked to the Lieutenant- Colonel like, well…
Vigorous miming had ensued.
That had opened the floodgates, and by the time Owen decided that the heat was becoming too much for him, the lads had, in Legsy’s honour, bravely researched and attempted to sing a few Welsh songs, and that was a language which twisted the sides of the mouth when sober. When drunk…
Well, it was a tribute. Legsy would probably have been hugging his ribs laughing.
“Hey Owen.”
He turned and directed his ethanol-addled attention to a bench against the wall of the sports hall. It took a few seconds to get his focus right.
“Bloody hell. What are you still doing on this planet?” He asked, heading over. “Shouldn’t you be with your wing?”
Rylee Jackson raised her eyebrows at him and gesticulated with a beer bottle. “Some asshole shot up my ride.” she explained with forced lightness, and there was a fuzzy edge to her pronunciation that said she was about as drunk as Owen was.
He sat down. “You okay?”
“We lost two planes.” Rylee said. “Four guys. And I’m stuck here throwing a wake for them all by myself.
“What about Semenza?”
“Joe? Eh, he went out on the town. Said something about a place called Starling’s and getting laid.”
Owen frowned, interrogating his foggy memory for details about Folctha’s drinking establishments.
“…I’n’t that one a gay bar?” he asked.
“I hope so, or Joe’s gonna have a frustrating time.”
Owen blinked, then nodded. “Arright, fair.” He acknowledged. “What about you?”
“You ever fucked with your leg in a cast?” Rylee sighed.
“Can’t say as I have…” Owen conceded.
“Me either, but I’m thinking it won’t be easy, or much fun. So, here I am…” She swigged her beer. “…are you okay?"
“I’m still breathing.”
“That bad, huh?”
Owen chuckled at that, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I’m coping. I think. I just can’t… let it out around the lads, you see? Got to be The Old Man.”
“I hate that. Gotta stay strong, gotta keep up the dignified fucking façade… I suck at it.”
“Part an’ parcel of being an occifer.” Owen grumbled.
She grinned at him. “Occifer? Owen, I do believe you’re drunk.”
Owen gave her a mock-defiant, mock-offended and genuinely unsteady glare. “I defy you to find anybody, on this planet or any other, who can drink as much lager as I have tonight an’ not be a bit tipsy.” he declared.
“’A bit tipsy’? Dude, don’t give me 'a bit tipsy’, you my friend are drunk." Rylee scolded him. “And, so am I.” she added.
“Drunk then. Bet you there’s no fooker around who could drink that much an’ not get addled.” Owen challenged her.
“Fifty dollars?”
“Done.”
“Gaoians.”
Owen blinked at her. “What?”
“Gaoians. They don’t get drunk on alcohol, they just like the taste.”
“You’re taking the piss!”
“My right hand to God!” Rylee raised it. “Furry bastards can drink any human alive under the table and then they wonder what the fuck’s wrong with us, falling asleep and making fools of ourselves all over the place.”
She sipped her own beer. “You ever want to lose all your money, get into a drinking contest with Rocket Raccoon. Fuck, life is weird sometimes.”
“It’s a cruel fookin’ joke, is what it is.”
“And the punchline sucks…“Rylee agreed.
Owen nodded, and rested his head against the wall for a second.
“Hey… Owen?”
“Yeah?”
“You sure you’re coping?”
He opened his eyes again, and shrugged. “You know I had to watch a little girl die, one time.” he said. “literally watched her spirit go. Fourteen fookin’ years old… hardest thing I ever did was closing her eyes.”
Rylee just turned a little bit towards him and listened.
“I ordered a man I’ve thought of as a mate for years to stay behind for the rest of us a couple days ago.” He continued. “And I’m just… I’ve had a hard fookin’ time of it, you know? I’m tired, I’m beaten up, I’m mourning, but most of all I’m so fookin’ mardy I could rip something limb from limb.”
“…Mardy?”
“Angry. Raging. Fuckin’ tampin’, as Legsy God rest him would have had it. Next Hunter I get my hands on, all of its fookin’ mates are gonna feel what I do to it." He sat forward. “And when I finally get to fight back at those Hierarchy wankers… God show fookin’ mercy on the pack of ’em and fling ’em in the pit before I get to them.”
“…That’s a lot to keep in.”
“Got a better outlet in mind?”
“We could get you laid?”
Owen laughed, and ran a hand over his scalp. “Aye, that’d work.” he agreed. “Don’t know as I know anybody’s interested, though.”
“Oh, you do.” Rylee disagreed. “But her leg’s in a cast right now.”
Owen blinked at her as the booze haze finally parted enough for some insistent and slightly neglected social skills to finally get up to speed. She finished her beer and gave him a wink. “Unless you know some way to fix that.” she added.
“Burgess. Burgess! Baseball, wake up you daft apath!"
“Uh? Oh. Major! Uh… what can-?”
“I need to cadge a Crue-D patch and some rubbers. And keep your gob shut about it.”
“Uh… yes sir. Gob shut. Gotcha.”
“So… how long’s this gonna take to work?”
“…Might be a bit.”
Rylee giggled. “Wow Owen, you sure know how to give a girl a wild ride.”
“Ah, hush and utch up.” Owen settled in next to her. She was a fair bit smaller than him, but she was as solid as an acrobat. They fit warmly and comfortably together on a small bed, back-to-belly, butt-to-lap, knees-to- knees. “Think we’re both too drunk anyway. Your leg’ll be better in the morning.”
She laughed quietly. “You’re planning as far ahead as the morning?"
“Part an’ parcel of being an occifer.” He rested an arm lightly on her waist, and she wrapped her own arm around it to hold his hand. “Besides. Leisure day tomorrow. Plenty of time.”
“Mmm…” she yawned. “This is good too…”
“Aye.”
She made a sleepy, comfortable noise. “You’re right… may as well… have a clear head. Enjoy it more that way…”
She fell asleep.
In the dark, Owen smiled sleepily at the back of her head, stroked his thumb against her hand, and put his head down. The world was a better place with somebody warm in his arms.
He didn’t need long to copy her example.
Chapter 32
Chapter 23: “Back Down To Earth” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 10y2m2w AV
HMS Caledonia, Deep Space
Adam Ares
“Okay… Murray?”
“He’s a fucking ninja, but he never watches his surroundings properly; too focused on the goal. Claymore, tripwire, something like that. Force him back into it with a couple of Aggressors, or maybe lure him into it by being a tempting target.”
“Makes sense… What about you, Vandenberg?”
“Me? I wouldn’t last two seconds in CQB against an Aggressor. And hey, that way they could maybe live-capture me, get the implants out again.”
“Just what the hell are you boys talking about?”
The five of them turned. “Hey Kovač.” Adam smiled at her. The diminutive blonde NCO in charge of biomechanics and EVA system life support gave him a friendly wave, though her attention was on her tablet.
“pH balance check and last QA, guys.” she announced. “Show me your butts.”
They dutifully turned around with an assortment of chuckles, presenting the life-support packs that rode low on their back and pelvis for her to assess with her tools. “So what were you guys talking about?”
“Uh, what we’d do if one of us was biodroned.” Firth told her.
She shuddered. "Yuurgh. Just the thought of that…!"
“I know, right?” Baseball agreed. “Fuckin’ shoot me, if it ever happens to me.”
This sparked universal agreement. “So you’re basically having a 'who would win in a fight?' conversation." Kovač noted. “Very macho. You’re good, Firth.”
“Yeah, but this way it’s practical an’ shit.” Sikes noted.
“Well, don’t let me stop you…” she assured them, after a few seconds of silence. “You’re good, Burgess.”
“Okay…” Vandenberg thought for a second. “Blaczynski?”
“He’s too cautious for an ambush. Just gotta put the pressure on, I guess. Suppress him and work round the side.” Firth noted.
“Okay… Warhorse then.”
Kovač giggled. “Sniper round. From long range.” she suggested. “You’re good, Rebar.”
Everyone nodded, muttering variations on the theme of “Oh yeah.”
“Hey!” Adam objected.
“No, she’s right dude. No way I’m confronting your ass up close."
“Yeah, but, dude-”
“From extreme long range." Vandenberg added.
“Come on, I’m not an aggressor!"
“Take it for the compliment it is and move on, brother.” Baseball suggested.
“Gee, thanks…” Adam rolled his eyes.
“Shame to ruin that face, though.” Kovač teased. “You’re good, Ares.”
“Same goes for you, Base.” Vandenberg said. “Get some JETS guy to do it from a thousand yards.”
“Damn straight!” Burgess agreed, and exchanged a fist bump with him.
“…What about the Major?” Firth asked.
“Major Powell?” Adam asked, still trying to ignore the comment about his face. Kovač had a knack for making his ears go red, though right now they were mercifully hidden under the collar and neck sheath of his EV-MASS.
“What other fuckin’ Major am I gonna be talkin’ about, dumbass?”
“…right. Yeah.”
“You’re good, Sikes.”
“Airstrike.” Sikes said.
“What?” Adam asked
“Airstrike.” Sikes repeated.
“Dude, come on, yeah he’s a fuckin’ badass but he’s not THAT-”
“Nah bro.” Baseball interrupted. “It’s not about him being too scary, though he fuckin’ is. It’s about giving him a proper sendoff."
“…you’re right.” Adam agreed. “He’d deserve nothing less.”
“Nuke the site from orbit.” Firth nodded.
“It’s the only way to be sure.” Kovač finished for him. “Helmets and masks on, boys.”
They scooped the helmets up and put them on, pushing them down firmly until they engaged with the rigid component of the seal at the back of the skull with a sharp clack! The mask locked into place along the jawbone and mated with the suit’s air supply and to the helmet with similar mechanical solidity. The flexible rubber seal that did the rest of the work of keeping their faces protected from vacuum slid together easily and automatically.
Kovač tugged the roll of duct tape she’d been wearing as a bracelet off her wrist. “Seal check!” she announced.
This was a simple ritual - each man carefully examined the seal of the man beside him and announced it was good with a ringing slap to the helmet. Kovač then double-checked for him and then applied some tape over the seal for good measure. It probably wouldn’t actually do anything, but everyone felt better for it.
“HUD check.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“All good!” she tapped at the large button on her tablet. “KMP check.”
The spacewalkers stood and jolted in place a bit as they used the controls on their wrists to test their Kinetic Maneuvering Packs, and another round of “Good” was called.
“And… equipment.”
Adam helped the guys shrug on their equipment packages and make sure their loads were properly strapped on and distributed. That was his job specifically, backed up by Baseball, and he did it right. He took pride in that.
“Good.” he declared.
“That’s our checklist, you’re green-lit.” Kovač stepped back. “Over to you, Vandenberg.”
“Thanks, Kovač.” She nodded and joined the rest of the techs in heading for the airlock. Rebar, being the senior NCO, was in charge of the EVA they were doing.
“Righteous?” he prompted.
Firth nodded, and touched the side of his helmet. “CIC, RIGHTEOUS, we’re green-lit for EVA.”
The reply came back in a few seconds. "RIGHTEOUS, Caledonia CIC, we have you ready. Condition Amber."
“Condition Amber!” Firth called. “Clear the deck!”
One of the techs by the airlock echoed the call - “Clear the deck!” and they filed out. Once it had cycled and the light above it indicated full seal, Firth nodded to the guys, they exchanged fist-bumps, and he touched his helmet again. “CIC, RIGHTEOUS, go for doors. I say again, we’re go for doors.”
The acknowledgement was lost as a siren hooted five times - giving plenty of warning to anyone who might need to dash to hit the emergency button - and then the gravity went away. So did the air, brushed to the corners of the room and held in place by a forcefield that swept the deck empty. They all glanced at one another, checking for any signs of distress. Everyone’s suit was working fine, and they watched the huge flight deck doors push outwards and then split into two halves, which both swung aside.
Naked stars yawned at Adam from incomprehensibly far away, somehow made to feel close and dangerous by the fact that literally nothing separated him from them save distance and his EV-MASS. All he could hear was the faint muffled sound of his own heart, his own digestion, and the rush of air into and out of his mask past his ears.
"CIC, RIGHTEOUS. Commencing spacewalk."
"Righteous, Caledonia CIC: have fun."
"Man, we have got to get some sound or music or something in this shit." Baseball commented. "Vacuum’s too quiet."
"I hear ya… There’s our box." Firth agreed. Adam’s HUD filled with a flight waypoint and instructions on how much thrust to give himself, which he followed to the letter. Firth knew best when it came to EVA navigation.
Caledonia threw a spotlight on their target as they got close to it - a round vehicle, the proportionate shape of a hockey puck but twenty feet across and bright blue, covered in alien labels and script. One standard type three Dominion life raft. Without the light, both it and the bulk of their mothership would have been damn near invisible. The human eye had never really been designed for the lighting conditions in interstellar space, some light years from the nearest star. In fact, aside from the spotlight and the blinking beacon atop the liferaft, the nearest and brightest point of light was the gravity spike that Caledonia had deployed to catch the tiny craft so that it could be brought aboard.
They swung into place. As Firth set up shop notionally “above” the life raft to keep an eye on its velocity relative to Caledonia, Adam went with Sikes and Burgess joined Vandenberg in approaching antipodal spots on the rim of the little craft, where the two Defenders set to work welding larger versions of their suits’ KMPs to it while the Protectors held them in place.
It didn’t take long before Rebar reported "Done." prompting a quiet cuss from Sikes.
"Done. I owe you fifty."
"Damn right you do. Righteous, over to you."
The five of them settled on the life raft and held on as Firth took over piloting it into Caledonia’s waiting flight deck.
As they crossed the threshold, Firth made a satisfied noise over the comms. "Okay, Caledonia CIC, RIGHTEOUS, we’re in the bay, close the doors. WARHORSE, you may as well wake ’em up."
Adam gave him a clear thumbs up and used the computer on the inside of his wrist to connect to the life raft’s comms, a process which automatically shut down the stasis field within.
“Hello in there.” he announced. “You’re being rescued by the United States Air Force.”
They’d gone over that one a few times, how to begin that introduction. In the end, they’d decided that any humans in such a life raft would probably have been in there for long enough to not know who the SOR was, and aliens wouldn’t know the difference anyway. And, seeing as Adam himself was still after all a pararescueman…
“Before we pop the hatch,” he continued “we just want to warn you guys that we’re humans from Earth, so if there’s any special precautions you need us to take to protect you from harm, you let us know.”
A male voice answered in definite untranslated English as the doors finished closing behind them, though there was a rough edge to it, like he had a throat infection or something. "No need, pal. We’re American."
Adam grinned inside his mask when he heard a feminine exclamation of disapproval in the background, and the male voice clarified. "Alright, two Americans and one Canadian."
“Three humans?” he broadcast an all channels, and the guys all held up a fist in celebration. “Jackpot! Y’all okay in there?”
"Three cases of recent vacuum exposure. We really need a doctor, fella."
Adam waved at Baseball, who gave him a thumbs up. “Copy that. Sit tight folks, we’ll have you out of there in a minute.”
He switched his broadcast channel. “Caledonia medical, WARHORSE, do you copy?”
"WARHORSE, Caledonia medical, loud and clear."
“Life raft contains three human wounded, zero Echo-Tangoes. Three cases of recent vacuum decompression, probable pulmonary edema, ebullism and DCS, possible pleural effusion. BASEBALL and I will triage, ventilation on standby please.”
"Wilco WARHORSE."
"SOR, stand by for lunar gravity…" Adam swung himself out from the liferaft to arm’s length, and together they fell gently onto the deck at one-sixth of a G. Pressure returned with a thump, and as soon as the raft was down on the deck and safe, the gravity ramped up to one G.
Two lights over the main flight deck doors turned green. “Two on the board.” Firth announced, no longer needing the radio. “REBAR, we’re good to break seal.”
“Clear to break seals.” Vandenberg acknowledged. “Get ’em off, guys.”
Adam got his helmet off as fast as he could, and hit the door release even as the first of Caledonia’s medical staff came squeezing through the airlock onto the flight deck with trolleys and life support equipment.
The occupants were in a bad way. The fit-looking tanned dude in the back had badly bloodshot eyes but seemed to be breathing fine. The whipcord athletic blonde woman to his right was coughing pink froth, but most worrying of all was the young asian woman in the front. She was barely moving, and he could see clear signs of shock.
“Shit, you guys weren’t kidding about the medical attention.” he said, and hauled himself in with them.
“You should see the other guy.” the blonde told him.
“Hah! Bueno." He turned back out the door, using the excuse of talking to the people outside to cover prepping a dose of anaesthetic - the Chinese girl was going to need to go on life support immediately, and for that she needed to be asleep.
Not for the first time, he wished that they were authorised to use Crue-D for first aid. “Base, get the blonde patient, she looks oedemic.” he instructed. “Rebar, I’ma need that board there.” Vandenberg nodded and stepped smartly to retrieving it, so he returned his attention to the Chinese girl.
“Hey, can you try and grip my hand for me?” he asked her. Though she was able to raise her hand and sort of grip, there was nothing there in terms of strength, but she was so focused on the task it was simplicity itself to give her the shot with his other hand. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Okay, that’s fine.” He accepted the board from Vandenberg. “I’m just gonna get this board under you and we’ll get you taken care of, alright?”
She nodded weakly as he manoeuvred her gently onto it and he realised she hadn’t actually spoke yet. “What’s your name?”
“Uh…” she frowned. Apparently the anaesthetic was kicking in. “I’m… Xiu. Xiu Chang.”
Adam didn’t allow his surprise to show. Of all the people he could have pulled out of a life raft, he’d found Regaari’s friend? Besides, her breathing was definitely too labored for comfort. There was fluid on her lungs, and that needed to be gone sooner rather than later. Surprising coincidences could be handled later.
“Nice to meet you, Xiu.” he told her, as he lifted her easily down from the life raft and onto the waiting trolley.
“A-a-and you?” She was definitely falling asleep now. “Uh… what’s your name?”
He took her hand, comfortingly. “I’m Adam. Staff sergeant Adam Ares, USAF Pararescue.” he replied.
He was pretty sure she was asleep by the end of the sentence.
“Right… let’s get that chest drain in.” he told the medics.
Date Point 10y2m2w AV
The Arabian Sea, Earth.
Biodrone
It would have been easy to lose track of the MV Nasarpur without care and attention to detail. The ship was not large, and its running lights were just one of many visible across the open leagues of calm sea. Perfect sailing weather.
If there was one thing a biodrone was extremely good at, however, it was sustained attention to detail. The human it had once been could never have summoned the willpower or focus to stare at one target for hours on end, blinking only when biology demanded it. He would have shivered, or grown bored or sought conversation. He would have stretched his legs, or relieved the insistent pressure in his bladder.
Insofar as biodrones could be said to have desires of their own, it might have wished to receive an order to stretch its legs, or urinate. No such order was forthcoming, and until a Controller deigned to pay it any attention, no such order would be forthcoming. All that it had, therefore, was the data provided to it by the ghost of a personality, lacking anything functionally resembling willpower or agency. That ghost was interrogated often, when the biodrone was required to blend in. Had it been striving to blend in, the biodrone would have used that information to justify stretching its legs and urinating.
But it had received no order to blend in. And so it did not.
The order it had received was to watch the ship they were approaching. And so it did. No provision had been made for it to hand off this duty to another biodrone so that it could stretch its legs or urinate, and so it did not.
The Controllers had not left it with the autonomy to make these decisions for itself, and this was wise of them: If they had, the ghost of its personality would have responded to what had happened to him in the only sane way: it would have screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
The MV Nasarpur was mercifully close. Soon, a Controller would make contact and issue an order to prepare for combat.
Insofar as the biodrone was capable of looking forward to something, it was looking forward to that order. Urinating had a clear logical role to play in battle preparations. Relief was only one legitimately interpreted order away, and that order was imminent.
Until then, it watched the MV Nasarpur.
There were ten of them, biodrone bodies collected from around the geopolitical region collectively known as “Middle East”. The concept of being in the middle of the direction of prograde was nonsense, but the biodrone was not granted the autonomy to ponder that absurdity.
Many more biodrones had been assembled from all across this irrationally named region, but the ten in this boat were all, for lack of a term that more accurately and satisfactorily encompassed them, soldiers. Fighters, perhaps - men whose lives had left them proficient in the use of weaponry, though each for very different reasons. One or two were soldiers indeed, the volunteer agents of a legitimate state’s legal monopoly on controlled violence. Others had first raised a gun to protect themselves and their families, and never found an opportunity to put it back down. The rest had taken up arms for religious reasons that the drone’s programming simply was not equipped to understand, even if it had been granted leave to try.
The order came and the biodrone rushed to obey over the side of the boat, which took a good minute or two. Parameters flooded in as it did so - data about the layout of the target ship, how many men were on board, their armament and training, their exact locations, the location of the cargo they were protecting.
The drones conferred, bypassing crude language to form a network which evaluated the unique skills each one had inherited from the human it had once been and liaised this information back to a central Controller, which ran a rapid-fire of thousands of different simulations based on their suggestions, keeping the most successful, permutating upon them, combining them, throwing raw processing power at them until it had arrived at the most effective approach which carried a maximal probability of satisfying all mission objectives.
That approach hinged upon two simple truths. The first was that their vehicle was invisible to the radar of the ships trailing MV Nasarpur at a discreet distance, and produced almost no audible noise - certainly not any that would be heard over MV Nasarpur’s own engines.
The second was that biodrones were expendable.
Everything was timed down to the second. Their boat pulled up alongside the Nasarpur, and three of the biodrones boarded her, using grapples, rope ascenders and a muscular boost from their fellows to scale the merchant vessel’s curving flank. Three more were delivered a little further forward, and the last four boarded the ship at its nose.
Or tried to. One of the biodrones turned out to have had a higher estimation of its abilities in life than was actually warranted, and plunged into the water, never to resurface. None of the others paid any attention beyond adjusting their plan of attack to account for the loss.
The drone that had needed to urinate was among the three that reached the deck at the prow. Theirs was simultaneously the most important part of the raid, and also the easiest - they were tasked with disrupting the ship’s ability to call for help. This had to be done first, and it had to be done silently.
It involved ghosting up three flights of stairs to a mid-level door on the ship’s forward tower. An unfortunate crewman was stabbed before he had even finished turning to see who was opening it.
As for the radio equipment, there were three men in that room, none of whom were alert for danger, all of whom were bored and undisciplined. Military they may have been, and trusted, but all of their careful preparations had simply never accounted for alien activity.
The third of them was dead only a second after the first, just enough time for the biodrone that entered the room first to switch aim, backed up by its fellows. The gunfire would draw attention, but instructions from the Controller, followed instantly and perfectly, meant that any attempts to radio for a report or to call for distress would meet with failure. The radio wasn’t turned off, it was simply turned wrong.
The three biodrone teams went mobile. Confused sentries on the deck gasped their last still wondering what was going on even as 7.62mm rounds ripped through them. Panicked shouting from below deck heralded the arrival of the garrison protecting the ship’s cargo, whose haste to fight back led them to blunder straight into grenade tripwire traps and ambushes.
As the Controller had planned, two of the biodrones were killed, sacrificed in distracting the defensive force long enough for their fellows to outflank and enfilade the enemy.
Another was sacrificed storming into the last knot of defenders with a brick of high explosives on a five second countdown in its arms. The few who survived its detonation were executed before they could recover their wits.
That left six biodrones, two of which were wounded. Those two were tasked with throwing their fallen counterparts overboard. The healthy four went to work with hoists, winches and trolleys, getting the loot they had come to steal up on deck.
With no human left on board who had even the mental capacity to shoot at it, the spaceship that had been trailing MV Nasarpur for hours dropped its cloak and lifted the cargo off the deck and into its hold. It remained visible for only five seconds.
The biodrones had one last task.
If it had been able to, the biodrone might have wished not to take this next step. But the Controller had given clear instructions. Obedience was inevitable. Within it, what might have been the last shred of a human being reflected that at least he would soon be released. Words that meant nothing to the Biodrone’s guiding programming drifted through its head like a passing thought, consigning the soul of its body’s former owner to Allah.
Together, the biodrones vaulted the rail and sank. The rings of white water they made when they hit were barely worthy of comment next to the disruption caused by the merchant vessel’s own wake.
Twenty minutes later, when a helicopter full of marines from PNS Zulfiquar arrived in response to a failure to make routine contact, they found only the corpses of their comrades and a worrying absence of the ship’s cargo.
Date Point 10y2m2w AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Adam Ares.
“Hey Dexter. Man, you are not going to believe who we just pulled off a life raft on the edge of Elder Space. Although, maybe you can guess, because you wouldn’t be interested otherwise, huh? Anyway, we found your friend Xiu!"
“You tellin’ Dexter?” Sikes stuck his head into the tablet’s camera field of view. “Hey Dexter!”
This prompted Baseball, Firth and Rebar to join in too, and Adam just grinned at the camera as they expressed a series of happy greetings to their Gaoian friend-slash-mascot, before he finally shooed them away.
“Yeah, you’ve gotta visit us sometime man. We can do, like, a joint training thing or something. Maybe see what you’ve got to teach us, like that fucking pulse-gun trick you pulled, that shit was insane!" He cleared his throat. “Anyway… yeah, we found your friend. Looks like she’s been stuck in that pod for about five years, and they had a rough time of it, but she’s alive. By the time you’ve got this they’ll probably have taken her back to Earth, but don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll be able to sort out putting you two back in touch again…"
“Uh… Yeah, give my regards to this Ayma of yours. Guess she’ll want to know too. And… yeah that’s about it. I’ll see you around, southpaw. Peace!”
He stopped the recording, and sent it without bothering to play it back. Regaari had been in touch a couple of times since Capitol Station, and Adam knew that he’d be delighted by the news.
“All done?” Baseball asked. Adam just grinned at him. He’d saved lives, had some good training that morning, been able to send some really good news to a friend…
“Good day.” he commented.
“Yeah…”
Baseball had been doing that a bit for a while now. Something was bugging him, Adam could tell, but if Base didn’t want to share, that was his business. He wasn’t about to push it. “You got anything planned?” He asked instead.
Baseball shrugged. “Goin’ drinking with Titan. Dude’s not been laid since he got shot. You?”
Adam exchanged elaborate handshakes and backslaps with the other three as they left. “Ava’s friend Sean’s coming up from Earth. Apparently his uncle’s like this journalist or something, doing a bit on the Byron group, yeah? We were gonna go up the lake, go for a swim. Really looking forward to that, they only just declared it clean this week. I’ve not been up there since before I enlisted!”
“Oh…”
“…something bothering you, bro?” Adam asked him.
Baseball stood awkwardly in the middle of the locker room, drumming his hands nervously on his thighs and licking his lips.
Adam stood up. “Dude… what’s wrong?”
Baseball apparently reached a decision. “Brother… you better sit your ass back down. I’ve got something you need to know.”
Date Point 10y2m2w AV
Whitecrest Clan Enclave, city of Wi Kao, Planet Gao.
Regaari
Where other officers of the Clan had busy offices full of clutter, keepsakes, mementoes and memories of jobs well done, Regaari’s was characteristically rather more Spartan. This was largely because he never used it. He was usually too busy with fieldwork.
Whitecrest was all about security on a big scale, and that meant Intelligence, information, data, and the correlations and relations between those data. Most of the most important of that data crunching went on right here in the Clan Enclave, a subtle edifice of geometric shapes clad in Takwood and greenish glass, separated from the bustle of the city of Wi Kao by a low stone wall, a decorative moat, and some well groomed parkland.
It was a fittingly prestigious and understated home for a prestigious and understated Clan, and its sprawling warrenous basements were full of officers doing vital though unglamorous work.
Regaari, as a political officer, should not have been among them. The location of his office was a relic of the Clan’s disfavour, though that had softened over the years as the Fathers responsible had retired and as Regaari’s own influence had grown. His friendship with Giymuy had done wonders for the Whitecrest breeding program, and the fact that he was now forging bonds with a Human military unit…
Several of the Fathers were worried, he suspected. A younger male with that kind of influence - and certainly one with as many cubs as Regaari had now sired - was a threat to the established order.
His immediate future was doubtless going to involve either attempted assimilation into the Clan leadership or - vastly more likely - relegation to yet another satellite position with all the appearance of prestige.
Right now, though, politics ruled the day. That was Regaari’s job, and Regaari was good at his job. Indeed, he’d become even better at it ever since discovering just how modifiable his new cybernetic hand was. Had he worn sleeves, he would literally have had some tricks up them, first and foremost of which were the petabytes of storage space and the holographic projector in his palm. His workstation was literally attached to him, available at an instant’s notice.
“Yulna’s going to win.” he declared.
Father Terrik - the elderly officer ostensibly responsible for supervising Regaari’s work, scratched at his ear with an air of scepticism. “I had thought that her attachment to the human female… just like Giymuy…?” he suggested.
“-Is much less of an issue than Mother Suri and her supporters like to believe.” Regaari informed him. “I had Brother Ruuvi conduct a meta-analysis of the datasphere commentary. Most of the females just don’t care, and of those who do the majority are broadly positive.”
Terrik inclined his head. “Positive?”
“For reasons ranging from the pragmatic to the compassionate.” Regaari elaborated. He activated the gesture-based command in his new paw that caused it to project the files in an almost physical format above his palm. With his remaining natural paw, he could select, move and even throw the files around - copying them to another device was as simple as throwing them towards said device. This he now did.
“That’s my full report.” he explained, as Terrik studied and accepted the incoming file. “It details my findings, my reasoning and my supporting evidence. Much as I like and respect Yulna, I’ve made every effort to remain neutral and unbiased in my assessment, and I am still convinced that Mother Suri has a negligible chance of being the next Mother Supreme.”
Terrik stood. “I will read it in full and present it to the Fathers.” he promised. “Your recommendation, I take it, is to side with Yulna?”
“The risk to the clan is negligible, and the potential benefits considerable.”
Terrik made a thoughtful head-duck to acknowledge Regaari’s point, and let himself out.
Regaari gave it a few minutes and toured his office. He used the time in tidying up the minimal mess and examining his few keepsakes - a crystal data wafer full of Xiu’s precious collection of Earth entertainment, one of Giymuy’s walking canes that she had bequeathed to him, and a framed picture, a gift from the SOR, depicting all of them gathered round him and beaming those big toothy deathworlder smiles. Actual pigment printed on paper - a technology so obsolete in Gaoian society that it might have been an antique or relic, and obsolete by human standards too, but this one was glossy, crisp and new.
That was enough procrastination. He headed out, locked up his office, combed a bit of stray fur back into place as he jogged down the hall, and let himself into Brother Ruuvi’s office.
Ruuvi was an ally, a genuine one. A fellow victim of clan politics whose career had been similarly holed by voicing honest concern to the wrong Father, he was even more fervently in favour of reform and a change of leadership than was Regaari. Unlike Regaari, he’d been “promoted” to leadership of the clan’s digital security and information wing - what the SOR had called “SigInt” - and, like Regaari, had taken his new role and excelled at it, adapting to the demands of the job with the aplomb and rapidity that had made Clan Whitecrest’s reputation.
Regaari didn’t bother with a greeting - they’d been planning this particular sting all week. “Well?”
“He read the summary and then forwarded the file to Reyu, Redilo and Yemmil.”
Regaari sighed in relief, and Ruuvi chittered. The set of his own ears was relieved, though: Terrik had been the subject of an unresolved question, whether he was working with the little cyst of Fathers who held the reins of power in Whitecrest and were getting progressively cosier and cosier with the monolithic nepotism of the Dominion, or whether he was doing the right thing no matter what that right thing might be.
Forwarding the file to three Fathers who had, in Regaari’s estimation, successfully balanced authority with conscientiousness was strong evidence for the latter.
“Excellent.” He growled. “I think we-”
He was interrupted by his communicator, which cheeped at him in a one beep, two beep, three beep rhythm until he checked it.
“Ah!”
Ruuvi noticed his colleague’s ears prick up. “Good news?”
“A message from Warhorse.”
“You have a human on your priority message list?” Ruuvi asked.
“I have three humans on my priority message list.” Regaari retorted, and opened the message.
Thirty seconds later, his hindclaws slid and scrabbled on the smooth concrete flooring as he bolted out of the room.
Date Point 10y2m2w AV
Demeter Road, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Sean Harvey
“Do you think he’s going to ask you again?”
“Not any time soon… we’re still putting it back together, you know?”
Ava was nursing a coffee on the couch opposite the recliner Sean had claimed for himself. It was still hard to see her looking so relaxed and at peace in a relationship with Adam, but that wound was healing for Sean. It was clear that the two of them doted on one another, which definitely helped. If the last month or so had continued to be the same old story of neglect and frustration then he’d have suggested calling it off, and guessed that Ava would have finally seen the light.
But… she’d been vindicated. Once Adam had finally seen the need to actually connect with his girlfriend then by her own admission he’d been perfect, devoting every second they could spend together to them. He took her on dates, they enjoyed the young woods around Folctha together, she was in the best shape of her life thanks to his one-on-one attention… it sounded idyllic.
“I thought things were going well?” Sean asked her.
“It is!” she agreed. “It’s just… you don’t put a relationship back together overnight. Even with the nice apartment and all the time we’re spending together, you know…”
“Right. All that time apart, all the changes.” Sean agreed.
“He’s not changed as much as I was afraid he would.” she conceded, setting her coffee down. “Sure, he’s big as a bus nowadays and he’s got all these skills and training but… he’s still got that goofy laugh, those stupid dorky jokes. Whenever he’s being romantic, it’s like he’s been planning it for three weeks…” She sighed, toying with a stray curl of hair. “I’ve probably changed more, deep down.”
“How so?”
“Just… things, you know? My way of looking at things.” she shrugged. “I don’t know. I just… I think…”
Whatever she was trying to think aloud went un-thought at the distant sound of a door slamming and a rapid rhythmic thudding sound that grew stronger by the second. Ava grinned and stood up as what were unmistakably the footfalls of an extremely heavy man came thumping up the last flight of steps. “He’s home early! That’s great, that means it must have gone-”
Adam didn’t bother with his key. The doorframe and lock both disintegrated as he just swatted the door so hard that even one of the hinges broke, leaving it hanging drunkenly from the top corner. His expression wouldn’t have looked out of place on an angry war deity, and Ava actually shrieked a little and took a shocked couple of steps back.
Sean’s own reaction was no less violently startled - he flinched away from the broken door and wound up having to scramble to his feet to avoid tipping over the chair arm and onto the floor.
Ava had retreated even further across the room as Adam bore down on her, until her back was against the wall and she was penned in against it by the palm he’d smacked down right next to her head. She was wearing any expression that was the very picture of equal parts bewilderment and fright. From where he was standing, Sean couldn’t see Adam’s face, but he could see the rage simmering in every line of those titanic muscles.
For a deadly few seconds, the only sound was the creak of the last tortured hinge swaying back and forth, as Ava’s face went from intimidated shock, to dawning horror.
“Shit.” she squeaked. “You know.”
For all the fury of his entrance, Adam’s voice was dangerously quiet and level. “You were stupid enough to talk to Baseball." he pointed out.
However Ava wanted to respond, it didn’t come out except as a silent mouthing of the start of a word, and some desperate looking around, blinking rapidly as she tried to think of what to say. She cowered and gave an involuntary terrified gasp when Adam bunched a fist and drove it into the wall so hard that the plaster caved in.
“Where do I start?” He growled. “All this time? And who- was it this skinny shit here?"
He rounded on Sean who backed away, raising his hands as if they’d do any good at warding off somebody who out-massed him a couple of times over.
Adam took three smart steps forward and immediately had Sean by the front of his shirt, yanking him around so hard that he heard the seams fray. "YOU?! You wanna own up to this? Did you-?"
There was no refuge save for honesty. Sean did the best job he could of straightening and looking Adam in the eye, swallowed, and nodded. He knew neither if his head was about to go the same way as the wall and the door, nor what he might do to stop it if it was.
Rather than knocking his block off, Adam just made a disgusted noise and gave him a contemptuously gentle shove, landing Sean on his backside a few feet away. He turned and stalked back to Ava, who’d moved out of the corner he’d trapped her in and was watching him wide-eyed, hunched over and trembling, with her hands hugging her upper arms.
“You know what Baseball said you said?” He demanded. “He said you said you don’t owe me a fucking apology. What the fuck?!"
Ava finally found her voice. “Hear me out.” she pleaded.
This was not, apparently, what Adam had wanted to hear. "HEAR YOU OUT?!" he barked, and she backed away two stumbling steps as he took a pace toward her. "Hear you out?! Sure! Sure I’ll fucking hear you out! You’ve got FIVE seconds to explain yourself, Ava!"
“I-”
“Four.”
“Adam-”
"Three."
"It was that or break up with you!" she blurted, finally finding something resembling her confidence again. She was still shaking, but there was an 'I’m-not-going-down-without-a-fight' edge to it now.
Adam paused in his countdown and just stared at her. For her part, Ava wrung her hands and stared right back, still trembling like a leaf but clearly determined to say her piece.
“You’re all I have of home_._” she said. “You and Dad-”
“Don’t you dare call him that!" Adam snarled.
“…I can’t lose you, and I was going to." she forged ahead. “I reached the end of my- I couldn’t do it any more, I was sending so much your way and getting nothing back and I ran out, and it was… I had to reach out to somebody.”
“And you couldn’t fucking talk to me?!" Adam demanded.
"I DID!" she shot back. “Every time! Every fucking time, Adam I told you time after time and when did you listen? You didn’t!"
"BULLSHIT!" Adam exploded. Ava’s fire was up and she looked like she was going to keep arguing, but he took another step forward, she backed into the kitchen area, and this time the poor refrigerator took the brunt of his rage, drawing a fearful gasp out of Ava in place of the tirade she’d clearly wanted to unleash. “I listened!" he insisted. “But what did you expect me to do, go AWOL? Is that what you’d want instead? Me in prison and all that time and pain wasted?”
“I-”
Adam prodded her in the chest, hard. She gasped and rubbed at the bruised spot. “I went through hell, and the only thing got me through was thinking you had my back." he growled. “Broken bones, torn muscles, nearly drowning, pain pain pain, day in, day out for Five. Fucking. Years. And don’t even get me started on some of the nightmares I’ve had because of what I’ve learned!"
He prodded her again. “ALL while having to put up with the exact same loneliness that you couldn’t handle! You think all that time away from you was easy for me? And I’ve had temptation, oh yeah I have! More than a passing little devil, do you know how easy it is for guys like me to get laid?"
“Well-”
"SHUT UP!!" The fridge rocked as it suffered further abuse. “Do you know how often I gave in? Do you know how often I thought about giving in?"
“Then-”
"NOT EVEN FUCKING ONCE!!"
In the aftermath of that roar, Sean could have sworn the loudest sound in the room was his own heartbeat, then Adam’s finger curled back from under Ava’s nose and his head dropped. “Not once. Not even once. Not once." he mourned. “Not one single goddamn time, Ava. I did all of this for you. To keep you safe, to…”
He trailed off.
Ava was weeping openly now. The fear in her body language was gone - for the first time since Sean had known her, she looked ashamed.
“But…” she put a hand on Adam’s face and he swatted it aside to glare at her again. “Adam, all I ever wanted was you."
Adam didn’t move for a moment. Then he swayed upright, backed off, and gave her a long, slow, tearful appraisal. “Right.” he grunted. “It’s all about what you want."
“Adam-”
"Fuck you, Ava. I don’t know what happened to you, but I never fell in love with a selfish backstabbing whore."
"Adam-!"
He spun, strode to the door, and put the last hinge out of its misery with a petulant backhand. “Get out of my house.” he ordered, and was gone.
Date Point 10y2m2w AV
Commune of Females, Wi Kao City, Gao
Regaari
“You are approaching a commune of females, male. Identify yourself.”
Regaari was in no mood for games. The message from Warhorse was far too important to pass to Ayma digitally - this was a conversation, and one that he was itching to have.
“You can’t be serious, Sister Layra, you’ve seen me every third or fourth day for a quarter of a year, it’s me!" He pointed out, making a bee-line for the door.
He nearly walked into her ceremonial fusion spear, which was suddenly charged and spitting hot while aimed levelly at his chest. Behind it, her ears were up and her eyes bright with dutiful challenge.
“Identify. Yourself.” she repeated.
Frustration, outrage and the burning need to deliver his message had badly eroded Regaari’s composure anyway. Having a weapon levelled at him was the final insult that forced him to do something that, under normal circumstances, no sane male would have even considered - he snarled at a female.
“Regaari. To deliver a message to Mother Ayma. Now get out of my way you witless, parasite-infested, officious plodding four-paw!"
Her speartip lowered and her ears rotated backwards out of sheer surprise and, whether out of genuine intimidation or whether she had finally got her head around the urgency of his mission, she stood meekly aside after a moment’s consideration.
Regaari swept past her.
Unlike the Whitecrest enclave, the Commune of Females wasn’t a single architecturally planned building but several, built organically over the centuries as the needs of the females had changed and as available funds and labour had dictated. Not that the females were ever short on either funds or labour thanks to the thousands of attention-hungry males who lived in the city outside their walls.
Still, at some point a senior Mother had declared that the entrance to the commune needed to be something both imposing and beautiful, and so an appropriately grand building, far wider than it was tall, had been constructed. From the outside, its most striking features were its sweeping white stone stairs and the doors at their top - huge Takwood things with borders of angular geometric silver filigree that were only ever opened for important occasions. The actual entrances were the rather more discreet though similarly decorated frosted-glass sliding doors to either side, one of which whispered open for him as he approached, and was ignored as he passed through.
Impressive though it was outside, Regaari had always thought that the inside of the commune’s grand building was by far more beautiful.
The floor was an irregular library of differently coloured slate tiles, left naturally just a little rough on their upper surface, but still smooth enough for completely unimpeded movement. Lighting was provided by hidden lamps which bounced warm yellow light up into the vault of the ceiling. At ankle height in the wall, hidden projectors sent ripples of a faintly greenish hue playing over the slate floor tiles, creating a watery effect which neatly complimented the real flowing water that rose in a fountain behind the Takwood doors before being sent to run and chatter down twin shallow meandering channels that reached out into each wing of the building before vanishing into the walls to emerge outside and feed the ornamental ponds.
Every inch of wall was trellis or bas-relief. Regaari always had to take a moment to admire the hanging plants, attended by delicate little flying drones. They had been carefully chosen so that some were always in flower no matter the season, and right now the grand concourse was kissed with delicate whites and blues.
Mothers and Sisters were walking and chatting, sitting on the benches, reading. There was an air of tension that Regaari could smell, and feel in the fur of the back of his neck. Several of the nearby females glanced at him, saw a Whitecrest male, and promptly and obviously turned away to keep their conversation private. He noticed Sister Myun watching him, and the two shared an affectionate though subtle mutual pricking of ears at one another. She had been pulled from gate guard duty for the duration of her pregnancy though she still loitered in the concourse, as much because she loved it there as because she was (by her own estimation) about the most competent of the commune’s guardian sisters.
Certainly she was the strongest and most highly trained, having spent much of her adolescence blending the Gung Fu that she had learned from Xiu with stances and styles more appropriate for a Gaoian, many of which were now part of Whitecrest’s training regime. Regaari had sparred with her during their courtship, and had never once managed to knock her off her feet - the young female could float and flow like dawn mist when she wanted to.
Regaari glanced around to quickly check whether Ayma was present, then concluded that Myun had just as much right to know.
“You know, Sister Layra reported you arriving.” she said as he approached, laying aside her tablet. “I think you impressed her.”
“That may not have been wise.” Regaari conceded. “But this is important, and she was in my way.”
“What’s so important that you’d snap at a commune guard like?” Myun asked. “I mean, Layra probably wants to mate with you now, but if it had been anybody else you-”
“The humans found Shoo.” Regaari interrupted her, ignoring that nugget of intel for the time being.
Myun surged to her feet. “Shoo’s safe?!”
“They picked her up from an escape pod this morning.” Much as he’d have preferred to keep the original, Regaari had to admit that having a prosthetic paw with a built in gesture-based control interface for his data was unbelievably convenient. He summoned Warhorse’s message and sent it to Myun’s device, which she snatched up and interrogated eagerly.
She impressed and pleased Regaari by reaching up to the communicator clipped to her ear and pinching it before he had even thought to ask her. “Security Central, Mother Ayma has a priority message waiting on the grand concourse. Call for her please. Priority message for Mother Ayma, grand concourse.”
She listened to the response, then growled a little. Her contract with Regaari had earned Myun some prestige - a fact which spoke volumes of Regaari’s own reputation - but she was still very much the junior on the security forces, and somebody somewhere was keen to keep her reminded of that fact. Nothing ever went as swiftly and smoothly as she would have liked. “It’s a personal message, Central, but very important and private. Please call for her. Thank you."
She sighed and unclipped the communicator, muttering a loaned human curse once it was safely turned off. "Bitch."
Regaari chittered quietly. “Anyway, I don’t know more than is in the message there. Though, if Warhorse thinks she had a rough time of it… I’m a little worried.”
“Is there any way to find out more?” Myun asked.
“It’s a lot easier to get a message from the SOR than to the SOR…" Regaari mused. Both of them pricked their ears up as they heard the commune-wide announcement for Ayma.
“Ayma has Yulna’s ear.” Myun pointed out, borrowing yet another human phrase. She did that a lot, peppering her language with deathworlder colloquialisms. Regaari had almost begun developing the same habit, but had carefully avoided it - he had the political consequences to think about. Myun on the other hand seemed to have accepted that her enthusiasm for all things human was equal parts profitable and isolating. Either that or she was too headstrong to care.
“True, but Yulna is not Mother-Supreme yet." Regaari pointed out. “She may not have as much influence as you think.”
“She’s going to win, and the humans know it.” Myun retorted. She’d been a stubborn cub, and was now a stubborn and slightly naive adult. The fact that Regaari agreed with her assessment was unimportant.
“What’s that expression? About those birds you shouldn’t count?”
“…before they hatch. C_hickens_.” Myun finished for him, deflating. “You’re right. But… it’s Shoo."
They both jumped a little at Ayma’s voice. “Shoo? What about Shoo?”
Regaari stood and they exchanged the nose-rub of old friends. “They found her. She’s alive.”
Ayma made a squeaking noise of delight and relief and sank onto the bench beside Myun, ears swivelling like robots in an assembly line as she tried to settle on a reaction. “Where is she?! Can we see her?”
“I don’t know yet.” Regaari told her. “I only just got the message. She’s back on Earth. It sounds like she got into more trouble.”
Ayma nodded. “That would be Shoo.” she agreed, then stood up again. “So we’re going to Earth.”
Both Regaari and Myun’s ears flattened. “You’re… you can’t be serious." Myun squeaked.
“I have waited nearly ten years to finally see her again and… ‘kick her ass’ for running away." Ayma proclaimed. “I am not letting a little thing like a class twelve deathworld get in my way."
She turned to Regaari. “Besides, didn’t you say that the humans wanted to give you some kind of an award?”
“Well… yes, but nobody ever mentioned actually going to Earth." Regaari replied. “The pollens in the air on that planet would kill us!”
“We can wear breathing masks.”
“The gravity-”
“Excursion suits. I’ve had a long time to think about this, Regaari: I’m going. I would like you to come with me."
“Don’t you have a cub to look after?” Regaari asked.
“I also have a Sister who needs my help.” Ayma retorted. “Of the two, Shoo will need me more: the cub is nearly weaned.”
“She’s Clan, Regaari.” Myun pointed out. “What would you do if she was a Whitecrest?"
Regaari hesitated, then ducked his head slowly. “I’d already be calling for a shuttle.”
The females ducked their own heads, then Myun sighed. “I wish I could come with you.” she said.
“You’re pregnant.” Ayma pointed out.
“I know, that’s why I said ’I wish I could’." Myun agreed. “But take a message from me?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll… take a Whitecrest ship to Cimbrean and arrange things.” Regaari said. “That should take long enough for your cub to be weaned.”
“Good.” Ayma scratched at her ear, thoughtfully. “I’ll… go tell Yulna she needs to do without me for a while.”
“Ayma… she’s been in stasis for five human years.” Regaari said. “And it was an escape pod. She may be a bit fragile.”
Ayma just chittered.
“When was Shoo ever not fragile?"
Date Point 10y2m2w AV
Vancouver General Hospital, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Earth.
Colonel Ted Bartlett
“She’s tough.”
The family were waiting outside, pacing and chewing their fingernails and desperate to be let in. Not that it would do them any good. Miss Chang was sedated, and would remain so for several days. She had been jumped straight to Scotch Creek from Caledonia’s onboard jump array and had been airlifted from there to Vancouver General, still inside a stasis pod. She had arrived on an operating table that was perfectly prepared for her and that fact had undoubtedly saved her life.
The fact that she had even made it that far spoke volumes of her tenacity.
Her doctor was in no mood to entertain military scientists, however. “She undoubtedly is.” She agreed. “But I would very much appreciate knowing why I’ve got an Army colonel in my ITU, please.”
Ted nodded. “Doctor Spilny, I need to swear you to secrecy on a few things. This is going to be important to her care, but it’s also important for… well.” he handed over a tablet with a non-disclosure agreement on it. The doctor skimmed it - it wasn’t long - and then scrawled her signature and pressed her thumb to the biometric pad for good measure.
“Miss Chang is one of the few people we know of to survive nervejam trauma.” Ted told her, after he’d countersigned. “Are you familiar with nervejam at all?”
“I heard it’s some kind of alien weapon that can induce fatal seizures…” Spilny conceded.
“It’s… a lot nastier than that.” Ted revealed, solemnly. “I’ll spare you the jargon, but it works by creating a field that disrupts some specific types of quantum activity that’s part of the brain’s normal function. Or, rather, forces it to behave a certain-” he trailed off. “The point is that while the effect may wear off instantly, the damage it does is permanent.”
“Her brain is… scarred?”
Ted nodded, grimly. “Intimately. On a cellular chemistry level. Or… most likely, anyway. The testimony of her friends would suggest as much.”
Mr. Etsicitty and Ms. Buehler had weathered the vacuum of space rather better than Ms. Chang, and were both recovering elsewhere in the building. Etsicitty’s foot was attracting prosthetic and rehabilitation specialists from all over North America, who were sharing detailed footage and images of it with their colleagues overseas. By all accounts the interface between flesh and synthetic material was ingeniously self-sterilising, and might well revolutionize the field of human prosthetics. Bartlett, as a lifelong enthusiast for science, was keeping a weather-eye on that development, but it was outside of his field.
To be frank, so was the case of Ms. Chang, but nobody else was even half as qualified as Ted was, so….
Doctor Spilny frowned at her patient, deep in thought. “Prognosis?”
“I’m not qualified to give one. Obviously, actually testing the long term effects of Nervejam would be… unethical."
“Lab rats?”
“You can’t… really scale up the behaviour of rats to the behaviour of humans…” Ted squirmed. “But what we suspect is that any existing psychological tendencies or predispositions are likely to be exacerbated. The other thing we noticed was a spike in learning retention and neuroplasticity for some time after exposure, which then tapered off to below previous levels, leaving the subjects, uh, strongly influenced by whatever they were doing immediately after the trauma."
Spilny frowned at her patient again, watching her chest rise and fall with a click-hiss-wheeze as the ventilator did the work on her behalf.
Ted gave her a minute to think, which he used to produce a copy of the research paper from his briefcase. “The paper should explain more. We don’t really have any advice on what you can do for her, but any observations you can make or data you can gather might help us help her and other future victims.”
Spilny nodded, and accepted it. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
“There’s one last thing…”
“Which is?”
Ted produced a handheld implant scanner from his briefcase. It was little more than a grey cuboid, not dissimilar to the tricorders he’d watched on Star Trek growing up. “May I just lean in there and perform a scan?”
“It’s not invasive, is it?”
“Ultrasound.”
Spilny just gestured to the bed invitingly. Ted leaned in past the assorted tubes, lines and leads, and pressed the scanner gently but firmly against Ms. Chang’s forehead.
Three seconds later, the LED on its back lit up green, and he breathed a sigh of relief. While the SOR and the medical staff on Caledonia had both already checked her for alien hardware, Ted’s own device was the most recent and sophisticated model that wouldn’t be fooled by nonmetallic implants, as had happened in the tragic case of Sara Tisdale’s murderer.
“Thank you, doctor.” He straightened up, pocketing the scanner.
“Thank you, colonel.”
Ted let himself out. He didn’t make eye contact with the family hovering outside, just nodded politely, touched his fingers to his brow, and made himself scarce, wishing he could do more.
Date Point 10y2m2w AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
John Burgess
It was Good Movie Night. Sometimes, the guys wanted a good movie to counterbalance all the awful ones they like to watch, and it was a good way to round off a mission day. The dorm was clean, they were all showered, and now there were a few hours of quiet time to lounge around in ranger shorts and watch something.
Hence they were watching 'The Pink Panther’. The old one, with Peter Sellers. That had been the plan at least, right up until somebody had asked where Warhorse had got to and John had tried to explain.
“And you didn’t think to tell him sooner?” Titan was asking, plainly angry.
“Man, when did I even have the chance?” The movie was on pause and the usual comfortable puppy-pile on the couch had broken up into a standing argument.
Sikes opened his mouth to comment, and John nodded in anticipation of what he was going to say. “Okay, okay, yeah, lots of times, but come on man, timing! We were all on edge, we were all… then just as I was about to tell him he went and proposed to her, and then before he had a chance to get over that we had the mission, and…"
“And you should of told him!” Titan asserted.
“You’re supposed to be our fucking brother man, and you’re lying to Horse of all people about his girl fucking around?" Sikes agreed.
Firth weighed in. “You two are like the bromance of this outfit, how the fuck are you gonna stand by and let Horse get Jodied?”
“He-”
“We’re supposed to trust you with our lives." Blaczynski added.
That stung. It downright hurt, in fact. “You know you can." John protested, quietly.
“Do we? ‘Cause if you can help Horse’s girl suck some other asshole’s skinny fuckin’ dick-”
“Say what?" John rounded on Titan. “I didn’t fuckin’ help her!”
“You let her keep on doing it, dintcha?” Blaczynski retorted.
" ’Cause the alternative was ripping Horse’s heart out of his fucking chest at exactly the wrong moment, man!" John illustrated the mental image with a gesticulation. “We wouldn’t HAVE him if I’d done it before now. You think he’d have made it through without at least, like, the idea of her? And I’m not sure I’d have made it through without him!"
“You think it was a choice between this, or no Protectors at all?” Rebar checked.
John sighed and nodded. “Could be.” he agreed. “Even Horse has his limits, man.”
The three Defenders exchange quick glances, communicating silently.
“Tell me he was at least pissed at you." Firth demanded.
“He was fucking furious, bro.”
“Surprised he didn’t tie your ass in a pretzel.” Titan said. “Fuck, he’s gonna have a face like Armageddon landing when he gets back…”
“Yup.” John agreed.
“Yeah well, you fucking deserve it.” Sikes folded his arms.
“C’mon don’t be like that, it’s not like I did it to help her."
“But you DID help her though.”
“Lads.”
Everyone looked at Murray. Murray was like that - you could completely forget he was there until he opened his mouth, and softly Scottish though his speech might have been, everyone shut up and listened. Never mind that he was the smallest of the SOR’s enlisted men, he commanded attention whenever he chose to.
“…Let’s just watch the movie.”
Everyone paused, then settled a bit. There was a round of nods and murmured agreements, and the guys all sat back down on the couch.
Baseball was left standing. “Uh… hey, lemme in there…” he ventured
“Couch is full, John.” Firth told him, not looking at him.
“Dude, I was sitting right there a minute ago-"
“Couch. Is full.”
John directed a pleading look first at Rebar, who was avoiding eye contact, and then at Murray who gave him a complicated facial shrug which said quite clearly that he wasn’t about to rekindle the argument by disagreeing and that John was just going to have to put up with it.
After a moment’s hesitation, John settled for a resigned throat-clear and sitting cross-legged on the hard, cold floor next to the couch, rather than wrapped up with his buddies. It didn’t feel right at all, and not even Sellers’ dignified on-screen antics could fix that.
They watched in silence for a little while, even managing a collective chuckle at the exchange - 'If I were my father, I’d have you tortured.' 'If you were your father, I doubt very much if I would have kissed you.'
The tension seemed to be just about starting to dissipate - or maybe that was just wishful thinking on John’s part - when there was a distant, muffled roar of some kind and the whole building shook as if a bomb had gone off nearby. Huge, metal-framed and reinforced as it was, they still knocked the couch over in scrambling off it alert for danger.
“What the fuck?" Firth asked.
“Sounded like it came from the gym.” Murray aimed a thumb towards it. “Ah… shit, you don’t think Adam…?”
He was left standing as the rest of them took off at a run.
Waiting for them in the gym was a sight more disturbing than anything John had seen on Capitol Station or in training. Adam’s jerry-can was lying at the bottom of the wall at the far end of the gym from where it was usually kept and had burst open, spilling buckshot all over the floor. The wall itself had a crater in it about halfway up, where the cinder blocks had been smashed in by something very heavy hitting it with huge force.
The 100lb plates were all off their racks and scattered around the gym like schoolyard frisbees. The spring steel barbell at the deadlift station - the one commissioned especially for the Protectors - had bent beyond hope of repair, the one at the squat rack was now roughly the shape of a hockey stick, and Adam was sitting in the middle of the floor, cradling his elbow and sobbing.
Baseball was at his side in a flash. “Oh man, brother, I- oof!"
The air rushed straight out of him and he felt a stab of pain in his ribs as he found himself caught in the kind of crushing bear-hug that might have pulped an alien and badly hurt most humans.
There was nothing to do but put his own arms around his best friend’s huge shoulders and hold on, rocking him back and forth.
The guys all left him to it and found stuff to do. Murray, Firth and Blaczynski set about cleaning up the gear, while the Defenders gathered round the damaged wall and held a hushed consultation with one another.
Just as the last of the plates was being racked up, Rebar sidled over and gave John a tap on the shoulder.
“Dude, uh… that was a structural wall he busted.” He whispered. “We kinda need everyone out of here while we make it safe.”
John nodded at him, then gave Adam’s back a hefty pat. “Hey… Horse. Man, we gotta move, okay? Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”
Adam nodded against his chest, and asked, in the most childish tone that John had ever heard him produce, “…Can I have Eggos?”
Everyone had to pause to look at one another, despite the broken wall. Adam Ares - Mister Nutrition himself, the best cook on the team - and Eggos? Those were just two concepts that didn’t go together, but now was not the time to argue.
“Sure brother. Sure. All the Eggos you want, man. Come on. And I’ll sort that elbow out while they’re cooking.”
“…okay.”
Date Point 10y2m2w1d AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Charlotte Gilroy
Charlotte and Ben had landed on their feet with the move to Cimbrean. As the only qualified midwife in town, not only was Charlotte busy but she was well- paid. Ben meanwhile had quickly and easily fallen in with the city planning department, and had been instrumental in devising an approach to utility infrastructure that should hopefully mean that Folctha’s roads would never need to be dug up to access the sewerage, cables and pipes that ran alongside rather than beneath them.
Cheap housing, decent salaries and rapid promotion? Folctha was a graduate’s fantasy.
Except when it resulted in Charlotte’s best friend slumped inconsolable over her kitchen table, of course. There was little they’d been able to do for Ava except keep up a steady supply of tea and comforting words and contact.
Eventually, she sent Ben and Sean on a walk to go get some takeaway, from the good Chinese place on the far side of town that didn’t deliver. That earned her an hour of alone time for some girl talk.
Ava certainly seemed to appreciate it. At least, she muttered “…thanks…” as soon as they were gone.
“Darling, you’re going to have to come up for air sooner or later.” Charlotte told her.
It had the desired effect. Ava laughed - a thin, delicate, slightly hysterical laugh, but a laugh nonetheless - and finally unburied her face from her arms. Instead, she rested her elbows on the table and combed her fingers into her hair. “Sorry.”
“For being upset? I think you have a right…”
“It’s my own stupid fault though…” Ava sighed. Her hands dropped to the table and she sat back to stare up at the ceiling instead. “What was I thinking?"
“Which bit?”
“Hmm?”
“The bit where you did it, or the bit where you were caught?”
“…God, I don’t know.” Ava looked around the room. “I just… I don’t know.”
The clock ticked for them a good ten seconds or so before she sagged and gave Charlotte a pleading look. “What do you think?”
Charlotte took her hand. “You know… that’s the first time you’ve asked for my opinion on this.”
“…It is?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh…” Ava blinked at their hands. “…you’d have told me not to do it, wouldn’t you?”
“I would have.” Charlotte agreed.
“Why didn’t you?”
“You didn’t ask.” Charlotte gave her an apologetic facial shrug. “And… I don’t think you’d have listened, either.”
Ava paused, then nodded and shut her eyes. “You know why I did it though, right?”
“Darling? You did it because you were lonely and horny and Sean’s hot and caring and he’s a good match for you.” Charlotte asserted. “Don’t over-think it.”
“But that’s just the problem!” Ava exploded, tugging her hand out of Charlotte’s grip to gesticulate. “I didn’t think about it enough! Or… or I thought about it trying to convince… trying to…"
She gripped her hair again “I don’t know where I went wrong."
“Maybe the bit where you cheated on your boyfriend?” Charlotte suggested. Not unjustifiably, Ava glared at her. “No, darling… maybe it really is that simple. Maybe you should have either… asked him for permission, or broken up with him. Treated him honestly.”
“You’re taking his side?” Ava asked
“You’re not?”
Ava hesitated, then swallowed, sighed and rubbed her face. “I’m sorry.” She said. “You’re right. I should have. I… he said it himself, he was separated from me too.”
“Working relationships are about honesty.” Charlotte told her. “If you ever have to hide something, if you ever have to lie about something… maybe it’s not working.”
Ava nodded, miserably. “And it wasn’t working for a long time. Right from the moment he decided to sign up.” she said.
“Don’t blame him.” Charlotte cautioned.
“I don’t! I… I don’t. I just… He was doing what he had to. But I should have told him then that I wasn’t happy with it. Maybe if I’d done that…” Ava sighed, and shook her head slowly. “It’s done. Can’t change it. I can’t bring it back, just like I can’t bring Sara back, or home, or… or anything. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“So… what are you going to do?”
Ava flapped her arms in a resigned shrug. “Move on. I can’t stay here, not with Adam and Gabe, I’m not… I won’t be able to…” She paused, exasperated by her own lack of eloquence, then stood up. “The boys’ll be back in, what, an hour?”
“Give or take…” Charlotte agreed, as Ava shrugged her coat on and headed for the door. “Why, what are you-?”
“I’m going to say goodbye to Dad.”
Date Point 10y2m2w AV
Byron Group Exploration Vessel 8 “Creature of Habit”, The Border Stars, Proximal End.
Kevin Jenkins
“Hey Jenks, we’re coming up on RS-449!”
The Byron Group had sunk billions of dollars into starships, and the first few had all gone missing. As had the one sent to find out what happened to them. Byron Stellar Exploration’s working theory was that they had all suffered some kind of technical failure, and as such the Group’s starship-building program was on hold until they figured out what that failure might be.
Number 8 therefore was a Dominion-built vessel, custom made by the assembly gantries at Irbzrk Shipyards after a substantial bribe. It stuck in the craw to rely on alien tech, but at least it was alien tech built to the customer’s exacting specifications. It was, in the shipyard’s estimation, the ugliest thing they had ever built, and they had described it in contemptuous terms that translated to something like “throwback”
It wasn’t hard to see why. BGEV-8 was shaped for atmospheric re-entry, water landing and seaworthiness, all of which had put constraints on her physical properties and dimensions which had completely forbidden the Irbzrkian designers from flexing their creative muscles, especially when the clients had insisted on redundant steel bulkheads throughout and that every single component in the ship be A: modular and B: accessible at a moment’s notice. She looked more like a seafaring relic than a modern spaceship
There had been plenty of technical challenges to during the design phase, long before the commission had been sent to Irbzrk. For starters, a ship’s top superluminal speed was in part a function of its sublight power-to-weight ratio and acceleration, and in part a function of power to the warp engine. While BGEV-8’s power-to-weight ratio was excellent, disguising that the order had been placed by a human organisation had required ditching the capacitors and WiTChES, and relying on the Dominion’s preferred convention of a big reactor of some kind. This had limited the available power.
The result was a stately top speed of thirty kilolights. Enough to reach a nearby star in about two hours, but still decidedly pedestrian, and this had brought the supply problem into effect.
Humans needed nutrients. LOTS of nutrients. A crew of seven could chew through two hundred pounds of food in a week, and at thirty kilolights BGEV-8’s exploration missions were expected to take months.
Months worth of supplies would have made the ship heavier. Making the ship heavier would have hurt its power-to-weight ratio and slowed it down, meaning that it would need to carry even MORE supplies, which would have slowed it down further… and so on. While the equation did eventually balance itself, the end result was a much larger, much slower, and most importantly much more expensive ship than Byron had wanted.
The solution was stasis. Everyone’s bed doubled as a stasis chamber, and the ship did a pretty cunning job of making sure that you went to bed, you got a good eight or nine hours of sleep, and just as you were waking up fresh and ready for a new day, time stopped working for you until the duty officer decided you were needed again.
Naturally, nobody wanted to be effectively alone for subjective weeks at a time, so in practice there were always two duty officers, and things were carefully mixed up so that everybody worked with everybody else at some point in the rotation.
Today was Kevin’s second day awake. He’d put Joe Gibbs to bed last night, and this morning had woken up to find Mitch Hamilton preparing breakfast for him.
He liked Mitch the best out of their crew. Mitch could fix a decent coffee and breakfast, though everyone agreed that Kevin was the best cook on board.
Kevin was also the best general odd-jobber, inventory-sorter, cleaner and handyman on the crew, which was why he was its quartermaster. Everybody else might have had the assorted skills that went into flying the ship or surveying whatever interesting planets they stumbled across, but Byron had quite correctly decided early on that every ship needed somebody whose job was to keep everybody else comfortable, clean, well-fed and, ideally, well-advised.
Sure, being a glorified custodian wasn’t exactly glamorous, but the pay was even better than he’d been bringing in at Scotch Creek and there was just… something about being back out in the galaxy again. Something about the thrill of knowing that for better or worse they were doing something real, contributing to taking some of humanity’s eggs out of a single, vulnerable basket.
And, if he was honest, something about the thrill of danger. He wasn’t a vagrant in a galaxy unaware of and unprepared for the human race now: he was a ship’s quartermaster
“Gotcha. I’ll wake ’em up.” he called.
Waking the other five was as simple as hitting the touchscreen on the wall as soon as he entered the room and selecting “wake all”. Instantly the black haze filling every bunk faded, and his five colleagues - friends one and all - were sitting up and looking around.
“Station day?” Jennie asked. She was their biochemistry expert, a specialist whose job revolved around examining whatever organic compounds and weird alien life forms they turned up. It was a good thing she was just as capable with keeping the ship in peak condition, because their most recent circuit hadn’t turned up even a single Temperate world, a fact that made her tenure on this first survey vessel increasingly tenuous. Why waste crew resources on somebody who could be better used in a follow-up expedition?
It would be a shame to see her go.
“Yup. Mitch is shaking hands with them right now. Today’s Friday, fourteen- thirty ship time. Coffee?”
Everyone nodded eagerly and promptly set about their morning ablutions. Three years of working together had sorted out a few kinks and sticking points there: When everyone was awake, nobody got to soak in the shower or meditate on the shitter: you got in, you did your business, you cleaned up, and if you forgot to take your clothes or towel in with you, too bad for you. Modesty was a luxury, and not one that the rest of the crew were obligated to engineer on your behalf.
Everybody was grabbing cups of coffee with wet hair in short order.
Mitch, however, was frowning when he stuck his head round the hatch to the flight deck. “Yo, they’re refusing us docking.” he called.
Everyone exchanged glances, and Monica and Derek - co-pilot and flight engineer respectively - squeezed into their seats, leaving the three scientists and Kevin to eavesdrop.
“Did they say why?"
“Nope, not yet… uh, Resupply Station four-four-niner, Byron Group Echo-Victor Eight again. We’d sure appreciate an explanation. Why are being denied permission, over?”
“Because we’re human. Why else?” Kevin murmured rhetorically, quietly enough so the three on the flight deck wouldn’t hear.
“You think something happened?” Their resident astronomer, Charlie, asked him in a whisper.
“Yup.”
“Like what?” Jennifer asked.
“Swarm of Swarms. Bet you.”
“No bet.” Ryan grunted. He was their geologist and, as such, by far and away the most profitable member of the crew. He liked to joke that the job of the other six was to get him to someplace where he could dig up something valuable.
“Yeah, never go against Jenks’ nose for xeno politics.” Charlie agreed.
“Never go against his nose for politics full stop.” Jennie agreed.
“Jesus, they’re launching fighters.” Derek announced. “They really don’t want us docking."
“…Woah there, take it easy Four-four-niner, you can plainly see we’re holding position. May we at least synchronize comms?”
“Remind them they have to under Article Seven of the-" Kevin began to tell him.
“I know, Jenks." Derek snapped.
“…Okay.”
“Yowch.” Charlie muttered.
“It’s cool, he’s just stressed… I’ll get the big screen turned on.”
Ryan frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because there’s gonna be a message from Byron waiting for us.”
He was right. No sooner had Derek bullied the station into grudgingly allowing BGEV-8 to synchronize with the interstellar communications relay than the ship was announcing a priority message for all eyes.
Monica put a few tactful light-minutes between them and the station and they went dark in interplanetary space before relaxing enough to gather in the ship’s common area - a circular lounge with furniture that folded into the deck to make room for the gym mat - and load the message.
Sure enough, their billionaire employer’s frowning visage was the very first frame of the message.
"If I’m any judge, you’ll have an inkling something’s gone wrong by the time you get this. If I know nonhumans, they’re probably in the grip of a panic again. Enclosed is footage which explains why in detail, but I’ll make it short: The Swarm of Swarms attacked Capitol Station. Destroyed it, in fact. Some kind of human spaceborne special forces called the SOR got involved and… ah, it’s all in the video briefing that follows these orders.
"Come back ASAP. Carter, Brown, you’re clear to use the emergency recall. I want the seven of you at our policy meeting. See you shortly."
“Emergency recall?” Kevin asked.
“You heard the man, Mitch.” Monica said, and tugged the chain that she’d had round her neck from day one out from inside her vest. Mitch Carter produced something from his pocket and together they slipped into the bridge.
“Emergency recall?” Kevin repeated.
“Little something the Group gave us after losing all those other ships.” Monica replied.
There was a subtle sound, a little like somebody had thumped a bulkhead with their fist and caused the whole ship to give a dull ring. Interplanetary dark space was gone in an instant, replaced to one side by a grey and cratered horizon and, rising above it…
“Oh no.” Kevin moaned. “That stupid son of a bitch."
“What?” Ryan asked.
“He’s had an open jump beacon to Earth this whole time?"
“Our emergency recall, yeah. What, is that a problem?”
Kevin spun on his heel and headed for his locker. “That’s between me and Moses Byron.” he replied.
Date Point 10y2m2w AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches.
Gabriel Ares
Jess paused and looked up from her desk. “Doorbell? Are we expecting Ava tonight?”
“I’ll get it.”
Despite time and physiotherapy, Gabe’s old injury was getting progressively worse, and hauling himself up out of his chair was still difficult. Which was why he made a point of doing it every time he had an excuse--he might be on a one-way trip to a wheelchair, but he was damned if he was letting it take him without a fight.
Besides, letting Jess do something as simple as answer the door for him would have made him feel like a cripple, and he hated that.
It was Ava alright, wearing her oldest and favorite jacket, the simple, rugged one that she and Adam had got together before coming to Cimbrean, with the “From Ashes” patch on the sleeve.
She gave him a tiny, sad smile that made him hesitate mid-greeting. “…Hey Dad.”
“…Hey.”
“Adam found out.”
Gabe let out a long-contained sigh, stepped forward and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry, Ava.”
She hugged back, tight and shaking, and mumbled something he didn’t catch.
“What was that?”
“I said I’m sorry, I… I didn’t see. I was so stupid, I…”
“Shh…” Gabe just held her a bit longer.
Eventually, she pulled away. “I’m… gonna go back to Earth.” she announced. “Try and, and… Try and be somebody. Somebody who isn’t a complete fuckup.”
“Hey, for what it’s worth…” Gabe began “like I said, you’re a daughter to me nowadays. I won’t lie, when you told us I was… kinda disappointed in you. But I love you anyway, okay? I know you’ll do okay.”
“I don’t know…” Ava sighed and leaned against the wall. “I can never seem to figure out how to do the right thing.”
“Want some advice?” Gabe offered. She looked up at him, waiting. “Well, okay, it’s more of a story…”
When Ava’s expectant gaze didn’t change, he nodded and told it. “There was… back in San Diego, there was this woman, a Private Investigator. Terri Boone. I met her… about a year, year and a half before the bomb went off. She’d shot an intruder in her apartment. He was on her couch, had a gun, had no right to be there… open and shut case of self defense.”
“Anyway, Boone claimed that the guy she killed was working for somebody else, and that they’d just try again. Which, that’s a serious claim, we took it seriously… nothing came of it. Nothing we could follow up on, anyway. There were… nothing we could legitimately find, nothing admissible, pointed to this guy working for anybody but himself. Right?”
Ava nodded, listening.
“Well… my whole job was about what was admissible. Building a case that’d stand up in a court of law and not get thrown out on a technicality. Procedure, procedure, procedure, right? That’s the nature of police work, and it’s like that for a good reason. So, I found myself stuck. I believed Boone, but I couldn’t continue the investigation because I’d have strayed outside of procedure. Can’t do that, so I had to drop it.”
He sighed. “A few months later, she was dead. And… She was tied up in the bombing of the city. I can’t go into it. But sometimes I ask myself if I could have done anything differently. If maybe had I just been lax on procedure that one time, maybe those two million people would still be alive. It’s possible."
He held up a hand as Ava started to speak. “Or. Maybe they could have blown up three cities. Or ten. Or maybe the whole world would be bombed flat from orbit by the Hunters by now. I don’t know. And that’s kinda the point. I regret not doing more for her… But I can’t think of a single thing I’d do differently. You see what I’m saying?”
Ava thought about it, then nodded slowly. “You can’t do more than what seems like a good idea at the time.” she said.
“Right. You screw up, you move on, you learn, you screw up again.” Gabe gave her a wry smile. “Some of us screw up worse than others, but… There’s no secret. You’ve just got to forgive yourself and move on.”
“Learn from your mistakes…”
“Right…” Gabe nodded. “Do you regret… what you did?”
“Yeah.”
“You gonna do it again?”
"Hell no."
“There we go, then. You’re a better woman than you were yesterday.”
Ava managed to laugh at that, though she sobered again quickly. “…I’m going to miss you, Dad.”
“I’ll miss you too. Come back, okay? When you’re ready.”
“When I’m ready. I promise.”
They hugged again. “Goodbye, Dad.”
“Goodbye.”
He watched her down the stairs, then let himself back into the apartment. Jess took one look at him, stood and gave him a hug. “Are you okay?”
“How much did you hear?”
“All of it.”
Gabe sighed. “I’ll be… I’ll just learn from my mistakes and move on, like I told her to.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
Gabe just shrugged, and shrank down into his chair again, rubbing his face. "Esi es la vida."
Date Point 10y2m2w1d AV
Byron Group Head Offices, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth.
Kevin Jenkins.
“Look, Rachael, I’m telling you this is important."
Kevin had dealt with his employer’s personal assistant before. Byron had a policy where literally anybody in the company could arrange a meeting with him, and crewing one of his ships was one of the positions that earned you a place in the short queue for those meetings… but there was still a queue. The idea that somebody might want to meet with him urgently apparently wasn’t in her briefing. “And I’m telling you that Mr. Byron sees people with appointments." she repeated.
“And how long will an appointment take to arrange?” Kevin challenged her.
“If it’s really that important I can fit you in for tomorrow at-”
She was spared Kevin’s frustrated lambasting by her phone ringing, and Moses Byron’s voice on the speaker. "Rachael, if you don’t let him in I do believe I’ll just need a new door anyway."
“Yes, Mister Byron.”
She gestured to the door for him.
Byron’s office was just as calculated as everything else about the man, in Kevin’s opinion. He had pretty much instantly pegged Byron as a self- interested bastard who had his head on straight enough to spot that public opinion was a more valuable currency than mere dollars, and everything the man did as being part of that philosophy.
The office wasn’t large, and you’d have been forgiven for mistaking it for that of a high school principal or a junior manager, rather than a man whose personal wealth eclipsed anything that Kevin could have imagined earning in several lifetimes. There was nothing either ultra-modern or obviously antique on display, just a few small bookshelves, some framed family photographs, a nice view. You had to look closer to spot that the desk was a bespoke piece in pale oak, see the hand-stitching in the office chair, or notice that the coffee next to the machine in the corner probably cost more per hundred grams than the ones Kevin had served in his bars had cost per thousand.
It all spoke to a fondness for the benefits of a billionaire’s life while keeping up a pretense of frugal moderation.
“Got to hand it to you, Kevin, not many people demand to see me." Byron told him, standing up politely. He was like that, always polite and engaging even if he was obviously nettled.
“Yeah, well, not every day I learn we’ve had a back door open around the moon for… what, five months?” Kevin told him.
“And?”
“Mister Byron, that’s like the worst idea since… It’s a really bad idea."
Byron’s head inclined slightly to one side. “Why? You know something I don’t?” he asked.
“What, besides the Swarm of Swarms? You sent us that video, boss man." Kevin told him. “You think if they can do that to Capitol Station, they’ll struggle with us?”
Byron pushed his chair out of the way and stepped over to the wet bar in the corner. “The Hunters” he said “Don’t have a dang thing anywhere even close to Sol.”
“And how do you know that?” Kevin asked him.
“Oh, that’s easy.” Byron said. “All we needed was a Hunter’s corpse. No shortage of those about, didn’t even have to send a fightin’ Homo Sapiens out to grab one. Just put in a call to the right people. Once the eggheads had its communication implants, engineering a sensor that could pick up their chatter was simplicity itself. They assure me there are no Hunters anywhere near Earth. Drink? I ain’t no bartender but I mix a decent Creole…"
“And what about other threats?” Kevin asked, declining the offer with a hand gesture.
Byron paused in pouring a drink for himself. Kevin noted idly that although he’d offered a creole, what he was pouring for himself was actually a Shirley Temple. “You mean to tell me you know about some other threats?" he asked, quietly. “What, you were involved in strategic intelligence briefings while you were cleaning tables at SCERF?”
“One of the NDAs I’m under forbids me from telling you how many NDAs I’m under nor for what reasons.” Kevin shot back. “We’re talking serious felony stuff here. But fuck, if it’s serious enough and if I have to, I’ll break every last fuckin’ one and go to the pen knowing I tried to avert disaster.”
Byron arched an eyebrow at him.
“…Though I’d take it as a personal favor if I didn’t have to." Kevin admitted.
“That serious, huh?”
A new voice entered the conversation. “More than you might guess, Mister Byron.”
Kevin and Byron turned to the door. A slim, trim woman in a dark suit gave them a slim, trim smile and invited herself in. Of Rachael, there was no sign. “Mister Jenkins. I’m pleased to see you have this well in hand. I’ll pretend the bit where you mused about sharing classified information was purely speculative.”
“Special Agent… Williams, right?” Kevin greeted her, dredging the name up from memory. They hadn’t met since the Hierarchy debriefing at Scotch Creek, back before the San Diego blast. “Pleasure to see you again, always nice to see my tax dollars walk in the door wearing Armani.”
“Good memory.” Williams acknowledged him.
“How’s your partner? Hamilton, right?”
“He’s at his daughter’s Bat Mitzvah, thank you for asking. I was invited but, well… there was a serious incident involving an unknown, unshielded and only barely encrypted jump beacon orbiting the moon. Lucky for you that ship you rode in on was broadcasting Moses Byron’s name everywhere, or you’d have been dead within seconds of arriving."
Byron cleared his throat. “I’m not used” he declared “to being ignored in my own office.”
“Where are my manners?” Williams asked, smoothly producing and opening her identification. “Williams, CIA.”
Byron glowered at the seal she was showing him for a good few seconds as if expecting it to be so cheap a forgery as to fall apart in her hands. When this failed to happen, he grudgingly put his drink down and extended a hand. Williams didn’t shake it.
“So.” Byron sat down to cover the snub. “Would either of you care to indulge me as to why in the good gosh-darn the Company just walked into my office and my PA is nowhere in sight?”
Williams turned a hand palm-up, inviting Kevin to speak. Kevin’s caution briefly warred with his desire to launch into a full-blown rant at Byron, and won. Somehow, he suspected he was being tested here.
“There’s… let’s call it the Big Bad. Out there.” he said. “Bigger and badder than the Hunters, that’s for sure. It wants us all dead, it might use the Hunters to get what it wants… and it’s old. Old like you’d laugh me out of the office if I told you."
“How Lovecraftian.” Byron drawled, swirling his drink. He had that look Kevin had seen on several men in his time, the intense one that spoke of furious calculation going on silently while the face remained impassive.
“I’d almost prefer Lovecraft." Williams said. “Mister Jenkins has put it with supreme delicacy, so allow me to be blunter: we are, in real terms, no more militarily powerful on the interstellar scale than we were ten years ago. Forget Cimbrean, and the Firebirds and the V-class destroyers. Forget the Hephaestus LLC and your own accomplishments, forget even the panicky politics of the Dominion. In real terms, the human race collectively is still very much insignificant. But so is a grain of sand, and if you’ve ever got one of those in your sock, Mister Byron, you know just how irritating a grain of sand can be, and how badly you will want to scratch it."
She flashed that slim, trim smile again. “Except that in our case, scratching is for now impossible thanks to the system containment forcefield that you violated."
Byron took a sip and set his glass down. “This seems” he observed “like the kind of critical information that a man in my position, doing the things I was doing, ought to have been told.”
“You were, and still are, judged to be a dangerous personality.” Williams told him. She stepped forward and, uninvited, put her briefcase on Byron’s desk. “Given that you had the information to know that your stunt with that beacon was a bad idea and went ahead with it anyway, that judgement stands."
“And you figured that an ignorant dangerous personality was less of a problem than an educated one?" Byron retorted. “Extinction ain’t exactly in my business plan. Had I known that was on the cards…"
“Spare me.” Williams interrupted. “We know that Governor Sandy hinted about a danger with neural implants to you in private. Anybody with your resources can’t possibly be ignorant of just how aggressively the SOR and JETS were formed, nor of the huge sums of government money that went dark at the same time. And if you were somehow oblivious to all of those, I defy you to look me in the eye and tell me that San Diego escaped your attention."
Byron’s expression didn’t change, but he did draw a long and slightly indignant breath as he listened.
“You already had all the information you needed, Mister Byron." Williams scolded him. “And still you proceeded unwisely. I shudder to think what you might have done had we filled in the detail for you.”
“Shoulda co-opted me, then.” Byron grunted.
“Maybe.” Williams agreed. She turned to Kevin. “Mister Jenkins, I appreciate your involvement here, and I’m sure you could contribute in all sorts of ways, but this conversation between the United States of America and Mister Moses Byron is not for mortal ears. I’m sorry."
Kevin knew better than to argue. Williams held all the cards here.
“Arright.” he agreed. “But before you lay into my employer…?”
Williams nodded and made a gesture of invitation.
“If there’s a learning point in this whole clusterfuck, it’s that we really shouldn’t be keeping our people in the dark, arright? That goes for you too, Mister Byron. Briefing only two members of the crew about the recall meant I never got the chance to warn you it was a bad idea."
Williams and Byron frowned at each other, then both made a conceding nod. “There’s a fine art to secrecy.” Williams agreed. “Errors in judgement may have happened all round. We intend to address that.”
Byron just nodded again. “Fine.” Kevin told them, breathing a little easier. “You two godly folks have fun talking over the mortal’s head. I’ll see ya at that policy meeting, Mister Byron.”
“I’d be grateful if you would shut the door please, Mister Jenkins.” Williams said. She produced a phone from her pocket, and tapped at it as Kevin crossed the room.
Kevin couldn’t resist just a little eavesdrop as he closed the door. Before it clicked softly shut, the last he heard was “It’s me… Yes, he’s right here Mister President…”
Date Point 10y2m2w1d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Adam Ares
For a blissful few seconds when Adam woke up, there was just the light of sunrise staining what promised to be a clear blue sky and the loose, relaxed feeling of muscles newly mended by Crue-D. In those seconds, the world was perfect.
Then yesterday hit him in the head.
“…Fuck.”
He levered himself upright. He was still in his civvies, basketball shorts and a T-shirt that he’d made himself, one of the few items of clothing he had that was actually loose on him.
Baseball was slumped in an armchair in the doorway, snoring quietly with a book on his knee. Somebody had draped a blanket over him, and there was a mug of tea on the floor next to him, untouched and long gone cold. Adam recognized one of Major Powell’s mugs.
Remorse stabbed him right in the heart. Base was going to be suffering from lost sleep for the rest of the day, which was no fun at all on the SOR’s training regime. A quick glance at the clock said it was only 0530. A Cimbrean day was twenty-eight hours long in total - close enough to Earth that people didn’t really suffer from the difference. In fact, the extra hours usually translated to feeling like every day had been both productive and restful.
Still. If Base had been up most of the night…
“John?”
Base started slightly in his seat, and blinked his eyes open. “Uh? Oh, shit.”
He straightened up, moving his back sinuously with a rapid-fire of little pops and crackles as he cleared out the stiffness from a few hours of bad posture. “Wasn’t supposed to sleep…”
“You okay, bro?” Adam asked him.
“Are you?”
“Fuck if I know.” Adam grumbled and sat up properly, swinging his feet down onto the floor.
John didn’t say anything, just bookmarked what he’d been reading, retrieved the tea, sipped it, grimaced, and took both book and drink into the kitchen. A few seconds later, Adam heard the microwave close and hum into life.
First things first - after any serious injury was repaired by Crue-D, the first thing to do was to test it. Twenty push-ups were more than enough to confirm that his elbow was fine, and they blasted out some of the dust in his head for good measure.
He padded through into the kitchen. “You stayed up all night?” he asked.
“Yeah. We figured somebody had to keep an eye on you.”
“Dude, I wasn’t gonna do something stupid…”
“I know, just…” John shrugged expansively, and sipped his re-heated tea.
“…Thanks, bro.”
“First breakup’s always the worst.” John sighed.
“I can’t believe her." Adam sighed, thumping over to the fridge. To his quiet delight, there was still half a box of Eggos in there. “Where did you even get these on Cimbrean?"
“Londis.”
Adam grunted and nodded as he turned on the grill. Able Seaman Thomas ‘Londis’ Magoro derived his nickname from a chain of British convenience stores, thanks to his legendary ability to procure almost anything. If you wanted something and you wanted it quickly, you went to Londis.
“I gotta ask, brother…” John said. “Eggos?”
Adam shrugged “My dad made them for me whenever Mom was being difficult… Guess they’re my comfort food.” he laughed. “Hell, shove enough butter and syrup on them, they’re probably a great fit for our macronutrients, right?”
John gave a half-hearted half-laugh and sipped his tea again.
“Something wrong?” Adam asked.
“Stop trying to put a brave face on it, man. You’re torn up.” John told him.
Adam hesitated, then shook his head and waved his hands resignedly. “It’s done man. It’s over. Fuck her. Just gotta move on, I guess.”
John just gave him a patient stare.
“…Alright! Alright. I’m fucking… I just don’t know why man?! How could she! What the fuck? She just threw it all away? Why?"
“Brother… I love you, but you’ve got the girl-smarts of a fucking ten-year- old.” John grunted, and drained his mug.
“You’re saying it’s my fault?" Adam asked, incredulous.
“Nuh.” John shook his head. “But it takes two to dance, man. D’you really think you were being fair on her? Never there, not really there there even when you were there… you follow me?"
“She’s still the one who-”
“Yeah.” John interrupted. “but… I’ve done that shit too man.”
Adam blinked at him. “You have?”
“I played around, yeah. Ain’t proud of it, but…” John scratched his head thoughtfully. “Look, the cheater’s to blame, but they cheat for a reason. And at the time it seemed like a good reason. That’s all I’m saying.”
Adam didn’t reply, and they lapsed into thoughtful silence until the Eggos were out of the grill and drowned in butter and maple syrup.
“What could I have done differently, though?” he asked. “I wrote her all the time, called her every chance I got, took as much leave as I could to spend time with her…”
“You know what I remember?” John asked. Adam had served him a couple of Eggos as well, and he’d apparently decided he enjoyed them. “You remember that night we were on the plane coming up to Scotch Creek to jump out here, and she called you really upset about something? And at the end of that call she was mad at you and hung up and you had no idea what she’d even called about?”
“…Yeah?”
“Par for the fucking course with you, bro. Every conversation you two ever had worked out like that somehow. I mean… did you ever ask her how her degree was going? Or, or take a look at her website?”
“She has a website?”
John rocked back. “Are you-? You don’t even fucking know she has a website?!”
“What’s on this website?”
“Her photos, man! She’s a photographer, or did you not notice that? It’s her portfolio!”
Adam just stared at him, shaking his head slightly while he chewed.
“Jesus fuck.” John rubbed his forehead. “Do I actually know more about your girlfriend than you do?"
“Ex-girlfriend.”
“And this is fuckin’ why, man! This shit right here is why she cheated on you."
Adam looked down at his plate. “Doesn’t excuse it.” he grunted.
“No! But it explains it though!" John took a breath and cooled down. “She didn’t just do this ‘just because’, brother. She had a reason, even if that reason wasn’t good enough. I mean, how much leave did you have saved up? Sixty days? Use it or lose it, right? I remember, the major had to order us to take leave time."
“Yeah but, ramping down and coming back up on the training takes a month each! That would have put us behind-”
“Adam.” John sighed. “I’m not telling you if you were right or wrong not to take leave. I’m telling you why it happened, and what more you could have done. That’s all. You could have taken more leave, you could have spent more time with her, you could have actually taken an interest. You didn’t do any of those things and… well, this happened. She’s the one who did it, but you’ve gotta ask why she felt she had to. Right?"
Not wanting to admit out loud that he was probably right, Adam forced himself to shut up and think, rather than argue any more.
He kept to himself for the next couple of hours as the rest of the guys woke up, and as the morning routine of keeping the dorm clean and tidy unfolded - necessary, because it would have reeked of male musk, body odour and sweat otherwise - the simple chores gave his mind time to work.
For their part, the guys clearly sensed that he wasn’t in a talkative mood, and were cool with that. They were just there, solid and dependable and giving him exactly what he needed - room and quiet to think. He appreciated that hugely.
They were in the middle of hanging out the laundry when the dorm’s phone rang. Akiyama fielded it.
“Yo, Horse! Call from gate guard for ya!”
Adam and Base shared a frown, and he jogged over to take the call. “Ares.”
"Staff Sergeant, I have a gentleman here asking for you by name. He says it’s important. Name of Harvey, Sean Harvey."
“Turn him away.” Adam told them.
"He says, uh… He says ‘Ava’s gone missing’, sergeant."
Adam must have paused for longer than he thought, because the next word he heard was "…Sergeant?"
“…I’ll be right there.”
He notified Rebar of where he was going and jogged the few hundred meters over to the main gates. Sure enough, Sean was loitering at the guard post, pacing nervously.
Adam didn’t waste time on being nice. “What do you want?"
“She’s just… gone. She went to see your dad last night and now she’s… nobody knows where she is.” Sean explained. “I’m kinda worried she might…”
“Shut up.”
Adam spun away from him, and was halfway back to the gates when Sean spoke up. “This is why she did it, you know!”
Adam didn’t turn around, but he did stop. “Do you even care about her?” He asked. “Or did you just wanna get your dick wet?”
“Do YOU care about her?" Sean retorted. “Or just about your fucking territory?"
Several hundred pounds of angry SOR operator was in his face half a second later. To Sean’s credit, he did little more than rock back on his heels. He was shaking, but he held his own. “You’re just going to walk away and let her be missing?”
“I was going," Adam snarled, “to request leave to go look for her."
“Sergeant?” The guards had stepped forward, cautiously. “Break it up, please.”
“You know where she is?” Sean asked, ignoring them.
Adam didn’t ignore them. He straightened. “What the fuck makes you think you have a right to know?” he asked.
"Because I’m her bloody friend you giant pillock!" Sean snapped.
Adam’s fist clenched. "Friend?" he asked. “Is that what you call it?”
“Yes!”
“Sergeant…” The gate guards had drawn closer. “Break it up, please.”
Adam spared them a sideways glance, then very, very carefully relaxed his hand before he aimed a finger at Sean’s face. “You don’t get shit from me, Harvey." he growled. “She can tell you herself where she got to, after I’ve gone and got her. Fuck her, fuck you, and fuck off."
He stalked back through the gates, back to the dorm, and right up to Rebar, who’d taken over as their NCOIC since they’d lost Legsy. “Requesting leave.” he said, getting right to the point.
Rebar blinked at him. “Dude, you could have just told the gate guard.”
“Yeah just… I’ma be gone all day. Wanted to grab some stuff and tell you in person.”
Rebar gave him a hug. “Okay brother. You go do what you gotta.”
Adam just nodded and gave him a weak smile. He spun round the dorm, grabbing his light ruck from under his bunk to throw in a couple of pouches of juice, an old sweater of his that he never wore any longer on account of it being much too small, two bags of beef jerky and a small first-aid kit.
He changed his footwear too. He usually wore flip-flops or went barefoot around the base - boots and shoes were too expensive and broke too quickly between the size of his feet, his own mass and his tendency to bounce around rather than lumber. His hiking sandals, on the other hand, had taken everything he could throw at them for two years.
A couple more essentials, including his phone, and he was back out of the gate less than ten minutes after he’d sent Sean packing. He hung an immediate left, followed the fence around two sides of the base and then set out through the young broad-leaf plantation that came right up as close as the foresters were allowed.
It was exactly what he needed. Adam had never been the kind of guy who did his greatest thinking in a quiet room at the best of times, and five years in the service had only strengthened the connection between his muscles and his brain. It was almost like one couldn’t work properly unless the other was busy.
Sure, a simple steady hike - even at the hard pace he set - through gently sloping woodland wasn’t exactly taxing, but it was enough to settle his body into a rhythm and let his brain get down to business.
Anybody coming back down the trail would have been a little alarmed to run into a guy who put pro wrestlers to shame talking angrily to himself. He spent the first two miles aggressively rehearsing all the ways he was going to tell Ava off. Then he spent the next two miles telling himself off, rehearsing ways to reconcile, rehearsing her side of the argument.
When he did eventually run into somebody, it was an elderly couple out walking their dog, probably from one of the little peripheral forest communities. Folctha had attracted a lot of them - elderly couples and early retirees wanting a place where their pensions would go further, a nudist camp, the odd religious commune kept under close scrutiny by Cimbrean Colonial Security in case they started showing any cultish behaviour, or just second homes owned by hard-working Reclamation Project workers and Folctha city employees who wanted somewhere quiet to retreat to for the weekend.
He saw them long before they were in earshot, shut up, met them with a polite touch to his forehead and a “Sir. Ma’am.” and ignored the stares. People around Folctha were pretty used to the SOR, but these two had clearly never met one of the Operators before. Their reaction was pretty standard for first- timers.
The contact was enough to shut him up for the rest of the walk, or at least turn his thought process into a steady mill of ideas being worked over internally, rather than a crazy person shouting at trees. He was almost in a positive mood when he finally reached the point where the trail branched, leading off in one direction toward Scrap Point, a research outpost dedicated to diving the alien spaceship wreckage on the lake bed. The other way went down to Sara’s Beach, a public recreation spot that was actually a good kilometre or so from the spot that he personally thought of as Sara’s beach, but much more accessible.
He followed the second trail until it intersected the paved road and, rather than hanging a right and walking down to the lake shore as the trail signs directed, instead crossed straight over and plunged on into the woods.
The ecological calamity that the Cimbrean Reclamation Project insisted on calling “The Terran Microbe Action Zone” (and which the colonists knew rather less formally as “The Skidmark”) hadn’t ever reached out this far, and so none of the native flora had been felled. It was still being steadily and relentlessly choked out by the Earthling imports, but that was all part of the plan. First had come logging everything within ten kilometers of the Zone, replanting and populating with species imported from Earth, and that was it. The natural aggressiveness and biological advantage of Deathworld life was being left to do the rest.
The result was a confused boundary zone where imported broadleaf trees gave way to a tangle of Earth and Cimbrean flora, the latter steadily dying back as the former out-grew them, shaded them over, guzzled the soil nutrients and, in a lot of cases, parasitized them.
And then… nothing but natives. Native trees, native bird-ish things and mammal-ish things and other life forms that were, for the most part, surprisingly ordinary looking. The bird-ish things had mouths with teeth rather than beaks, and the mammal-ish things were covered in something that was more like moss than like fur or wool, and of course the universal constant in Cimbrean fauna was three eyes… but nothing that actually looked amazingly exotic. Just life, getting on with the business of living and oblivious to the creeping extinction only a hundred yards away.
There was even a stand of Cimbreaner Simiscamellia Delanii, the Cimbrean Tea Bush. It was growing not even twenty yards away from a thorny, berry-laden snarl of Terraner Rubus Fruticosus. The botanists had decided very early on that in order to remain sensible and useful, the taxonomic system of classification needed to be amended to include, above the Domain level, the Planet rank.
Adam had to admit. Cimbrean was still beautiful.
He heard Ava long before he saw her. He could hear her voice between the trees and bushes, talking to somebody. He had no idea who - Sean hadn’t mentioned anybody else being missing and people never came this far along the shore from Sara’s Beach…
She turned out to be talking to herself. She was right where he’d known she would be - seated on the same old rock where she’d always sat, facing out toward the same view with her clothes folded neatly on the stone next to her, resting with her elbows and her knees, looking down at her feet.
She flinched when she realized somebody was there, then relaxed when she saw who it was.
“…Hey.”
Adam blinked. He hadn’t foreseen that she’d be nude. “You uh… Did you swim?”
“No I didn’t swim.” she shook her head. “I just… I’m more comfortable this way up here.”
She leaned over and grabbed her t-shirt.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asked.
She flapped the shirt to get it the right way out. “Kinda, but… It’s not too bad.”
“Who were you talking to, anyway?” Adam asked her. There was nobody else present.
“This is going to sound really stupid…” Ava’s face went a little red as she tugged her shirt on and covered up.
“What?”
“…I was talking to Sara.”
Adam hesitated, then gently rested a concerned hand on her upper back. “Baby…”
The term of endearment surprised him. After everything, after learning what she’d done, his first instinct was still to be tender and to love her?
“I know.” Ava nodded, and rubbed her face. “I know she’s dead, I know. It’s stupid, I just-”
“She was fourteen, Ava." Adam sat down. “Maybe not the best source of life wisdom, you know?”
Ava sobbed a laugh, and they sat together in silence for a long time. Not touching, but close.
“I brought some juice. And, uh, a sweater. And stuff.” Adam handed her the bag. A tiny grateful smile put in a cameo appearance as she dug out one of the juice pouches and the sweater, which she shrugged on. She must have been colder than she’d realized.
“I should probably have told somebody where I was going, huh?” she asked.
“Sean was worried for you.”
“And he went to you?”
“Yeah. He’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”
Ava didn’t answer. Instead, she impaled the juice pouch with a straw and drained it.
“…What were you talking to Sara about, anyway?” Adam asked her once she’d finished.
Ava glanced at him, then down at her bare feet. “You know what’s really stupid?” She asked. “Like, really, really, ‘what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with- me’ stupid?"
She looked at him again. “You explained everything perfectly yesterday. You put it totally into perspective. I get it, I get just how badly I fucked up, and still there’s this bitch voice in the back of my head that wants me to believe… that’s trying to tell me I did nothing wrong." She looked out over the lake. “I was trying to get rid of it.”
“By talking to Sara?”
She nodded, miserably picking at a fingernail. “Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, does it?”
He shook his head gently. “Not really.”
“Nothing makes sense.”
Adam mulled that comment over.
“No…” he decided. “Things do make sense. You know what the weirdest part of all this is?"
“What?”
“If you’d just… told me, or asked me… fuck! I might even have been okay with it! Because I get it, I understand, you put it perfectly yesterday too. I married the Air Force first." He sighed. “But instead you lied to me, Ava. For… what, two years?"
“About that.” she agreed, nodding sadly.
“I get that I was neglecting you,” Adam told her. “I get that I was making decisions for us both without consulting you. Hell, I get that he was… probably good for you! What I Just. Don’t. Get. is why you couldn’t be straight with me?" He wiped his own eyes off. “For God’s sake, yeah, breaking up with me would have hurt, but this?"
Ava, who usually shed tears so easily, seemed to have run out. Or maybe she’d just gone somewhere past them, where they were no longer relevant. Either way, her face was a mask of dry despondency.
“Why, Ava?"
“…I’ve been asking myself that question all morning.”
“And?”
“And… I really thought I was doing it for you. Charlotte said it was because I was lonely and horny, but… But I can remember thinking ‘it’s this or I lose him,’ and…" she exhaled and ran three fingers through her hair. “It’s so stupid. I’m so stupid. If I hadn’t got so hung up on holding on to the past, at least I’d still have my integrity, you know? But because I got it in my head I was doing it for you, I went and did completely the wrong thing."
Adam stood up. “I thought I was doing this for you!" he told her, gesturing at the full, hugely-muscled mass of himself. “But you said it last night: You didn’t want or need me to do this, and I sure as fuck didn’t want or need you to cheat on me…"
He sat down again. “Maybe we both need to stop believing our own bullshit.” he concluded.
Ava just stared at him, so he sighed and elaborated.
“I thought I was doing this to protect you.” He said. “Really I did, I was convinced. But you’re right, if I’d really been acting for you, then… hell, I’d probably have gone into Colonial Security and been there for you every night, and… Instead I just got caught up in this. I was angry and grieving over Sara, I wanted to fight back, and then it turned out I’m good at fighting back. The best maybe!"
He looked out across the lake, choosing his words. “Do you know what it’s like to get pulled along into something like that? Where everything just lines up and you’d never even think of slowing down or stopping because it just feels right? Because you’re enjoying it so much you don’t ever want it to end?"
Ava nodded. “You feel like you’re taking back your life.” She agreed.
“Right.”
“You feel like you’re in control but really you’re strapped in for the ride but because you’ve got a wheel in your hands you don’t notice you’re not doing the steering."
“Right!”
“…That’s how it was for me, too.” she said.
“…Do you think that’s the truth?” Adam asked her. “Or is it just more bullshit we’re inventing to make ourselves feel better?”
Ava paused. “…I… think it’s the truth.” she said. “Or at least… I hope it is…”
She trailed off, then spread her arms helplessly. “I don’t know any more. I spent all this time trying to do the right thing, and did completely the wrong thing instead. I don’t… I don’t know if I can trust what’s in my head.”
“Then how can I trust you?" Adam asked.
Ava didn’t answer, just stared despairingly at the water. A couple of minutes elapsed in mutual silence, before she finally spoke, quietly.
“We’re done, aren’t we?”
Adam nodded and stood up. “I love you, Ava.” he said. “But there’s just no… I can’t.”
“I know…” She looked up at him, grief and remorse written in every nuance of her expression. “I’m so sorry, Adam.”
“…I’m sorry too.”
He turned his back on her, and started back up the trail.
Date Point 10y2m2w1d AV
Vancouver General Hospital, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Earth.
Xiu Chang
White.
White and beeping.
And sort of a soft blue. Greens, too. Hints of scarlet light, and a click-hiss valve noise that corresponded to a strange pressure in her chest.
Blink. Frown. Focus.
A question floated across her mind in three languages: Where yi nǎlǐ?
That wasn’t right. Wǒ kin I? Shi am nǎlǐ?
So hard to think. She tried to take a calming breath, clear her head, and something started to make an alarming sound.
“Xiu? Xiu! Nurse? Nurse help!”
…Purple? Moving purple, and dark skin, and a soothing tone, like Ayma comforting a wailing cub.
“It’s okay, it’s okay… she’s just awake, it’s okay. Shhh, darling. Don’t fight the ventilator, it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re safe.”
Xiu? What was a Xiu?
Oh.
Right.
…
Nurse.
Ventilator.
Hospital.
Earth.
So hard to think but… those strangers by her bedside. The tiny elderly woman in tears. The skinny old balding man holding her hand with stress plowing his forehead. The tall fat man behind them with his hands on their…
No. No no no, that was wrong! She didn’t have a big brother! Her parents weren’t-
“Okay honey, shhh… calm now… I’m sorry, this is really distressing her, we’d better put her under again… It’s okay darling, you’re just not ready yet… It’s okay…”
Something in her left hand. Something that made all the wrong go away.
Something that…
Something…
…
White.
And… colours. Cards, by her bed. “Get Well Soon!” “We missed you!” “Welcome home!”
There was no beeping, this time. No hissing or clicking, nothing in her throat doing her breathing for her. Just… yes, a drip in her hand, and darkness outside the window. Warm yellow light through a slightly ajar door, admitting hushed conversation.
Xiu sat up, cautiously. She was alone, she had time to gather her thoughts, assess the situation.
Fact check. She was in a hospital, with a drip in her hand. The gravity felt normal. The air had a certain… richness to it, warm and nourishing. She couldn’t tell what the voices outside were saying - their volume was much too tactful for that - but the cadences sounded English.
She carefully selected the right word. “…Hello?”
The conversation outside ceased, and then there were brisk footsteps, a rustle of scrubs, and a middle-aged nurse poked her head round the door.
Her face lit up on seeing Xiu. “Oh! Hi!”
Xiu froze, having not planned the conversation this far ahead. “…Hi. Uh…”
“Oh it’s okay honey, you’re a bit disoriented right now, eh?”
“A-a little.” Xiu nodded. “…I’m in Vancouver?”
“Yep!” The nurse patted the bed “I’m Liz. Am I okay to sit down?”
“S-sure.”
Liz did so, settling comfortably next to her. “You and your friends made a stir when you showed up! You especially.”
“I-I did?”
“Oh! Where are my-? I’m sorry, can I get you something, sweetie? No solids until the doctor says otherwise, but I could call up for some soup?”
“…Actually, that’d be really nice. Yes please.”
“Okay. You’ll be okay for a few seconds?”
Xiu nodded for her, and managed a little smile.
Liz wasn’t long. Xiu heard her feet in the hall, a quick conversation, and she returned in only a minute or two. Still, it was long enough for Xiu to sort out her head and think through the most pressing questions she had.
“So.” Liz said, bustling back in. “Where were we?”
“Are my friends okay?” Xiu asked her. “Julian and Allison?”
“They’re fine. They’re asleep right now, but they’re just fine. You had the worst of it, actually.”
“I did?”
Liz gestured with her hand, raising her left arm and touching a spot on her ribs, with an expression hinting for Xiu to do the same. When she did, there was a dressing there. “You’ve been asleep for about three days.” Liz told her. “There were a couple of operations. Doctor Spilny will explain it all in the morning.”
“Can I see them?”
“In the morning sweetie. You’re all pretty badly hurt, you need to rest.”
Liz’s tone was kindly and comforting, but firm enough to convince Xiu she wouldn’t get her way there.
She looked at the cards on her bedside again. “We caused a stir?”
“Especially you! Vancouver’s own prodigal daughter, gone these ten years, and-”
"Ten years?!" Xiu’s hand flew to her face in shock. “How long were we-? Uh, right… the escape pod… Stasis…”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie, that just came out. I’m sorry.” Liz soothed.
“No, it’s okay… I knew it was going to be about that, but…” Xiu rubbed her face. It didn’t help. Her hands were shaking, so were her shoulders, and there was an urgent heat coming up from deep inside her, behind her eyes…
Liz, demonstrating the sixth sense of mothers and nurses the world over, pulled her into a hug before the tears even arrived, and let her get it out of her system.
“I’m home… God, I made it, I’m home…”
“Yes you did.”
Xiu disengaged gently and sat up, wiping her cheeks. “…Sorry.”
“Don’t even apologise to me, sweetie. It’s okay.” Liz smiled warmly, and indicated that Xiu’s soup had arrived sometime while she hadn’t been paying attention. Xiu didn’t need prompting - she scooped it up and, after a tentative sip to make sure it wasn’t too hot, devoured the lot.
It wasn’t the greatest soup ever. But it was warm, it was comforting, it was chicken - and it was amazing how many things in the galaxy didn’t taste like chicken - and it lasted maybe thirty seconds.
“Whew!” Liz made an appreciative noise. “You needed that, eh?”
“Oh God yes.” Xiu wiped a little from the corners of her mouth, trying not to be embarrassed.
“Do you think you can sleep some more? You really should.”
It surprised Xiu to note that she was in fact feeling exhausted. Hadn’t she been asleep for a few days? But Liz’s suggestion actually sounded really good right now.
“I’ll… yeah, I think I can.” She said.
“Okay. We’ll be just outside if you need anything. Call if you need anything.”
Xiu promised that she would and settled back onto her pillow. Liz fussed gently in making sure she was properly tucked in, then bade her goodnight and left, leaving the door open.
That left only the ceiling in the dim light, and one thought, as Xiu fell asleep:
‘I’m home…’
Date Point 10y2m2w1d AV
Byron Group head offices, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
“My God, what happened?”
Kevin could see why the question was being whispered. Moses Byron, who was always the picture of smiling confidence and vitality, looked stressed. Pale, even. Rather than striding into the room in his usual blustering style, he more… shuffled. Thoughtfully.
“Did somebody die?”
“Shh.”
Byron took a moment to survey the crew of BGEV-8, assorted board members and department heads, and cleared his throat. “Been a development.” he croaked, and cleared his throat again. “This, uh… this planning session is cancelled. I’ll let you know personally when we reschedule. For now, uh…”
He coughed. “Rachael. Recall GEV-9 and GEV-10. Tell them under no circumstances are they to use their jump drives - they’ve got to come back the old-fashioned way.”
“Mister Byron, that’ll take them months-!” somebody protested.
Moses held up his hand. “I know. I ain’t changing my mind. Oh, and, uh… Trevor, some fine folks will be along later today to take a good look at your department. Give them full access. To everything, and I mean everything, including Project Ophanim."
Nobody said a word - they just exchanged bewildered and slightly scared expressions. Finally, Byron spoke again, looking at Kevin. “Everybody whose name isn’t Kevin Jenkins, go find something to do. I don’t care what it is, go home early if you want. Go on.”
People practically fled.
“Based on the little… 'chat’ I just had with the halls of power in this great nation of ours…" Byron began, once the last door was closed “It seems I need to hire me a no-man. Somebody who, if I’ve got fifty people kissing my ass and telling me we’re golden, if I look at you and you shake your head, we bury that idea and never speak of it again. Sound like something you can do?”
“Does this thing come with a salary?” Kevin asked. He judged it correctly - Byron laughed.
“Hah! And an office.” he said. “Though if half the things I hear about your cooking are true, I might include attending to the comestibles on your list of duties.”
“I could be persuaded to take a job like that.”
“Good… good” Byron cleared his throat again. “…We dodged a bullet. By this much." he confided, holding up two narrowly spaced fingers for illustration.
“Dodged at least two by my count.” Kevin agreed.
“Yeah… I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. You got a place to stay?”
“HR already got my hotel room sorted out.” Kevin told him. “Guess I’d better see them about somewhere more permanent, huh?”
“You do that.” Byron agreed. He shook Kevin’s hand and wandered out of the room, clearly still deep in thought.
Kevin’s mission pay had already been sorted out, and thanks to the miracle of modern digital banking, calling and paying for a taxi were effectively the same thing.
He’d planned on leaving Earth forever. He distinctly remembered how the word had felt as he spoke it. Forever. Not for five years, not until something better came along. Forever. Get himself out of his estranged daughter’s life and never look back.
It was the first time he’d even thought of her in years, and he ambled through the hotel lobby and into the elevator in a pensive mood, only shaking himself back into the here and now as the doors opened with a chime.
He was about to swipe his phone to open the door lock when a thought occurred to him. Experimentally, he knocked on his own hotel room door.
"Come in."
The door wasn’t locked, and Special Agent Williams was sitting in the large comfortable chair by the window, putting down a tablet. “Well done.” she added. “You have good instincts.”
“Save it.” Kevin muttered, and sat on his bed. “Look, Williams-”
“Ah.” she raised a finger. “Small note on tradecraft for you. 'Williams' is a cover name. Professionally and to you, I go by Darcy. Special Agent Darcy, if you want to be formal."
“Darcy, huh? That a fake name too?”
“If it was, why would I tell you?” She smiled again. “I would have introduced myself as Darcy if you hadn’t dug up Williams to say hello.”
“Pardon me for spoiling your entrance.” Kevin deadpanned. “So what, are you offering me a job as well?”
“I am.” she agreed. “Though I suspect the title won’t be as impressive as whatever it is Byron’s calling your new role.”
“Comestible attendant.”
Either Darcy’s professional façade genuinely did slip for a moment, or else she was by a league the most flawless liar Kevin had ever met. “Hah!” she giggled, and raised a hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, that’s good. I like that.”
“So what would my job be?" Kevin asked her, deciding he probably had got through to the real woman under the Company act, whoever she was, and allowing himself a satisfied smile.
“Oh, exactly the same as you’re doing for Moses Byron - veto any ideas of his that strike you as unwise. You’ll need… well.”
She hefted a light black satchel from beside her chair and handed it to him. Inside was a brand new Samsung tablet still in its box, and some kind of a black device to attach to it.
“What’s the box do?” Kevin asked.
“Encryption, decryption, secure communications…” Darcy shrugged. "Don’t plug it into any device other than that tablet."
“What’ll it do, explode?”
“No, it just won’t work. But it would still technically be a felony.”
“Communication with what?" Kevin pressed.
“A secure server.” Darcy said. “Full of briefings and reports and documents that you’ll need to read, though I suspect that a lot of what’s in there won’t come as that much of a surprise to you."
Kevin nodded. “Just two more questions…”
Darcy sat back and delicately crossed her legs. “Shoot.”
“One: Why me? I ain’t exactly the model of ambitious patriotism, you know.”
“Ten years ago, you drove up to the front gates of SCERF carrying the kind of intelligence we were absolutely starving for.” Darcy told him. “You’ve clearly got something that does the job of ambition, even if it’s just that you’d rather not get nuked from orbit. Certainly, you’re smart enough to know that as a real possibility and you’ve taken active steps - potentially at risk to your own liberty and person - to combat it." She inclined her head. “Now would you say that somebody like that wasn’t worth our time?"
Kevin frowned and didn’t answer.
“What’s your second question?” Darcy prompted him, eventually.
“…Does this thing come with a salary?”
Date Point 10y2m2w1d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Planet Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
John Burgess
“Woah… hey, I thought you were gone for the day, man?”
Adam just shrugged and hung his light bag by the door. “I took a day. Got to sort out some things. Get my head right. But… you know me, I gotta be doing shit to think right, you hear me?”
“I hear ya.” John agreed. “I was gonna lift…”
“Nuh-uh. We’re wrestling. Now."
Fifty seconds later, the mat was grinding painfully against John’s face and his arm felt like it was one Newton of force at most from dislocating.
“So.” Adam shifted his posture just a little bit while John’s feet scrabbled ineffectually for purchase. “Let’s talk about how you kept my cheating ex’s secret for her, 'brother’."
Date Point 10y2m2w5d AV
Folctha, Planet Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
“Ready?”
“…No.”
“They’re calling.”
“I know, I just…”
Ava took one last look. It would have been nice to think of Folctha as her home, but… it wasn’t. Not any more. Not really. It was all white buildings and parks and streets, now. There were cars, there was the beginning of a rail network to connect to the outlying farms and villages. There was a thriving street or two full of shops. There was a supermarket. There were paved roads, advertisements, the neon green cross of a pharmacy. It was a town, now. It wasn’t the Folctha she’d lived in.
She could remember little wooden chalets tucked between the native trees. She could remember being happy in a place that might have been here, but wasn’t here. She could remember…
But that’s all it was. Memory.
“…I’m ready.”
Charlotte and Ben waved sadly to her from beyond the glass. She’d already said goodbye to Gabe, and Adam… she wasn’t surprised he hadn’t come. Jess had work. Hayley had left Cimbrean years ago.
She presented her passport, stepped through the security arch, shuffled into place on the Jump Array’s deck alongside Sean, and fidgeted as the last few people did likewise. The gate was closed, there was a short countdown, and…
And she was on Earth.
The Earth end of the Byron Group’s commercial jump array was Hamburg airport, and Ava could sense being on a different planet even if the architecture hadn’t suddenly and confusingly changed without so much as a flicker. Folctha’s municipal gravity generator might have exactly duplicated Earth gravity, but it couldn’t duplicate the heavy richness of the air. It was like coming down from mountaintop to sea level. It was warmer, denser, more oxygenated and more humid. Earth was a hot planet by galactic standards, and doomed to get hotter despite the rapid one-eighty in carbon dioxide production over the last eight years. She could taste and smell that fact in every breath.
“So. Hamburg.” She hoisted her bag. Beside her, Sean snapped the drag-handle up from his and kicked it over into his hand.
“Yep.”
“Are we flying back to London?”
“That’s cheapest.” Sean agreed.
“How cheap?”
“Fifty quid each.”
“Good…” They passed through another security arch. “I can afford that.”
“I won’t hear of it.” Sean told her. “You’re going to need that money.”
“But-”
“You’re going to need a job. That means buses and the tube and maybe a taxi or two. So keep your money and use it. You can pay me back once you’re earning.”
“You can afford that?” She asked.
“I’ve been writing articles for a bunch of different news sites and blogs, working part-time at ’Spoons.” Sean shrugged. “I can afford it, just. I was probably going to wind up looking for a lodger anyway. Rent in London being what it is I’d have made a fuck of a lot, too, but… I mean, money’s less important than helping you get on your feet.”
Touched, Ava managed a smile for him.
“Besides,” Sean added “I’ve got something coming up. My uncle Simon gets back from Angola next week. If he follows through on what he was talking about in his emails, maybe you and me, we could land on our feet.”
“What’s he doing in Angola?”
“Covering the election for Reuters.”
“I’ve still got that offer from Byron Group…” Ava noted, glancing at the corporate advertising for the jump array - Earth and Cimbrean, photographed from orbit and connected by a line that cycled through all the classic, vivid fibre-optic colours with the tagline ‘O_ne small step…’_
“Moses Byron talks a good game.” Sean agreed. “Hell, it seems like he walks his talk too. I’m just not… I don’t know, do you trust anybody who got that big that quickly?”
Ava shrugged. “People like his whole ‘ethics and integrity’ brand. Even if it’s just an act for the camera, he’s playing that part to the hilt."
“Is that the same thing as actually being ethical though?"
“Sean…” Ava sighed. “Don’t ask me about morals and stuff right now. I don’t feel qualified.”
He inclined his head slightly, assessing her mood, then nodded and laid his hand gently on her upper back for just a second. “Okay.”
Neither of them said a word to the other for nearly an hour after that, by which point they had boarded their plane, taken off and reached cruising altitude. He’d been looking out of the window for most of that time.
“…Are we okay?” he asked.
Ava had been using the plane’s wifi to check her website. She put the tablet down when he spoke, and gave the question some thought. “We’re… You’re my very best friend, Sean. Is that enough? I don’t think I’ve got more than that to give.”
He nodded, and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry, Ava.”
“…You didn’t do anything.”
“No, I did. I got selfish, and…” Sean shrugged. “I pushed.”
“You didn’t hurt me, Sean.” Ava reassured him. “I hurt myself.”
“And I helped.”
“Yeah, well… you can stop helping me hurt myself by letting me take the blame for this, okay?” She told him. “This whole thing has been a lesson, and I want to learn it, not, not foist off the responsibility on somebody else.” It was her turn to give him a reassuring squeeze. “You learn your lesson, and I’ll learn mine. Okay?”
Sean nodded despondently, aware that lesson he was going to have to learn was the one he wished he didn’t have to. “…Okay.”
He looked out the window again. “…That makes sense.”
Date Point 10y2m2w6d AV
Uncharted System, Deep Space
Vedregnegnug
“-show up. There we go. It seems we escaped.”
Vedreg allowed a mingled pulse of relief and released anxiety to highlight his body. A human would have shuddered. “I detest stasis.” he declared. “Death or life on the moment of a button press. Thank you for sparing us any anticipation.”
Kirk dropped his lower-right hand, the prosthetic one, off the escape pod’s control panel and gave a pleased nod. “And we have indeed arrived at our destination. Good.” he announced.
Their “destination”, as far as Vedreg could tell, was a system in the middle of nowhere, some five years’ travel time from the final resting place of the starship Sanctuary at the meager ten kilolights that was their escape pod’s top speed.
Without the stasis field, they would have starved to death before completing even a fraction of the journey, and theirs was one of the largest, fastest and best-equipped lifepods in their late ship’s stable. Most of the others had been much smaller, cruder and slower. As it was…
Both of them glanced in the corner, and mutually decided not to discuss the deathworlder in the room. Lewis had come scrambling into their escape pod seconds before Kirk had sealed it, babbling about Sanctuary’s port living area taking a bad hit and separating him from the others. He was now slumped against the wall with his arms on his knees and his forehead resting against them.
The escape pod’s sensors had reported that all other life rafts had launched alongside theirs, moments before Amir had suicidally rammed and destroyed a Hierarchy dreadnought. Despite Lewis pleading and weeping at the console for nearly an hour, however, there had been no response from any of them. He’d finally given up and sunk despondently to the deck, scooted into the corner and gone very still and quiet. Humans were almost as expressive as Guvnuragnaguvendrugun, sometimes. Some of their emotions played out across their whole bodies.
Vedreg could hardly blame him: Subjectively, scant seconds had passed since Lewis had given up on his friends. Pointing out that as far as the rest of the galaxy was concerned they had been dead for five years would have been both unhelpful and tactless. Lewis had every right to grieve.
Rrrtktktkp’ch on the other hand were much more difficult to fathom without a translator. By the standards of pretty much every other sapient life-form, including their evolutionary ‘cousins’ the Vzk’tk, Kirk’s species were renowned for reserved emotions, impenetrable body language and inscrutable expressions… but if the way Kirk paused upon glancing at Lewis and then patted the grieving human awkwardly on the shoulder was any indication, he was feeling the loss just as intensely.
Kirk had always been stoic even by Rrrtk standards, however. He turned back to the controls, and indicated them to Vedreg.
“You see?”
Vedreg scrutinized the sensor readings. “That.” he noted, with a swish of accusatory maroon “Is one of the two system defense forcefields stolen from a secure military facility of my people. The other of which now protects Cimbrean, I believe.”
“Yes.” Kirk did not seem to be at all contrite.
“I do not approve of theft, Krrkktnkk a’ktnnzzik’tk.” Vedreg chastised him.
“Would you have given permission if I had asked for them?”
“No!”
“Then theft was the only option.” Kirk tapped some commands, and spoke something untranslated in his native tongue, a sound like a handful of gravel being tossed down a staircase.
“I beg your pardon?” Vedreg asked him. Kirk just made a satisfied nod, and then carefully enunciated a stream of rattling Domain syllables into the comms console.
The system forcefield deactivated.
No sooner had their pod crossed the threshold of where it had once been, than it popped back up, with barely a Guvnurag’s body-length of clearance sparing the rear end of the escape pod. Kirk clearly wanted to take no chances with anything hostile following them in.
Kirk nodded, and turned the translator back on. “Excellent.”
“Dude.” Lewis raised his head. “That wasn’t even Kirk’s line.”
“…what?” Both of them looked at him.
“He said 'I have been, and will always be, your friend’."
“…You speak Domain?” Kirk asked, aghast.
“No, I understand Domain." Lewis hauled himself upright. “I couldn’t speak Domain if you cut my throat. Where are we?"
"How do you understand Domain?" Kirk demanded.
“Dude, I’ve spent months on the same ship as you. I studied it.”
“But… you shouldn’t be able to understand it!" Kirk protested.
“It’s a language isn’t it?” Lewis shrugged. “Fuck, I can’t pronounce Welsh either, but I could learn that just fine if I wanted. Now where are we and why’s it so goddamn important that you quote Spock at the forcefield?”
Kirk stared at him for a bit, then creaked a prolonged Rrrtk throat-clear, and called up the system navigation display as the liferaft boosted up to two lights and headed inwards.
“This system has no official name, and I’m not sharing its co-ordinates, as much as I trust the both of you.” he said. “Officially, it’s unexplored.”
“And unofficially?”
“I explored it.”
Lewis frowned at him. “Dude, when did you have time?"
“It’s more or less directly between Supply Station 'Haven In The Dark' and Nightmare, but no spacelane passes through here. At Sanctuary’s kind of speeds, going cross-country meant having to stop to ground the hull charge almost at every system, and this one has an appropriate gas giant."
“So why are we here?” Vedreg interjected, shading himself to indicate curiosity.
“I… found something.”
“What did you find?”
“I found out what happened to Mrwrki Station.”
Vedreg glowed a cocktail of surprised royal blue and solemn green, but Lewis just gave them both a confused frown. “Dude, not everyone in this boat’s up to speed on galactic everything." he told them. “What’s Mur-workey Station, and what happened to it?”
“Mrwrki was a Kwmbwrw research outpost on the Lleyvian Frontier.” Kirk explained. “That’s a cluster of stars in extreme… well. 'up’. That is, perpendicular to the galactic plane, in the direction conventionally-"
“I know what 'up' means, dude." Lewis snapped. “What happened to it?”
“It… vanished.”
“And turned up here?”
“Yes.”
“So, we’re going to dock there.”
Kirk hesitated. “Um… Yes.”
“How do you do that?" Vedreg objected. “How do you jump to accurate conclusions so quickly? All humans do it, it’s… infuriating!”
Lewis frowned at him with his mouth slightly open. “How do you not?" he countered. “I mean, why the fuck else would we be here, to take a selfie?"
**"**We aren’t deathworlders." Kirk pointed out.
“But you’ve still got a working fucking thinker!” Lewis exclaimed, nonplussed. “Don’t give me the ancient evolution life-or-death bullshit whatever, I’d expect anyone to see that one coming unless the only thing their brain’s for is holding up their fucking hat!"
The two nonhumans looked at one another, then Kirk, with an air of extreme delicacy, cleared his throat again. “Lewis… are you okay?”
Lewis’ laugh had an incredulous note to it. “Are you se-? Dude, like, are you forgetting the bit where our friends got killed? Because that has harshed my mellow a tiny fucking bit." He pinched his fingertips together a half- inch apart and peered through the gap to emphasize the point.
“Will shouting at us bring them back?” Kirk asked.
“Wh-? Well, no…”
“Then what good does it do?” Kirk folded all four of his arms.
“…So, what, you’re not even going to give the four of them any more than, like, a minute’s consideration?" Lewis asked.
“Lewis-”
“Goddamn herd xenos, man, FUCK!” the human spun away into the back of the pod, slumped against the wall, rubbed his face and then barked an order at the pod. “Privacy field.”
It snapped on in a fuzz of white noise and mercifully obscured him from view.
Kirk sagged, shook his head back and forth in a long, slow, swaying arc, and then double-checked the navigation.
“Do you have any thoughts on how to help him?” Vedreg asked, not sure what colour he should be and so settled on a kaleidoscope melange of concern, alarm, empathy, fear, and many more.
“There is one simple trick to helping any human, old friend." Kirk murmured, guiding their lifeboat out of warp.
There was what had once been a space station below them, half-embedded in the surface of a tiny irregular lumpen moon that was much too small to have pulled itself into a sphere under its own gravity. The station was broken open, missing power to half its decks, eviscerated from where it had crashed into the surface of the rocky object, but still largely intact.
“And that is?” Vedreg asked.
“Mrwrki station.”
“I meant, and the simple trick is…?"
Kirk ordered the lifeboat to dock with the station’s one remaining powered bay, and turned to face him.
“You give them the means to fight back.”
++End Chapter 23++
While Deathworlders chapters will always be published completely for free, with the aid of my backers on Patreon I’ve now been able to take more time for writing! As a result, chapters are now longer and more detailed (As if you hadn’t noticed).
Thank you for reading, and for your feedback :D
Chapter 33
Chapter 24: “An Alien World” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 10y3m3w AV
Mrwrki Station, Uncharted System, Deep Space
Kirk
"I don’t like this."
“You are perfectly safe.”
"Nothing between me and vacuum but forcefields? Fuck that, dude."
"How can one engage in pro-…" Vedreg paused. "No, wait. This is vulgarity for punctuation and emphasis, isn’t it."
"Hey, he’s finally getting it. Miracles do happen!"
Rrrtk had so much peripheral vision that they could almost see behind themselves, so it was easy for Kirk to spot Vedreg’s irritated glance in his direction.
Kirk himself was meandering along at the front of their little trio, examining the station. Lewis was in an irreconcilably foul mood and hadn’t appreciated being pulled out of his sulk, nor climbing into a pan-species pressure rig - little more than a lightweight pack on his chest that encased him in a forcefield and kept the proper O2/CO2 balance. The device was absolutely foolproof, designed to shut down only when it detected a breathable atmosphere, but that didn’t stop Lewis from fidgeting and adjusting it nervously as if it might fall off at any second and strand him. Humans really did hate forcefields.
That fact always bemused Kirk. They would trust their lives completely to steel and aluminium which might develop stress fractures and leaks, but forcefields, the product of ultra-dependable solid-state electronic components, left them nervous and sweating.
"What are we even here for, anyway?" Lewis asked, through the life vest’s built-in communicator and translator.
“The last time I was here,” Kirk replied “I was able to use Sanctuary’s nanofactory to repair the power systems and the station’s own nanofactory. I left it with instructions."
"Instructions to what?" Vedreg asked.
"Fix the station." Lewis said.
Even Kirk rounded on him. “Lewis… you are right, but how did you know?" he demanded.
Lewis rubbed his chin with his thumb, then aimed that same thumb at part of the wall. "Hull breach. Recently patched and welded. We’ve passed six or seven now and you’ve inspected every one. Plus, what else are you gonna tell a busted-ass station to do with itself? Crochet some nice doilies and bake an apple pie?"
"What are ‘doilies’ and ‘apple pie’, please?" Vedreg asked.
"Doilies are, like… Little fancy decorative cloth things, and apple pie is… you take the fruit of an apple tree and a bunch of sugar and… Dude, it’s not important."
"I’d still like to know." Vedreg pleaded.
Lewis hesitated, then shrugged and sighed, giving up. "Okay, so, uh, you need a bunch of ingredients. Flour, sugar, butter…"
Kirk turned away to hide his amusement as he continued to inspect the repairs. They needed to be perfect - the station’s back had broken during its crash- landing, and while Kirk had no plans ever to launch it again, Mrwrki still needed to be airtight and space-worthy.
He listened idly as Lewis explained apple pie to Vedreg, including his reassurances that the ingredients that would have been unpalatable to Guvnurag all had “vegan” and “gluten free” alternatives. For some reason, the whole concept of “baking” seemed to fascinate Vedreg.
"So what’s the verdict?" Lewis asked eventually.
“All of these are acceptable…” Kirk conceded. “I think we must assume that all the others will be also.”
"Good. Sooner we get our asses behind a fucking pressure hull, the happier I’ll be."
“This way, then.” Kirk indicated a door.
"Lay on, Macduff."
Kirk nodded and activated it. “You know, that is a misuse.” he pointed out as it tortured itself a quarter open before jamming.
"Nuh, the misuse is ‘lead on, Macduff’ right?" Lewis disagreed, needing no prompting to wiggle himself into the gap, brace his back against one door and his feet against the other, and heave. Whatever obstruction had held it gave, and the door slid smoothly the rest of the way open.
“That would be wrong, yes.” Kirk replied. “But the original use was 'Lay on Macduff, and damned be him who first cries ’Hold, enough!" - Macbeth was defying Macduff and declaring that he would fight him, even knowing that it was futile. He was not inviting him to lead the way."
"Macbeth?" Vedreg rumbled. Guvnurag speech patterns rendered the word more like “Mac-u-bets?”
“Vedreg, old friend, an introduction to Shakespeare will have to wait.” Kirk told him, as they squeezed into the airlock. The Kwmbwrw were mercifully about as large as Kirk’s own species, and the airlock was designed for half a dozen of them. It had just enough room to accommodate Vedreg’s bulk alongside their own.
The lock cycled without incident - Lewis’ brute-force fix to the outer door seemed to have permanently resolved the problem as it closed easily and without complaint, and fresh air gusted in. When the inner door opened, there was no sudden rush of depressurization - the interior was airtight.
“Excellent.” Kirk announced, ducking under the door frame and into the great ring hallway that ran around the station’s interior.
“So… what’s here?” Lewis was next, squeezing delicately out from where Vedreg’s furry mass had been pinning him to the wall. “What do we have?”
“A functioning nanofactory and an entire moonlet’s-worth of raw material.” Kirk told him. “With those two things plus time, what we have is… anything.”
“Food? Water?”
“Both in plentiful supply.” Kirk assured him. “This station was intended for extreme deep space observation. It’s equipped to be manned by a full Grand House - about six hundred Kwmbwrw - for a year between resupplies.
“And, uh… where are those six hundred Kwmbwrw?" Lewis asked.
Kirk imitated a shrug for his benefit. “They were not aboard when I found the place.” he replied.
“The escape pods?”
“Launched, presumably. I did not check.”
Lewis looked up at the ceiling and muttered something that the translator decided was not for their benefit. Louder, he addressed the station’s control software. “Station, as a proportionate number per hundred, how many of this facility’s escape pods and life rafts have been launched, in total?”
The station’s response boomed through the silent halls: "Zero."
“None?” Vedreg asked. Curiosity, confusion and mild alarm pulsed all over his body. “But this place is derelict!”
“Derelict space station, disappeared, turned up crashed thousands of lightyears from where it’s supposed to be, crew missing, no escape pods launched?” Lewis asked. “Kirk, dude, I’ve seen this movie. I want no part of it.”
“I did a thorough sweep when I first came here.” Kirk asserted, firmly. “I checked everything. There is nothing here except us."
“Fuck sake…” Lewis muttered. “…Okay. Whatever. But if we find their skinned carcasses hanging from the ceiling somewhere, we are leaving. Okay?"
“Deal.” Kirk agreed, before Vedreg could comment. Their shambling Guvnurag companion had given Lewis a deeply alarmed look.
“So what do you have planned, anyway?” Lewis asked, peering down a hallway as if expecting some kind of horrible flensing monster to be lurking there. The fact that the lighting was clear and bright and the deck was plainly clear of stalking beasts didn’t seem to satisfy him one bit.
“That” Kirk mused “Is a very good question…”
“You don’t have a plan?"
“I have a fully powered space station, a nanofactory, and more raw material than we could use in a lifetime even if we spent the first quarter of that time building more nanofactorys.” Kirk told him. “The rest is just… detail.”
"Detail?!"
“Yes. Detail. What we build. How many. What they are for. What we do with them and who we give them to.”
“That’s not ’detail' that’s, like, eighty-eight percent of the plan!"
“Well, that eighty-eight percent is yours, then.”
Lewis stopped examining the corners in search of hideous mutants and frowned at Kirk. “Come again?”
Kirk managed a complicated quad-limbed version of a shrug. “I am not a deathworlder.” he said, simply. “And just in this last hour or so, you have demonstrated time and again that you think a few steps ahead of Vedreg and me.”
He folded all four of his arms. “In my experience, it pays to defer to superior knowledge and skill.”
“You’re… giving me a whole factory to play with.” Lewis stated, clearly not quite able to believe it.
“One” Kirk nodded “That can build basically anything synthetic, including more nanofactorys, and machines which can grow anything organic.”
“To fight the Hierarchy.”
“And the Hunters. Yes. All it needs is your imagination and input.”
“Oh.”
Lewis stared around at the station. He clapped his hands together once, rubbed his palms and licked his lips.
“…Right.”
Date Point: 10y3m3w AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches.
Adam Ares
“Ngggh…ow.”
A rare wince and groan forced its way out of Baseball as Adam lowered him gently onto his bunk. Walking wasn’t something John could manage at the moment, owing to the severe muscular tears in both his legs, and quite likely some hairline fractures…everywhere, really. Adam winced in return. After all, he was intimately familiar with the uniquely painful and intense training that he and Base shared, and they both considered it a point of pride to bear their suffering in quiet. It was part of their bond, sharing pain and gain that the other operators couldn’t possibly understand. So to hear John complain even a little…
“Fuck.”
Adam wouldn’t have been Adam if he hadn’t felt slightly guilty. Now that all the anger was out of his system and he was thinking clearly, he had to admit, his friend hadn’t really deserved such a methodical reminder of who was the better wrestler. “I guess I overdid it…You okay, bro?”
Base opened an eye. “…Are you?”
Adam gently palmed the back of his battle-brother’s head and massaged. “I’m really sorry, bro." John’s hand came up and embraced his brother’s head as well, though even that elicited another wince. Adam had done a thorough job of working him over.
They touched foreheads and nuzzled. “No no, I had it comin’…” Base grunted. Then, with a sad, almost needy look, “Forgive me?”
“Dude,” Horse chuckled quietly, “You were right, y’know. Of course I forgive you." They held for a long moment, letting the peace and affection between them return.
The moment passed. John nodded against him, then let go and rested his head back, grimacing at yet another stab of pain. “Love you, man.”
“Love you too, bro,” Adam grinned. “Go on, rest up, let the Crude do its thing.”
He padded quietly out of the room. John was asleep almost before Adam had closed the door. He chuckled to himself; instant sleep was a skill the whole SOR had in common, but John and Adam had learned it from the very beginning of their careers. He shook his head and headed to the showers for a long, cool soak.
By the time he dripped and towelled his way back into the common room wearing only his ranger shorts, the rest of the guys were on the couch enjoying another Bad Movie Night in the form of “The Phantom Menace”.
“Room for one more on there?” Adam asked them, still toweling his head dry. The hot-then-cold shower had done much to clear his head, and now he wanted to relax and meditate with his brothers, as it were. They shifted up and climbed over each other to make room and he squeezed in, wriggling his arm around Titan’s shoulders to fit until he was finally comfortably part of the pile, where he sighed happily and watched in silence.
“Y’know, I heard the kid who played Anakin quit acting.” Firth said, after a while. “Apparently this film ruined his career.”
“Shit happens.” Adam shrugged. “You gotta move on.”
“So you’re single now, huh?” Blaczynski asked. He flinched as Rebar swatted the back of his head. “Ow!”
“Yup.” Adam shrugged again and repeated himself. “Shit happens.” He tried not to let the comment bother him, and snuggled into Titan a bit more.
They endured the movie a bit longer, before curiosity finally gnawed its way through Titan’s restraint. “That’s all you got to say on it? ‘Shit happens’? Wasn’t she, like… your high school sweetheart? You two’ve been together as long as I’ve known you."
Adam sighed and turned where he was sitting slightly. “What you want me to say?” he asked. “I don’t even have it all sorted out in my head right now. Okay? Maybe I’ll talk about it some, maybe I’ll figure shit out and move on, whatever. Right now… yeah. Best I got to say is ‘shit happens’.”
“Least you sorted fuckin’ Baseball out… OWW!!” This time it was Adam’s turn to give Blaczynski a blow upside the head, and this one wasn’t the half-hearted brotherly cuff that Blaczynski managed to attract at least twice a day: it was an open-palmed clout so hard that everyone flinched.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Adam growled. The mood changed instantly - nobody needed more than that to spot that a line had been crossed, and they all went tense.
There was an awkward silence as Adam stared Blaczynski down. It wasn’t much of a contest.
“Horse, uh, did you miss the part where Base helped your girl fuck another fella?” Sikes pointed out tentatively.
Adam snarled and stood up, unceremoniously dumping half the operators on the floor, and seared the lot of them with a dark glare. “Oh, noooo, I spent the last two hours breaking him because he ate the last of the Eggos!" He narrowed his eyes, “What business is it of yours anyway? You wanna go a round on the mat with me too? Think you’d last more than a few seconds? ‘Cuz Base paid the fuckin price already. Him and me? We’re cool. And yeah: He kept that fuckin’ secret, and it was the right goddamned thing to do!”
“Woah, woah. Easy brother.” Blaczynski held up a hand reassuringly - the other was still nursing the back of his head. “We’re just-”
“You’re mad on my behalf. Cool. I get it. Thank you." Adam snapped. “But he’s sorry, I’m sorry, we’re both over it, and he was right - I wouldn’t be here if he’d told me when he first learned. So lay the fuck offa him or you’ll answer to me, got it? All of you."
One by one, he made eye contact with all of them. Vandenberg and Murray held it and nodded their approval and agreement - Akiyama, Sikes, Firth and Blaczynski all blinked, nodded and looked away sheepishly.
Adam nodded and relaxed, and tiredness - a deep, spiritual fatigue that he’d been holding back all day - hit him like a rock slide. He sighed, suddenly realising just how much he needed some alone time. “Fuck. Sorry. Y’all…enjoy the movie, guys. Imma go to bed now.”
“…’Night.”
“’Night.”
Adam thumped his way back to his room, grumbling quietly to himself. There were photos on his desk when he got there, real ink-on-paper prints. They were an anachronistic relic, but still reckoned by purists to be the best way to immortalize a memory, and Adam was inclined to agree. Ava had taken this set years ago, posing raunchily for him in one of his old T-shirts and nothing else… and eventually not even that.
He sat on his steel-beam bed and studied them carefully, one by one. The bed creaked loudly by way of greeting, a familiar and weirdly comforting sound in his personal world that entirely failed to shake him out of his fugue. The photos were profoundly and painfully erotic.
He considered ripping them up.
Instead, very carefully, he took a wooden box out of his locker that his dad had given him for his birthday, slipped the photos into the very bottom of it, and buried the box at the bottom of his “storage” duffle bag, wondering and doubting if he would ever look at them again. He neatly packed the bag away, tugged his shorts off, and rolled onto his complaining bunk, determined not to let the prickling at the corner of his eyes become anything more.
He stared at the ceiling instead, and of all the photos he’d stuck up there - from Basic, from PJ training, from Folctha and from everywhere else he’d been and all the people he’d met - his eyes alighted on one from school. He was in the middle, young and wiry and shaggy-haired, flanked on either side by Sara and Ava with his arms round their waists. All grinning at the camera.
He rolled on his side and, at length, fell asleep on a soaking wet pillow.
Date Point: 10y3m3w5d AV
Vancouver General Hospital, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Allison Buehler
Every so often, Allison amazed herself with just how much she could read in some fairly subtle gestures and expressions. She no sooner had to walk into Xiu’s room than she spotted the quiet desperation on Mrs. Chang’s face as she rattled away without pause to her long-lost daughter, nor the mostly-concealed discomfort and desire to be elsewhere on Wei’s.
Xiu’s expression was not in any way subtle. Quite the reverse, when she glanced up to see Allison leaning against the door frame, the look Allison received said ’I love my family and I’m so glad to see them again but please save me from them.’
Allison couldn’t blame her. Ever since Xiu had woken up, she’d been the target of relentless attention from her doctors and nurses, and then an undammed torrent of familial affection, which had to be weird. Having a brother who was, in terms of date of birth, a few years her junior and yet was slightly older in terms of actual time experienced…
Allison couldn’t picture it. She was having a hard enough time adjusting to the changes in pop culture. The music on the radio, the references to technology and websites that hadn’t been around the last time she’d visited Earth, movies and TV series and actors, politicians. She hadn’t ever even heard of the President.
All of that was small beer next to Xiu’s reunion with parents who were well into their sixties, and as for Julian…
Julian had taken the news of his grandfather’s passing very hard. Very hard indeed.
She cleared her throat, gently interrupting the unrelenting babble of Mandarin that poor Xiu had been enduring. Like mothers everywhere, Mrs. Chang seemed to be determined to share the minute-to-minute details of every single day that her absent child had missed.
“Hey…” she smiled at them, trying not to show how much it bothered her that her voice was still rough and flegmy. “I’m really sorry, but could we borrow Xiu for a little while?”
Mrs. Chang turned to get her daughter’s opinion only to find that Xiu was already wrangling the blankets out of the way. For their part, Mr. Chang gave Allison an understanding smile and nod, and Wei seemed to be grateful for a break from the awkwardness. It had to be equally weird to find that your older sister was now younger.
Xiu was being adorably stubborn, too. The wheelchair by her bed was contemptuously ignored, even though the mere act of standing up got her breathing heavily. If the hand she laid on Allison’s shoulder was leaned on a little more heavily than it might have been if it was purely a gesture of welcome… well, Allison wasn’t about to comment.
Together, they made slow and breathless progress down the hospital corridor. The human respiratory system had never evolved to handle hard vacuum, and the damage they had suffered during their brief exposure had beat them round the head and mugged them. Young and fit though they both were, even gentle exertion was proving to be a hardship.
They paused for breath on a bench about twenty yards down from Xiu’s room where Xiu managed to fit a smile in between coarse breaths. “Thank you.”
“You okay?” Allison took her hand.
“Aside from… feeling like… I got run over… by a tank?” Xiu panted, and tried to take a deep breath which degenerated into a coughing fit. Allison ran her free hand up and down Xiu’s spine until it stopped. “God… I don’t know.”
“Too much to take in?”
“…Yeah. How’s… Julian?”
“That’s why I came to get you. He’s pretty beaten up over his Grampa. I thought he’d feel better to see you.”
“I guess.. we both lost family…” Xiu agreed, and hauled herself upright. Allison didn’t really feel ready to move just yet, but she forced herself to her feet anyway. The rehabilitation physio specialist had been adamant that she’d recover fairly quickly if she didn’t shy away from exercise, even if that exercise was a long way short of what she was accustomed to achieving.
The second set of benches was another twenty yards down, with only ten more to go to Julian’s room. Xiu sank onto it, perspiring.
“Okay… Why the hell… can’t space… be like in the movies?” she asked. “Star Lord… didn’t have to… put up with this shit.”
Allison giggled, and that triggered her turn to cough until her throat burned. It was Xiu’s turn to give her a comforting backrub, making a concerned noise that was a little more Gaoian than human. Allison didn’t comment.
“Ugh…”
“Allison…?”
“Yeah?”
“Is this… weird? That… I just got back… to my family… and I’m already… wishing they’d leave me alone?”
“I doubt it.” Allison shrugged. “God knows, I can’t wait to get off this planet ASAP.”
Xiu almost looked betrayed. “You’re… you wanna leave?”
“I was happy up there, babe." Allison told her. “I was doing something. I was… you know, I felt like I was achieving stuff. I’m never going to be anybody on Earth."
Xiu shook her head vociferously. “You don’t know that!”
The exclamation prompted another cough, but only the one this time.
“No, babe. I do. I know what I want, and I wanna be a spacegirl.” Allison said. “I wanna go out there and help find people, keep doing what Kirk was doing, maybe find worlds for people to live on, maybe find… who knows? What’s down here for me that somebody else hasn’t already done a million times?”
“A home?” Xiu asked.
“Home is wherever you’re happy.” Allison retorted. “And now that I’ve been to other places…? I don’t think that Earth can ever be my home."
Xiu looked so crestfallen that Allison just had to rest a reassuring hand on her upper back. “Not what you wanted to hear?”
“I don’t know…” Xiu shrugged. “Is it stupid that I just… I kind of wrote you and Julian into my idea of what getting home was going to be like?”
Allison, genuinely touched, managed a giggle that didn’t turn into a wheeze. “Oh… I love you.”
Xiu gave her a stunned and confused blink, redness spread across her cheeks and nose, and Allison realised that this may have been an incautious thing to say to somebody who’d been starved of positive human interactions for several years.
She gave Xiu a hug. “Girl…I had more fun with you in one week than I had with some of my ‘best friends’ in two years. And I know you’re going to need help: I’m not just gonna abandon you, I promise." She clarified. “I’m here for you.”
“O-oh…” Xiu’s blush faded again. “But you’re still leaving.”
“It’s not like I’ve got a spaceship in my other jacket, babe.” Allison pointed out. “I’m here for the foreseeable. It’s just… I know what I want to do with my life. In the short-term, I’ll help you. In the long term…” she glanced upwards significantly.
Xiu nodded, and wriggled into the hug a bit. “I’m sorry.” she said.
“What for?”
“For being… clingy.”
Allison gave her a backrub through her bathrobe. “Are you kidding? You’re not clingy.”
“I feel like I am.”
“You spent… how long, all by yourself?” Allison asked her. “Maybe you’re just too used to that. It’s fine, babe, I promise."
“You’re sure?”
Allison smiled at the top of Xiu’s head. “I’m sure. Helps me feel useful.”
Xiu pulled back and gave her a questioning look. “Useful?”
“I feel like you need me.” Allison told her. “That’s… do you?”
Xiu considered the question. “I… I don’t want to.” she said. “But…”
She looked down the corridor: Wei Chang had just stepped out of her room. He gave his sister a pathetic little smile and lumbered in the direction of the vending machines. “Nobody else understands.” she finished. “I feel like I’ve landed on an alien planet. All these… these deathworlders."
“The gravity’s wrong, isn’t it?” Allison mused.
“No. It’s too right. And the air feels too rich, and too warm, and I can taste so much on it." Xiu sighed. “They tell me my immune system’s been made weaker ’cause it’s not been challenged often enough…”
A nurse checked in with them on his way down the hall. “Are you two okay?” he asked.
“We’re fine, thanks.” Allison reassured him. Beside her, Xiu answered with a Gaoian-style ducking movement rather than a human nod. The nurse gave her a strange look and went about his duties.
“…Dammit.” Xiu thumped her palm to the side of her head.
“Relax, it’s no big deal.” Allison told her.
“To you it’s not." Xiu shook her head. “Everyone else gives me strange looks…”
“Fuck ’em.” Allison suggested. “So you’ve picked up a foreign accent in your travels. If they can’t handle that, it’s their problem. Not yours.”
Xiu glanced down to where her fingernails were flicking absentmindedly against each other, and wriggled her fingers to stop them. “I guess…”
“…You okay?”
Xiu rubbed at the scars on her arm. “I’m home. That’s all that matters. I’m home.” It sounded more like a mantra than conviction.
“Are you?”
For the first time ever, Xiu gave her an irritated glance. It was gone in a second, replaced by upset, shame and uncertainty. “I am." she insisted.
Allison decided not to interrupt whatever she was thinking about, and was rewarded when, after about twenty seconds of cogitation, Xiu took a deep breath and gestured helplessly at the whole hospital.
“I’m home… and all Mom wants to talk about is who married who and when the baby’s due and… I used to spend my whole day worrying about accidentally killing people. Like, if I tripped and fell and reached out to catch myself or something and pulled their arm off… or worse, if I got found out and the Hunters came for me."
She sighed and looked up and down the corridor. She frowned at a magazine on the table next to their bench and picked it up. At a glance it was obvious its title was something along the lines of ‘Charm!’ and that the front cover was nothing but long-range photos of oblivious women in bikinis being referred to by their first names. “Sometimes, here in this hospital?” she began. “It smells like that Hunter ship did. Just sometimes, it’ll catch me off guard and…”
Allison reached out and tidied some hair out of her face. Xiu studied the magazine as she did so, her frown deepening.
“Is this what I came back to?” she asked. “Weddings, and how fat some celebrity is that I never even heard of? Doesn’t anybody care that we’re at war? That there’s a whole species of monsters out there that wants us all dead? That eat people?"
“This is what you left.” Allison told her, avoiding the subject of Hunters and the Hierarchy for now. “And… hell, if you hadn’t been taken, that might be you on that magazine."
“…That’s what I wanted to be.” Xiu nodded. “And… maybe I’d feel like I was doing something, too. Helping people get through their day, entertaining them. That seems important. But…” She dropped the magazine back on the table. “There’s no way that’s happening now, is there?”
“What makes you say that?”
Xiu simply gestured to the scars on her arm and throat, to the white lines where pulsegun fire had split her lip and eyebrow aboard the Hunter ship as well as breaking her nose, and to the weathered quality of her skin.
“Xiu, you’re beautiful.” Allison reassured her.
This earned a shy smile, and Xiu maneuvered some hair out of her face. “Maybe.” She agreed. “But am I Hollywood? And even if I was… Allison, I can’t even go a whole day of pretending to be human. What kind of an actor can’t even properly pretend to be her own species?"
She looked down at her feet, sighed, and then coughed. “…I was thinking so much of getting back here, I never thought about what being here would actually be like. What am I going to do here? Now that I’m here… who am I going to be?"
Allison gave her a squeeze. “You’ll have plenty of time.” she promised. “Did the Abductee Repatriation Program get in touch yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Chase ’em.” Allison ordered her. “They’re supposed to give you some money, support and counselling, careers advice…”
This earned bitter noise. “Right. Careers. I’ve got a heck of a resume. Vagrant chef and Gaoian impersonator. Interests: Gung Fu and movies. Special talents: so fluent in three languages that I sometimes get mixed up and speak the wrong one."
“You’ve got skills they can use though, right?”
“Who needs fluency in three languages when we’ve got translators nowadays?” Xiu asked. “I’m too old and out of practice to be an acrobat or a ballerina, I’m too beat up to be an actress…”
“You could still work in Hollywood. Extraterrestrial consultant? Tell the movies how to get it right? Or, the Global Representative Assembly. You’ve got knowledge they could use.”
“Maybe…”
“And you’re a great cook, babe. And- oh! You could bring Gaoian cuisine to Earth!"
“Maybe…”
Allison considered her subdued response, then put a reassuring hand on Xiu’s forearm. “Give it time. You’ll think of something.”
Xiu nodded and reached over with her left hand to squeeze Allison’s hand, then stood up. She swayed as the abrupt motion and her void-damaged lungs combined to make her head spin, and leaned heavily against the wall for a second to recover. “Let’s… go see Julian.”
“…Okay.”
Allison took a little more care in standing up, allowed Xiu to thread an arm through hers, and supported her the rest of the way.
Date Point: 10y4m AV
Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth.
Kevin Jenkins
There was an unfamiliar car outside Kevin’s new house when he got home. A black Toyota sedan - completely nondescript and unremarkable, which immediately gave Kevin a good idea of its driver.
It was a nice house. A two-storey thing in suburbia with delicate brownish panelling, two garages and enough driveway for a couple of monster trucks. The local housing association were proving to be a pain in the ass over the exact strain of grass seed he was allowed to use and how long it had to be and how well-watered, but the neighbors were nice. They had visited with a welcome cake on the day he moved in, but their timing had been awful - they’d shown up while he was wearing a short-sleeve polo shirt that put his tattoo on full display.
It was not an ambiguous tattoo. While the original ink had just been a simple black cross, Kevin had spent quite a lot of money over the years modifying it, starting by covering it with a bisected circle and the word “Rehabilitated”. Later touch-ups, additions and modifications meant that it was now well on its way to being a full sleeve of deliberately antagonistic antitheistic sentiment, a physical lashing-out at something he still felt a smouldering bitterness over.
He was proud of his ink, but it wasn’t the best thing to have on show when meeting new neighbors for the first time and it hadn’t gone down well at all. They’d been the very picture of forced civility, and had excused themselves as soon as they politely could. He’d been expecting church flyers to start showing up in his mailbox ever since, but to their credit that hadn’t happened.
Yet.
Darcy confirmed his suspicions by stepping out of her car as he parked, slipping a phone into her pocket. Kevin hadn’t seen her since she’d effectively hired him, although a more appropriate word might be “commandeered” or “requisitioned”. He was a resource, an asset. “Company property” as some of the documentation had euphemistically had it.
Her greeting was characteristically terse. “Kevin.”
“For future reference, you’re welcome to let yourself in.” Kevin told her.
“I don’t have a key.” She replied.
“Like that’d stop you.” Kevin retorted, with an amused joking sneer.
Darcy nodded, offering a smile that was, in Kevin’s opinion, somewhere towards the wrong end of tired. “People tend to get suspicious when they see a lock being picked in broad daylight, though."
Kevin glanced across the street. There was the merest hint of a curtain dropping back into place as he did so. “Right.”
He opened the door and kicked his shoes into the corner. “Coffee?”
Darcy raised an eyebrow at the commercial espresso machine on his counter. “You take your coffee seriously.”
“Sure do.” Kevin agreed. “How d’you want it?”
“Cappuccino?”
“Comin’ right up.”
He watched Darcy out of the corner of his eye as he gurgled and hissed his way through preparing her drink. She didn’t quite flop down onto his couch, but she did sit heavily, then rubbed her face and rolled her neck.
Kevin gave her a double shot of espresso.
“Thanks for comin’ back up here on short notice.” he said, handing her the drink as he sat down. “I know your schedule’s gotta be busy…”
“You’re allowed to say I look like shit warmed up.” Darcy retorted, giving him a tired but probably honest smile. “This morning I was in Hawaii.”
“What the hell were you doing in Hawaii?”
“You don’t need to know.” she sipped the drink and pulled an almost erotic face. “Ohhh, that’s good coffee.”
“Best in Omaha.” Kevin promised. “So anyway, I had a couple things needed clearing up. If I’m any judge of him Byron’s subdued mood ain’t gonna last forever, and when he starts pushing the limits again I need the weight of facts behind me.”
“Shoot.” Darcy told him. “I’ll tell you what I can.”
“The big one has to do with somethin’ you said when you walked into Byron’s office. About how that ship I was on would of been destroyed if not for its IFF.”
“Yes…?” Darcy sipped her coffee again
“How? I know more-or-less what the Firebirds and the V-class can do, and I don’t reckon they could have jumped in anywhere close enough to destroy it in seconds. Minutes, sure…”
“Mm.” Darcy nodded.
“So either you were exaggerating, in which case that’s kind of a problem because anything could jump in and cloak and we’d be fucked… or you weren’t, in which case we have something that can hit a target at least as far out as the moon within a couple seconds of it arriving."
Darcy ran a pensive tongue through the milk foam on her upper lip, clearly picking her words with care.
“It’s called WERBS.” she told him, after some thought.
“Weaponized Einstein-Rosen Bridge System. Thought so.” Kevin grinned at her. “Bartlett’s baby grew up then?”
Darcy, for her part, looked more irritated than surprised that he knew. “I have got to impress on Scotch Creek the need for their top scientists to be more cautious even around base staff." she sighed. “Let me guess, he was discussing it with a colleague over one of your - admittedly excellent - coffees while you were up there?”
“Nope. He just had a bad habit of doodling his equations and stuff on my paper napkins and then forgetting to take them with him when he left.” Kevin shrugged apologetically. “It’s okay, I destroyed them.”
“How?”
“Incinerator. He got half his best work done on my bartop, Darcy.”
“Did you understand the equations?" she asked.
“Do I look like a theoretical physics prodigy?"
“I don’t go by looks, Kevin. Did you understand the equations?"
“No. Couldn’t hardly read them.”
“Okay.” She considered her words again, frowning as she took another sip of her drink. “Yes, WERBS is working. In fact it was about the fourth or fifth technology to come out of SCERF, right after forcefields, warp drive, stasis fields and jump engines. We had a working prototype for WERBS before Pandora was even a blueprint."
“And it could of hit EV-8 out at the moon?”
“Could have. Yes. In fact it ‘could of’ hit you as far out as Pluto." Darcy settled back on the couch and drained half her remaining cappuccino. “Satisfied?”
“I’d like to know how it works but I’m guessing that I don’t-”
“-Need to know.” Darcy chorused with him, nodding. “You don’t. Hell, I don’t need to know how it works. I can guess it has something to do with wormholes, but exactly what and how…"
“Makes sense to keep that one buried if it’s our ace in the hole.”
“Exactly.” Darcy finished her drink. “Anything else?”
“Few minutiae. Some clarifications over my standing orders and what exactly the company means by ‘covert action’."
“Covert action is part of the CIA’s mandate, but completely outside of your area of responsibility right now.” Darcy reminded him. “You won’t be required to do anything covert. Your role is purely to… well, to be a bridge.”
“I know it’s part of the mandate, those introductory documents you sent me made that clear as mud.” Kevin retorted. “Coulda done with being less euphemistic, for my money.”
“Euphemism is useful.”
“Right. Can’t have it in writing that part of my job might include murdering Moses Byron.” Kevin snarked.
Darcy quirked an eyebrow at him. “Where did you get the impression that that’s on the cards?" she asked. “That’s not part of your job description.”
“Please. The Company’s reason for being is the security of the USA, and by extension the whole human race.” Kevin gave her a patient stare. “Your own words, right? Well Byron established pretty well with that emergency recall fiasco that he’s a potential liability there. And now you’ve got ‘company property’ working in his building…"
“We’ve got… an ally.” Darcy corrected him. “Somebody we trust to be just a little bit more sensible than Byron and who we hope will serve as a reminder of just how badly he fucked up. That doesn’t mean you’d be entrusted with that kind of thing. You don’t have the training, even if we worked that way."
“You’re saying you don’t?”
Darcy just gave him a slight smile. “You don’t need to know.”
Date Point: 10y4m AV
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Xiu Chang
The doctors had kept them for nearly three weeks. All of them had felt well enough to be discharged inside two, and Julian had - with apologies - immediately made a bee-line for his late grandfather’s Minnesotan property in Clearwater county, promising to return as soon as he’d inspected the place and decided what he was doing with it. Neither of the girls were inclined to protest.
Allison had collected a sizeable pay package from somewhere, apparently earned for being on Kirk’s crew, and had accepted the duty of flying to England to track down Amir’s family and commiserate with them. She’d arranged to come back via Minnesota with Julian.
Xiu had… gone home. Ridden home in the back of what had been, on the night of her abduction, her father’s brand new Kia and watching a skyline that had changed subtly but disturbingly since she had last seen it. She was wearing the clothes she’d laid out on her bed to change into after ballet practice before leaving home the last time, just some comfortable black sweats and a loose long-sleeved Guess top that at least did a decent job of covering her scars.
Her bedroom was exactly as she had left it. Exactly as she had left it, right down to some carelessly-discarded underwear tangled up under her office chair, a half-finished pack of gum on the bedside table, her two favourite rings resting on the corner of her dresser, and her laptop still open on the desk. The laptop was by now hopelessly obsolete, but when Xiu prodded the space bar experimentally, it turned out that it had never actually been powered off - the fan and hard drive whined into quiet life.
She sat on the corner of the bed and watched it emerge from its long hibernation, trying to ignore the musty, untouched smell of the room as she turned the rings over and over in her fingers, not looking at them but still giving them a thorough tactile evaluation.
It took it a while - ten years of standby mode apparently didn’t come to an end at a moment’s notice - but… yes, there was her half-finished essay on Lady Macbeth, there was her Michelle Yeoh wallpaper, there was the OS update notification she’d religiously closed every time it dared to show its face…
She reached out and stroked a finger across the trackpad.
It promptly froze and blue-screened.
She closed the lid and toured the rest of the room. Had she really been so enthusiastic for pink? There was a lot of it. The fairy lights tangled in the bedstead were a nice touch, but the wall calendar had been purloined from her friend Ai’s family takeaway business and was the kind of tacky cartoon shengxiao calendar that bore the kitchen’s phone number and website, a declaration like ‘Many Happy Fortunes!’ and a round of advice to “Wed a Tiger or Dog but never Rat”, or whatever.
She sneered at it, and threw it away.
She put the rings on, and then away too went three boy-band posters, a graveyard of antediluvian incense that she’d been forbidden by her parents’ landlord’s fire safety regulations ever from lighting, a venerable McDonald’s paper cup that was only disqualified from being a valuable antique by the fact that it was a McDonald’s paper cup, and the unopened pack of cigarettes she’d once bought on a dare and then been so worried sick of discovery that she’d never found the courage to smuggle them out of the house or throw them away.
Finding her rhythm she threw open the windows to try and blast some of the dust and stale air out, then decided to get rid of the curtains. They were sun-bleached and faded anyway. She was equally vicious to her wardrobe, going through everything that didn’t fit, all the silly ankle-twisting platform heels and the clothes she’d sworn that someday would fit again if she just lost weight regardless of the fact that the problem hadn’t been weight but age and height.
Most of the survivors were then thrown out on the principle that they were wildly out of fashion, or had just never looked that good anyway. All the clothing went into a pile she mentally labelled “charity”.
She was left with a handful of simple t-shirts, a couple of good pairs of jeans, one pair each of flats, running shoes and kitten-heeled calf boots, some sportswear, and three bras that were, while generous enough to accommodate her teenage self’s insecure padding-out, not actually oversized.
The laptop turned out to have given its swansong, and was now thoroughly dead. She considered asking Wei if he could resurrect it, but then decided against it - the last thing she needed was her older younger brother performing digital necromancy on her blog posts and browser history, and in any case the machine was so haplessly dated that she’d probably struggle to achieve half the things a modern Internet user wanted to do.
Out went the pink bedclothes, out went a sad deflated soccer ball, out went so much stale makeup that she couldn’t have worn it all if she’d spent every day of her absent years painted up like a hooker. Out went more stuffed toys than a sapient being had any right to even know existed. She took apart the flat- pack furniture and stowed it under the bed and in the back of the closet.
She tested all of the progress she’d made on rehabilitating her abused lungs in spinning around the room like an efficiently ruthless tornado until it was gone. All of it. Every last little thing that wasn’t hers, thrown out, dusted or vacuumed until she was down only to the things that she cared to keep.
This left her with a bare, cold and almost undecorated room to stare at, its former clutter hinted at only by unfaded patches of carpet and wallpaper. Other than that, she had the two rings she was now wearing, the fairy lights on the bedstead and that was about it.
She threw the lights out too when they turned out to be broken.
Only once she was standing alone in the middle of an empty floor-space did she finally find room in her head to think about what she’d just done and appreciate the full absurdity of it. She took a deep breath, produced a helpless arm-flapping shrug that clapped her hands once against her thighs, and issued something that was nearly a laugh.
“…Welcome home, Xiu.”
Date Point: 10y4m AV
IDF Checkpoint, Qalqilya, the West Bank.
Corporal Moshe Harel
“Uh, Moshe?”
“Yeah?”
“That white van you didn’t like the look of isn’t moving…”
Corporal Harel wasn’t the only one who looked up and scrutinized the van in question, his attention ratcheting up a gear. Tensions were running high - they were always running high - and the last thing they needed right now was a suspicious vehicle. The way the van (a venerable Toyota) had parked a good long way down the road from the checkpoint, not even in the shade of the trees or anything, and hadn’t moved since was definitely troubling.
“How long?”
“Not in ten minutes. I don’t see anyone inside…”
“Son of a bitch…” Moshe swore. “We can’t ignore that…”
His buddies nodded and checked their SMGs. Even if the driver floored it right now, the van would have to navigate a slalom of concrete dividers to approach the checkpoint, and would do so under fire from all sides by heavy weaponry. An ordinary, elderly Toyota van wouldn’t make it a fraction of the way - the first shots would go right through the engine.
“Radiological?”
“Nothing I can detect.”
Harel grabbed his binoculars and aimed them at the van. Between the heat haze and the sun reflecting off the glass, it was hard to be certain, but it certainly didn’t look like there was anybody sitting in there. There might have been a slight darkening, but that could equally be the headrest, or the van’s own shadow.
“Did we see anybody get out?”
“Running the tape back now… No, nobody got out of it. Not that I can see, anyway.”
“That van’s in full sunlight and the windows are up. It must be cooking in there!”
“All I know is, the camera didn’t see anybody.”
Harel considered his options, swiftly narrowing them down to a clear course of action. “Lock it down. Close the road right now.”
Everyone leapt into action, acutely aware that their safety and everyone else’s hinged on doing their jobs right. Within seconds, the checkpoint was closed.
As soon as they were, Harel would have liked to breath a little easier. That was one threat dealt with. Instead, he licked the inside of his dry mouth and moved on to the next bit. “Get the ’bot up.”
“Yes corporal.”
The ’bot was summoned and bounced its way across the scorching asphalt, fetching up right underneath the van’s passenger side window. Harel watched over its operator’s shoulder, expecting at any second for the van to suddenly accelerate, or explode, or for armed men to surge out the back. Even with their huge advantage in terms of firepower and positioning, even with the van being so far away, none of those options were at all desirable.
Even when the ’bot cranked itself up onto the ends of its treads and extended its camera as high as it would go so as to look down into the footwell, there was no sign of a driver, nor of any kind of trap rigged up to the doors.
“…Check the back, Stolarz.” Harel ordered. The bot dropped back onto the asphalt and scooted under the van where it deployed millimetre RADAR to get a good look inside.
“Nobody in the back, Corporal.” Stolarz finally announced, though he tapped an object on his screen. “But that looks mean, whatever it is.”
“Uh… Corporal?
Private Wexler’s tone of voice was NOT one that Harel wanted to hear on a radiological sensor operator. “Yes?”
Wexler cleared his throat. “Radiological alarm, Moshe.”
Harel looked back at the van as Stolarz backed the ’bot off a bit, as if that would do anything. “This,” he decided “is starting to look way above our pay grade.”
They called EOD, who quickly called in somebody MUCH higher up. The whole town was on lockdown within minutes as IDF vehicles rolled in by the hundred, and Harel’s checkpoint had to spend the rest of the day turning back civilian traffic and offering no comment for the cameras. All the while, the cluster of people around the van got larger and more grim-looking.
The sun was going down by the time they finally gave an all-clear and loaded something from the back of the van into an IDF truck, which vanished back over the Armistice Agreement Line under ridiculously heavy escort.
From the road, nobody could have seen what it was. From his vantage point, however, Harel got a good look, and promptly wished he hadn’t. It was covered in bright yellow radiation hazard stickers, labelled in both English and Urdu, and had borne the white crescent and star of the Pakistani flag.
Date Point: 10y4m AV
CIA Chicago office, Illinois, USA, Earth
Darcy
“Welcome back. How’s our new asset at Byron Group?”
Darcy didn’t need to fake a tired smile for Jake, her usual work partner. She really had been in Honolulu less than twenty hours ago, and that much travel was guaranteed to leave her rumpled and drained even though she was thoroughly used to it. Between sleeping most of the flight and catching a power nap in the car outside Jenkins’ house she was perfectly rested, but it was still getting late in the day by her personal clock.
Jake would have seen through even her best false smile anyway. “He’s gonna be a pleasure to work with.” she said, honestly. “All carrot, no stick, all the way, just you watch.”
“That easy, huh?” Jake asked. He stood from his desk and set about making her a cup of tea, exactly what she needed. She hadn’t been flattering Jenkins about the quality of his coffee - it genuinely was superb - but Darcy had always preferred a good jasmine tea. Just one of the things that made Jake such a good partner.
“Oh yeah. He’s a classic misanthrope. Pretty sure he thinks the neighbors are all waiting for their chance to ram a Bible down his throat. Throw in a white knight streak, and…” she trailed off meaningfully.
“Likes to feel like he’s rescuing a worthy damsel, huh?” Jake noted. He dropped a little jasmine tea pearl into the teapot for her and covered it in newly boiled water.
“Oh yeah. Strong masculine streak there.” Darcy watched in pleasurable anticipation as the hot water made the pearl break open and unfold into a flowered frond. “He’s no idiot though. Seduction’s not on the cards for a second, he’d see through it instantly. But all I need to do is play to type for him and he’ll be extremely useful.”
Jake set the teapot and a cup down for her and returned to his desk while Darcy set about summarizing her trip to Omaha for their records.
“Any surprises?” he asked.
“Nothing surprising exactly, no. He knew what the WERBS acronym stands for, but he didn’t know the specifics and he didn’t push. Figure if we ever have to throw him a bone there, the cover about having nukes ready to jump will do just fine."
“Good. Last thing we need right now is any more potential holes in that one.” Jake nodded. “Sounds like a good source.”
Darcy took a grateful sip of her tea “Almost perfect. He’s an honest man underneath the asshole exterior, so we don’t need to establish any real control over him. Just… give ’im the sales pitch and let him motivate himself the rest of the way. I like him.”
“You always did have a thing for prickly guys with soft centers.”
“Guilty.”
They worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Darcy finished her notes and her tea, and was considering wrapping it up for the day and sleeping in her own bed for a change when Jake sat back in his chair, arms folded, and frowned at the screen.
“Problem?” She asked.
“Could be.” his jaw worked side-to-side as he considered what he was reading. “One of those stolen Pakistani nukes just showed up…”
Date Point: 10y4m AV
Clan Whitecrest personal transport “Springing Ember”, Cimbrean System, The Far Reaches.
Regaari
Sensing and communicating with ships that were travelling at Superluminal speeds had been a serious challenge and concern before the Corti had figured out the algorithms for detecting and modulating the “wake” every ship created as it stretched and contracted spacetime around itself. The expansion and contraction of spacetime being unbound by the speed of light, the system made for an efficient and cheap means of FTL communication, with only the slight drawback that it had an effective range of no more than about a day’s travel at one kilolight. Not even enough for communication even between two relatively close star systems, and no inhabited systems were that close together anyway.
Still, it was good enough for ships in the same system to see and talk to one another. In the past, once a ship had departed, it would outrun any photons sent after it, and so talking to it was simply impossible unless you got in a faster ship, overtook it, and dropped a transmission in its path.
Nowadays…
"Unidentified vessel, this is HMS Violent patrolling Cimbrean local space. Cease your approach and identify, over."
Regaari ordered the ship down to sublight at once. "Violent, Gaoian transport 'Springing Ember’, piloted by Officer Regaari of Clan Whitecrest, on a diplomatic mission. Ceasing approach."
As he did so, Ayma poked her head out of the ship’s ablutions chamber, combing her fur to clean out her dust-bath. “We’ve arrived?” she asked.
“We were just intercepted by one of the human ships. The Violent."
Ayma’s ears quirked and she grimaced. " ‘Violent’?" she asked. "Just ‘Violent’? What an ugly name for a ship."
“Unsubtle, isn’t it?” Regaari agreed, though privately he felt that the name was appropriately bellicose for a warship. Why mask its nature behind poetic imagery?
A minute later, Violent hit sublight at a relative stop a few hundred kilometres away. His transport only registered its presence by the friendly identity signals it was broadcasting: Without those, it would have been all but invisible. No radar signature, with a shape and albedo that sent every sensor they had skipping off without trace and zero visible heat - Regaari knew that it would be radiating all of its heat in a coherent beam back towards the nearest star. Only his experimental gravimetric sensors, designed to counter Hunter cloaking devices, told him that something was there, and they were still far too imprecise to narrow down the exact location of Violent’s mass to within a radius better than thirty kilometers.
"Springing Ember, please disable all electronic security and submit to a database scan."
“They really are paranoid." Ayma commented.
“I heard a saying of theirs once. 'It’s not paranoia if-’"
“’-If they really are out to get you.’" Ayma finished. “Yes. But they can plainly see that we are not Hunters, can’t they?"
“Well, like you said: They are paranoid." Regaari snorted, dropping the firewalls.
He watched the alerts unfold as Violent’s technicians first infiltrated, then thoroughly ransacked the Springing Ember’s computer. Fortunately, the ship wasn’t carrying any clan secrets - he’d made completely sure of that before leaving.
Two more contacts appeared on his sensors as the intrusion was withdrawn and he was sent an all-clear to re-establish his firewall. These were small compared to his transport and the human destroyer, but large relative to most starfighters. Firebirds.
"Springing Ember, proceed to orbit above the fifth planet of this system and await further instructions."
Cimbrean-5 was the outermost of the system’s rocky worlds, and the only one outside the system protection field. It was classified as a “violent” world - a planet far too cold for sapient habitation where it rained liquid methane into oceans of liquid methane under hateful skies full of methane clouds, where pressure differentials in its thick, cryogenic atmosphere could pick up razor shards of rock-hard water ice and carry them around the globe at hundreds of miles an hour.
Under the watchful eye of HMS Violent and the two escorts, they sat restlessly and watched the lightning flashes in the planet’s upper atmosphere for nearly an hour before a fourth contact set alarms wailing on their proximity sensors as it appeared within only twenty kilometres or so, and well outside of Violent’s firing solution.
HMS Caledonia. He recognised it instantly. No sooner had it jumped in than he spotted the change in its sensor signature as it opened its bay door.
Regaari clipped on an earpiece and headed for the starboard airlock. Ayma cast around for something to do, clean up or tidy and, finding nothing, settled for lowering herself onto a couch and fidgeting nervously at her claws.
The Springing Ember’s sensors picked up the barest hint of a tiny warp drive pulsing, and Regaari inclined his head to listen as a new voice came on the communicator.
“Springing Ember, boarding party from HMS Caledonia requests permission to come aboard."
“Permission granted, starboard airlock” he told them. “Is that you, Rebar?”
"Sure is, Dexter. They’ve got us doing marine shit. Starboard airlock."
There were three total - Rebar, Blaczynski and Baseball, who squeezed into the lock, then through into the ship interior. Only when the lock was fully cycled did they de-mask, all grinning and happy to see him. If he wasn’t totally familiar with human body language by now, it would have been terrorizing to see that many bared teeth. For her part, Ayma retreated a little, and Regaari couldn’t blame her - the three men smelled powerfully male, almost overwhelmingly so.
“Not that I am not happy to see you…” Regaari began, greeting the three men with his best approximation of the elaborate and forceful handshake they’d taught him “But I’m quite capable of docking and landing this ship myself.”
“Security’s being tightened up.” Blaczynski commented. “Hopefully we’ll be able to brief you on why sometime, but right now, rules say I have to fly this thing for you.”
Regaari stood aside and gestured to the control room. In keeping with Gaoian architecture, it was at the back of the ship, immediately in front of the main engines. There was, after all, no good logical reason for the pilot to sit at the front of the ship when he would be flying by sensor readings and information displays anyway. Meanwhile the sleeping quarters could be mounted in the front of the ship, as far from the power core and main kinetic thrusters as possible and therefore quieter and calmer.
“And for that you need three?” he asked.
“No such thing as too careful, bro.” Baseball told him. “This a friend of yours?”
“Ah, yes…”
Base touched his forehead, which Regaari guessed was a respectful gesture. “Pardon me, ma’am. I need to scan you for hazards and contraband.” he declared.
Ayma shot a questioning look at Regaari, who ducked his head to reassure her. This was just standard human caution. She spread her arms and straightened up. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Base flipped a small grey oblong out of a pouch on his belt and delicately pressed it to Ayma’s head. Regaari couldn’t imagine why, but moments later the screen on its back lit, and Baseball relaxed. “Sorry about that.”
“It was no bother…” Ayma reassured him, politely.
“So… yes.” Regaari stepped forward. “Baseball, Rebar, Starfall, this is Ayma…”
“Ahh, so that’s what this is about. Your friend Zoo." Baseball snapped his fingers, the effect muffled slightly by his spacesuit’s glove.
“Shoo.” Ayma corrected him.
"Xiu." Rebar corrected them both.
“Like you hadn’t guessed.” Regaari noted.
The humans chuckled again, and Rebar looked around the _Springing Ember’_s interior. “Nice ship.”
“Whitecrest personal transport. One of the newest models. Designed to deliver an individual or small group on relatively short journeys, very quickly.”
“Surely the faster it is the further it goes?” Rebar asked.
“We… borrowed some ideas from you” Regaari told him. “Using capacitors to power the engines gives much better speed but limits the range. That was deemed an acceptable trade, seeing as it’s intended for rapid travel within our territory, between Gao, Gorai and the new colony at Guen Ha. Cimbrean, fortunately, is not that far from Gorai.”
“So this thing runs on solar power?” Blaczynski asked, settling into the pilot’s couch.
“Usually, it recharges off its own generator. We wanted to install a quantum core plant but… our versions of those are bulky and not very efficient yet, so we went with old-fashioned fusion. It can recharge via its shields if it has to though, yes.”
Blaczynski nodded, and checked in with Caledonia, Violent and the two Firebirds to confirm that the ship now had a human pilot and that all life forms on board were accounted-for. “Edda Two, go for slave jump, whenever you’re ready.”
“Slave ju-”
The cryogenic grey storms of Cimbrean-5 vanished. In an eyeblink the planet Cimbrean - the inhabited one, all blues and greens and white - replaced it below them and much larger.
“-mp? Oh. Impressive.”
“Nice and secure. Only way in is directly under our guns and with our permission.” Blaczynski waved a hand through the ship’s controls, a little tentatively but clearly knowing what he intended to do and more or less how to achieve it. He was hindered a little by not being able to read Gaoian, but the interface was designed to be clear and intuitive. Selecting the Folctha colony’s landing beacon and ordering the Springing Ember to land at that beacon took him only a minimum of trial and error.
“So, yeah. Zoo.”
"Shoo."
“Xiu.”
“In my defense, my mouth is the wrong shape to pronounce that.” Regaari pointed out. “I don’t know what Baseball’s excuse is.”
“She was in a bad way, bro.” Baseball told him, aiming a friendly obscene gesticulation by way of reply. “I don’t know what the fuck happened to them exactly, but when we pulled them out of that liferaft they were dying from recent vacuum exposure.”
Ayma keened slightly and Regaari barely restrained the impulse himself: The thought was distressing.
“Hey, hey, it’s fine!” Baseball hurried to reassure them. “Horse ain’t just a pretty face, he’s a damn good medic too. She’s back on Earth now. Last I heard, she’s doing just fine.”
“Major Powell should know more.” Blaczynski added. He was watching the _Springing Ember’_s instruments for any sign of trouble, even though the ship was completely competent at landing itself. Already, their re-entry was raging a burnt orange around the edges of their forcefield.
“Good, because it’s him that we’re here to see.” Regaari told them. “Pleasant as it is to see you again, this is important, both personally and politically."
“Dude, we’re on the job too.” Rebar reassured him. “But you’re cool to hang out once your business is done? Movie night?”
“That would be nice.”
“Politically?” Blaczynski asked.
“It’s all…”
Ayma interrupted him. “Shoo is a Female.”
The humans blinked at one another, nonplussed. “Well, yeah…” Baseball agreed, in a tone which suggested that this fact could not possibly be lost on them.
“I mean a Female." Ayma stressed, patiently. “A member of the C_lan_ of Females. Legally speaking, she’s a Gaoian.”
“To hell with ‘legally speaking’." Rebar scoffed. “Legally speaking, less than ten years ago we were non-sapient indigenous fauna."
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss legal technicalities.” Regaari warned him. “By making her legally a Gaoian, the Females made her legally sapient, and that afforded her all the rights and protections guaranteed by the Dominion charter. One technicality used to defeat another, you see?”
“Forgive us if we’re not exactly gonna start cheerleading for the Dominion there, southpaw.” Rebar commented.
“If you ever see me waving those pompoms myself, then clearly I’ll have taken leave of my senses and as my friends I hope you would shoot me." Regaari retorted, doing his best to imitate a grin. It seemed to work, as the human chuckled, and Ayma chittered along with them.
“Atmospheric flight.” Blaczynski interjected.
“-But he makes a valid point.” Ayma told them. “Irritating as legal technicalities might be, they’re never going to go away. Rather than railing against them and achieving nothing, it’s better to pick them up and use them as weapons.”
“Sticks in the craw, but she’s right…” Rebar mused, then frowned at something forward in the ship and edged through the doorway past Baseball to investigate. “What’s this thing?”
“Hmm? Oh, that’s the ship’s nanofactory.” Regaari told him.
“What’s it do?”
“Builds things. You call up a blueprint and it assembles the desired object from raw materials.”
“Like a 3D Printer?” Blaczynski asked.
“In the same way that this ship’s short-range FTL comms are like a telephone, yes.” Regaari agreed. “This is a small one. Clothing, basic tools, replacement parts for the ship… larger ones can assemble vehicles, prefabricated modules that can be assembled into cheap buildings, even other nanofactories.”
“Brother,” Baseball warned Rebar, in a friendly tone. “You know your techs won’t like it if you go and cream your suit.”
Rebar laughed, but continued to study the nanofactory with a rapt expression. “So, it can build anything?”
“Anything synthetic.” Regaari agreed. “No cooked dinners, pharmaceuticals, complex organic molecules or anything made out of, say, wood or bone, but… plastics, metals, glass. All you have to do is feed in the materials.”
“Could it build something that could make those things?" Rebar asked.
Regaari hesitated. “…You know, I’ve never thought of that. I suppose it probably could.”
“Dude, we have GOT to get one of these things.” Rebar aimed a look at him that Regaari guessed meant he wanted to ask if they might scavenge the one off his ship. He chittered.
“Sadly I cannot do that, my friend.” he apologised. “Not only would I be breaking a rather important law, but the Fathers who own this ship would be upset and in any case, it’s an integrated part of the Springing Ember’s fittings."
“It’s not a module you can pull out and replace if it breaks?” Rebar frowned at it again.
“Oh, I could.” Regaari said. “It would just ruin the façade. This is a diplomatic vessel, Rebar. Our military vessels are much more… what’s that word? Spartan. Besides, as I said, sharing nanofactory technology with a species that does not yet have it is gravely illegal. This device could cause a traumatic economic upheaval for your whole species and delay your advancement. I assume you don’t want that."
“Right.” It seemed that Rebar would have liked to argue for a second, but instead he stood up, sighed longingly at the nanofactory, then a thought struck him. “Dude! Do you mind if I make something?”
Regaari quirked his head, a gesture analogous to a human shrug. “I don’t mind.” he said. “Hmmm. Ship. Make a… make a diagnostic sensor.”
The ship chimed acknowledgement and Rebar took a step back as the ’forge built up to operational power with an edge-of-hearing keen of capacitors charging before….
THUMP.
Modern Gaoian nanofactories - and this was one of the latest and most advanced models - could do in a few seconds what their primitive forebears had needed minutes to do. Admittedly, the built in accelerated-time fields helped there, but the result was that within five seconds of his issuing the order, the transparent door folded down and a pristine new engineering scanner was pushed onto the delivery tray.
Baseball grunted a surprised laugh. “Shit!”
"Damn, Dexter…" Rebar picked up the scanner delicately, as if he feared it might be hot, or would disintegrate at his mere touch.
“Give it a try.” Regaari told him. Rebar eagerly examined the little device, figured out how to turn it on, and aimed it at a nearby wall. Volumetric displays began to give him a detailed breakdown of the wall’s composition, internal structure, the conduits and systems running behind it, microscopic work fractures in the metal hull behind it, and the action of the ship’s internal damage control forcefield constantly sweeping over and repairing that wear and tear. His jaw dropped, and he set about waving his new toy at every system and fitting he could find.
“Final approach!” Blaczynski announced some minutes later, as Rebar was making enthusiastic noises about the infra-hull integrated crystal circuitry. “His pants still dry, Base?”
“Fifty-fifty.” Baseball grinned.
Regaari quirked his ears amusedly as the three of them settled into a round of friendly insults and ambled over to where Ayma was standing alone by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that ringed the Springing Ember’s lounge area. She’d retreated there probably as much to get away from the masculine aroma pervading the air around the SOR men as to try and compose her thoughts, he guessed.
“They’re very… male.” she whispered.
“Shoo was very female.” Regaari countered. “Similar pheromones.”
“It’s a good thing I’ve seen human movies though. That large one - Baseball?”
The man in question glanced in their direction on hearing his name, then politely looked away again.
“Yes?” Regaari asked.
“If I didn’t already know about ‘ethnicity’, his skin colour would have come as a surprise."
“Be careful.” Regaari cautioned. “Humans can be quite offended by observations like that.”
“Oh… he can’t hear us, can he?” Ayma asked, glancing at him.
“You two talkin’ about me?” Base asked. “Cause I don’t speak Gaoian.”
“Sorry.” Regaari told him.
“Nada. Just wonderin’.”
“You’re very… large.” Ayma suggested. “It’s a little intimidating.”
“Not much I can do ’bout that.” Base shrugged. “But if it helps you feel better, I’m a medic.”
“A… medic? I hadn’t anticipated that.” Ayma examined him. “Why does a medic need to be so large?”
“I’m what we call a Protector.” Baseball said, going down on one knee to try and mitigate his bulk. It didn’t work. “My job is to get people out of harm’s way and keep them there. Doesn’t matter if I have to skydive from orbit to do it, I go in there, I fix up people who need fixing, and I carry them out. Just like my buddy Horse did for your boy here.”
Ayma glanced at Regaari, who nodded. “Warhorse is shorter.” he said. “But more…” he made an inflating motion his paws and shrugged his own shoulders to hint at a muscularity that no Gaoian - not even the supremely physical Clan Stoneback - would ever approach.
“That’s my boy.” Baseball beamed.
“Uh, ladies and gentlefolk, we’re now coming in low over downtown Folctha, if you look out the port windows you should get a nice view of the river. Local time is eleven-twenty, and the weather is a gentle sixty-five degrees.” Blaczynski called. “Thank you for flying Air SOR, and please take care when opening your overhead lockers, as bags and luggage may have shifted during the flight.”
Regaari hadn’t landed at Cimbrean last time. Caledonia had warped directly to Gao to drop off its cargo of survivors from Capitol Station, on the grounds that the Gaoians were diplomatically better equipped to send them home. He was curious to see what a human settlement looked like from the air.
Folctha wasn’t large, but it did manage to impress him. The layout was equal parts logical and illogical - clearly at first they had built according to where the colonists wanted to go, and when the time had come to expand, they had allowed that early random development to remain and grown out from there sensibly and methodically.
The humans obviously loved the river, which flowed from a reservoir fed by artesian aquifers in the grounds of the alien palace that had once stood at the top of the valley. The buildings along its banks were separated from its waters by a wide green strip of parkland and trees, and the river itself was strung with three slender footbridges and a pair of wide, sturdy road bridges. The advertisements were colourful and pleasant, the construction sites were neatly organised and full of interesting yellows and blues and the roads, though wide and capacious, were for now populated more by cyclists and pedestrians than by larger vehicles.
The Springing Ember circled in low over a walled and forcefielded enclave that could only be the Alien Quarter, banked to race up the west bank of the river where relaxing pedestrians shielded their eyes to look up and watch it, shed its speed over the palace grounds and finally alighted, delicately, on a concrete circle in the grounds of a fenced base some distance from the town.
“Good landing.” he complimented Blaczynski.
“Eh. It was alright.” the SOR man’s cocky smile said he knew it had been damn near flawless, but didn’t want to make a big deal of it.
“Man. Never thought I’d get to see one of those things up close…” Rebar chuckled, casting a last longing glance at the nanofactory.
“Don’t you have one?”
“Think they’re building an experimental one in Germany. It’s the size of Caledonia and they reckon it’ll drink about about two hundred megawatts."
Regaari reflected on that. “…Sometimes I forget that you’re still a long way behind us, technologically.”
“Dude, it’s only been like ten years since first contact.” Rebar said. “We’ve had warp for… what, eight years? Seven and a half?”
“Yeah, and our CO’s banging the chick who flew Pandora." Baseball grinned as they stepped through the airlock.
“Now that’s an interesting fookin’ thing to hear.”
As ever, it was difficult to hear the humour in Powell’s bassy voice. You had to know that gruff and softly-spoken was his ground state of being to spot that he wasn’t remotely annoyed. All three of his men froze. “Wherever did you hear a rumour like that, Burgess?”
Baseball cleared his throat. “Rumour, sir?”
“My mistake, I must have misheard what you were saying.” Powell nodded. “Incidentally, the sand in the gravball chamber needs raking flat. I’ve always fancied it might be fun to turn that into some kind of Zen garden thing. Think I saw some suitable large rocks over by the gym. Sound like fun?”
Burgess didn’t do anything so obvious as deflate, but there was a definite resigned hint to his “Yes sir.”
“Get out of that suit and go play, lad. I’m sure our guests’ business is urgent and I mustn’t keep them waiting. I’ll be along to see how you’re getting on in a bit.”
“Yes sir.” Burgess vanished, double-time.
Powell turned to Rebar. “Owt to report?”
“Nice ship. Clean. Pilot’s yellow, but his friend’s beautifully green.”
Regaari blinked in confusion. “we’re… what?”
“Uh, sorry. In-joke. I’ll explain later.” Rebar promised.
“Don’t bother.” Regaari sighed. “I could study human in-jokes for a decade and by the time I finished you’d have generated twenty years more.”
The humans chuckled. “Shall we go de-suit, major?”
“Go on, lads. Well done. Regaari? And I assume this is Mother Ayma?”
Ayma extended a paw, which the major shook. He seemed to have got the hang of exactly how much of his prodigious strength he could safely use, and there was no hesitation in the gesture. “Stainless, I presume.”
“Major Owen Powell.”
“Thank you for having us.”
They ambled away from the Springing Ember. “Nice ship.” Powell commented.
“It’s not mine personally,” Regaari told him “it’s the clan’s. I persuaded Father Rithu that this trip would be politically advantageous.”
“Hope you didn’t lie to the old man, Dexter.”
“Not deliberately.” Regaari shrugged for Powell’s benefit. “I would appreciate if you didn’t make me a liar, though.”
“Aye, I reckon I might be able to accommodate you there…” the major mused. “Or rather, Admiral Knight can. Political’s a bit above my pay grade.”
“If I’m any judge, you know something that the admiral has planned.”
“Oh aye?”
“You’re as opaque as a window, Powell.”
“That so?”
“But commendably stubborn.” Regaari conceded.
“You’re not exactly Mister Subtle yourself, southpaw.” Powell chuckled. “We pick your friend up and you show up as fast as Gaoianly possible? If you even fooled Father Whatsisface, I’ll be impressed.”
Regaari had to admit, he had a point.
“…How is she?” Ayma asked.
Powell stopped walking and turned to face her, thumbs tucked into his belt. “Something of a local celebrity in Vancouver.” he revealed. “Medically, all I’ve got for you is what Burgess and Ares told me during the debrief.”
“Which is?” Ayma pressed.
“Miss Chang was recovered in the company of two other humans, all suffering from severe decompression injuries. Apparently they were exposed to hard vacuum for a few seconds.”
Regaari chirruped his astonishment. “And they survived?" he asked, scarcely believing it. Vacuum was death, everyone knew that. He wouldn’t have thought that even deathworlders could survive it.
“Barely.” Powell grunted. “All three of them were dying from their injuries. Lucky for them they got picked up by two very fine young medics aboard a flying hospital with stasis equipment on board.”
“…And?” Ayma squeaked. She was doing her best to stay composed, but Regaari knew her intimately, and could spot that she was in anguish.
“And they’ve all since been discharged and are rebuilding their lives..” Powell said, nodding reassuringly. Both Ayma and Regaari sighed relief. “She got prompt and expert medical attention, she’s young and healthy… Burgess reckons she should suffer no long term ill health, and he’d know.”
“Where was she before that?”
“…Good question.” Powell answered, which didn’t answer the question at all.
“You must have got the ship’s ID off the life raft. What ship was she on?” Ayma pressed.
“…I can’t say.”
Regaari studied him. Humans were aliens, their body language was only tangentially similar to that of Gaoians, and he was still having trouble with some of their subtleties of tone and language, but he’d learned to trust his instincts with them. Besides, Powell was a plain-spoken man, and Regaari’s assessment was that he rarely said anything that wasn’t exactly what he meant…
“Do you mean that you don’t know, or that you do and you can’t tell me?" he asked, and caught the momentary tic in Powell’s eye that suggested he’d scored a hit.
“…I can’t say.”
“Ah. So it’s the latter.”
“Transparent I fookin’ might be, but penetrable I’m not, mate.”
“You can say much by withholding comment.” Regaari pointed out. “There’s a secret here. For her to have turned up in the company of humans means she was on a human starship… or at least on a starship allied to humans, hmm?"
“By God Holmes, you’ve cracked the case.” Powell snarked.
Regaari ignored the wise-crack. “Life raft and vacuum exposure means that the ship was destroyed. Which means…”
Ayma finished the thought for him. “She found Kirk.” she said. “Or Kirk found her.”
Powell didn’t need to say a thing. He simply spun and directed an incredulous stare at Ayma, then at Regaari. When Regaari folded his arms and pricked his ears up, it dawned on Powell that he couldn’t have spoken a clearer confirmation, and he swore violently, furious with himself.
"Shit." He gritted his teeth thoughtfully at nothing for a second, then exhaled resignedly. “Okay. I need to know exactly how much you two know about Kirk."
Date Point: 10y4m AV
Finchley, London, England, Earth
Ava Rios.
Sean’s uncle Simon turned out to be an older and more weathered clone of his nephew. He had the same long, straight nose, the same wavy dark hair, the same long and slender frame. If not for a few wrinkles, the tan and a dusting of white hairs, the two could have stood side by side and been hard to tell apart.
He also had a keen and critical eye, which he was running over Ava’s online portfolio.
“I like this one. You timed it perfectly on his exhalation, it really feels cold… This one, you could have put the subject a little off-center, get more of the tree in there, you see?”
Ava just nodded and paid attention, answered questions when they were asked. It was interesting feedback - she’d had so many people tell her how great her photos were, it was a genuine pleasure to have somebody go through them with a fine comb and pick on the tiny imperfections.
When he reached the end of the album, Simon handed her tablet back to her and nodded, smiling gently. “Sean was right, you’re good.”
“Told you.” Sean commented, from where he was sprawled on the couch playing an old game, something with airships and muzzle-loading rifles.
“So, what does that mean?” Ava pressed.
Simon stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You’ve come along at a good time.” he said. “The guy I usually work with is off sick and will be for the foreseeable future, so I do need a photographer…" he tapped his chin, frowning. “Look… How do you feel about the Middle East?”
“How do you mean?” Ava asked him.
“Would you be, uh, scared to go there?” Simon clarified.
“Not enough to stop me if that’s where the work is.” she shrugged. “I dunno. You’ve got to take care wherever you go, right? Just because you have to take a little more care in some places than others…"
“A lot more care.” Simon corrected her.
“Fine, a lot more.” Ava agreed. “But there’s no such thing as safe anyway.”
“True.” Simon agreed. “So…?”
“So… yeah. I wouldn’t have a problem going there provided I had somebody to show me the ropes.”
“Hmmm…”
Simon fetched a tablet from his bag and signed into Google Maps. Within seconds, he’d summoned a sandy oblong of land sandwiched between Africa and Asia.
“So… this down here is Saudi Arabia.” he said, tapping it.
“Right.” Ava nodded, taking note of the countries around it for good measure.
“Now, the Saudi royal family are still richer than Croesus, but part of the reason for that is that ten years ago they did something very sensible, and sold every oil-based asset they had. Seriously, VI Day happened, and before we’d even really got our heads round aliens on the telly, the Al-Sauds had ditched every penny they had in oil and invested it elsewhere. At the time, people thought they were crazy, they even made a loss on some of those sales."
He opened a new tab. “Time, however, has proven just how bloody smart a move that was. When alien technology put the final touches on fusion and widespread cheap solar power, a hole appeared in the oil market, and the value per barrel’s been in decline for eight years in a row now.”
Ava nodded her understanding. “But Saudi Arabia itself didn’t do so well.” She noted.
“Exactly.” Simon nodded. “The country’s economy was still founded in oil. Declining oil industry means declining employment, declining wages, and all the people who made a living selling goods and services to the oil industry and its workers, they all started to lose jobs and money too, their labour pool of foreign workers dried up… Throw in some safety cock-ups around the Hajj badly hurting their tourism industry, and Saudi Arabia’s been in a recession for five years now.”
“Surely we’re never going to be rid of oil entirely?” Sean asked.
“Not plastics.” Ava agreed. “But gasoline? The market for that’s going to be a fraction of what it used to be when it finally settles.”
“And there’s the problem.” Simon continued. “Saudi Arabia just isn’t as rich as it used to be. In fact it’s imploding. They’ve already had to cut spending in all sorts of ways. Artificial reefs and peninsula projects have been abandoned, cities in the desert have shrunk because they just couldn’t afford the water… and military spending has been slashed.”
“Oh boy.” Ava sighed, realising where this was going. “The Caliphate.”
“The so-called Caliphate,” Simon gently corrected her. “In what used to be Syria. Yes. They’ve had their eye on Mecca and Medina for years: the Masjid al-Haram and Al-Masjid an-Nabawi are two of the three most sacred places in Sunni Islam. If the Caliphate were to annexe those cities, it’d be a major propaganda victory for them. Recruitment would boom, and it’s high enough already.”
“Where’s the third?” Sean asked.
“Jerusalem.” Simon told him. “But the Israelis are a much tougher nut than the Saudis, and the Palestinians are… never mind. Point is, they don’t have a shot at Jerusalem any time soon. But they might have a shot at Mecca and Medina if not for…"
He zoomed the map out a bit. “…Pakistan. Like I said, Saudi Arabia’s collapsing, and because nobody in the region wants that they’ve been channeling aid and supplies to the Saudis for years, much to Iran and Russia’s alarm. In Pakistan’s case, a large part of that aid has been military - just like the Saudis and the so-called Caliphate, Pakistan are Sunni too, and they’re keen not to see the holy cities fall into Caliphate hands. So, they’ve been loaning all sorts of things: Training, special forces, a warship or two… and of course their air force can reach anywhere in the region just fine."
“Okay…?” Sean asked, examining the map. Simon smiled grimly, and closed the app to open a folder full of pictures instead - two ships at harbour, dimly visible through extreme range and heat haze.
“This is the MV Nasarpur, and berthed next to it is the PNS Zulfiquar, one of the Pakistan Navy’s frigates. Nasarpur’s a merchant vessel, a light freighter. About two months ago she left Karachi bound for Jeddah Seaport. When she got there though, she was immediately locked down by the Pakistani military. She didn’t load or offload anything, and three days later she sailed straight back to Karachi, without explanation."
“Any idea why?” Sean asked.
“Oh, rumours were flying thick and fast.” Simon told him. “None of them were very credible… Not even the kind of rags who run headlines like ’The Corti abducted my cat!" or whatever were touching them. That is, right up until some friends of mine were fed a tip that an Israeli checkpoint intercepted a nuke covered in Pakistan flags."
“A nuke?!” Sean exclaimed.
Ava was similarly dismayed. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.” Simon shook his head.
“Okay…” Ava re-opened the map and considered it some more. “Where’s Iran in all this?”
“Good question. One of the two questions we are going to be answering, in fact."
“Oh, bloody lovely.” Sean groused. “You plan on leading us into a powder keg where cities could maybe blow up?”
"Story of my life…" Ava commented, sotto voce. Neither man heard her. “What’s the other question?”
Simon sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. “That nuke showing up in the West Bank makes absolutely no sense at all.” he said. "Nobody benefits from that. If they’d successfully smuggled it over the border and then detonated it… then what? Like I said, Jerusalem - and specifically the Al-Aqsa Mosque - is the third holiest site in Islam. Destroying it would be only marginally less blasphemous than destroying the Kaaba, or the Mosque of the Prophet."
“Set it off elsewhere in Israel” he continued “and they’d just bring down the angry hammer of the West. Either way, there’s no incentive, so that nuke being where it was is just… bizarre. In fact I’m having trouble figuring out what the nukes are going to be useful for anywhere. Unless whoever took them truly are crazy enough to believe that they could detonate them and actually survive or even defeat the retaliation."
“Unless just setting them off is the whole objective.” Sean pointed out. “And the whole point is martyrdom.”
“Or unless blasphemy is the whole point.” Ava added. “Some anti-Muslim organisation wanting to destroy the holy sites?”
“True.” Simon nodded. “But in both cases… y’know, even martyrdom is done in support of an objective, and I feel like if body count alone was the idea, they would have gone off already. It’s a big and insecure part of the planet and they’ve had plenty of time to drive those bombs to pretty much anywhere in Afro-Eurasia. If the plan was just to cause mayhem or to enrage the Muslim population, they’d have gone off already. I think.”
Sean raised a hand. “Am I alone in being a tad concerned about going up against people who stole some nukes and who may be willing to use them?” he asked.
“Don’t let me stop you if you want to back out.” Simon told him. “Goodness knows, it’d be a welcome relief from Jacqui spamming me all the time telling me to talk you out of it.” he added, referring to his sister, Sean’s mother.
“…Ava?” Sean asked.
She thought about it. She knew what her answer was, but it would be nice to articulate why.
“Simon… What do you think about what happened to San Diego?” She asked.
Simon sat back and considered her. “How d’you mean?”
“Like… what’s your theory on what happened?”
Simon pondered his reply carefully before giving it. “I think… look, all the credible science commentators have all agreed that it was some kind of antimatter-based weapon. Five kilograms, they reckon.” He said.
“Five kilograms of antimatter would cost about three hundred thousand trillion dollars.” Ava told them.
“Jesus.” Sean muttered. “That’s… how much is that?”
“A fuck of a lot.” Simon told him, unhelpfully.
“All the combined goods and services of the planet Earth would add up to that in about seven years or so.” Ava told him. “So… yeah. There is NO WAY that bomb was human activity. It was aliens, I guarantee you. And - oh look, within a few years of it happening, there’s a huge increase in defense spending, we start building spaceships and my boy-…” she paused, pulled an annoyed face and started over “…my ex-boyfriend winds up as the poster boy for a new generation of spaceborne serviceman."
Simon nodded. “And then a Pakistani freighter carrying presumably nukes loses that cargo on the open ocean, only for one of them to show up a month or two later exactly where it makes the least sense.” he said.
“Right. It’s like if somebody who didn’t really understand the politics and religion and the whole… the whole everything that’s going on in the middle east was looking to try and shake up a real clusterfuck of a war in the region." Ava told him.
“To what end?” Sean asked.
“Iunno.” Ava shrugged. “But what happens if they succeed? What if the whole Middle East did descend into World War Three? Would the allies be able to just ignore that and keep throwing resources up into space?"
“Not bloody likely…” Simon mused. “Where did you come up with a theory like that, anyway?”
“It’s… there’s kind of a pattern." Ava told him. “Adam and I… our first date was to a roller derby. He spotted somebody in the crowd he recognised from a murder investigation, and… there was somebody lurking outside with an assault rifle, and… Y’know, it was almost a mass shooting.”
“You never mentioned this!” Sean gaped at her.
“It’s how Dad got his injury. He was… the gunman got him in the back. But then years later, when we lost Sara… that guy moved the exact same way. Adam saw that instantly. And he was doing something in the Byron launchpad at Folctha…"
She gritted her teeth and sighed, frowning. “It’s… I can almost put my thumb on it. It’s like a word on the tip of my tongue. I can feel that those two men really were connected, to each other and to San Diego, and to all this spending and the SOR… and to this." she tapped the picture of Nasarpur and Zulfiquar. “To that freighter and the nukes. It’s all part of the same thing, I know it is. This piece of the puzzle just fits."
They considered the image again.
“Bloody hell, duck.” Sean said eventually, shivering. “If you were trying to talk me into coming with, you’ve done a shitty job.”
“And given me a lot to think about.” Simon added. “Where do we even begin investigating something like that? And if you’re right… there’s no way that the intelligence services aren’t involved."
“What’s the alternative?” Ava asked. “I heard there’s an Icelandic choir gonna go do a concert tour around Dominion space. You want to go cover that instead?”
“That’d be the sensible thing to do.” Simon suggested.
“Fuck sensible.” Ava grumbled. “Whatever this thing is, it killed my parents and ruined my life, and I’m not alone. I wanna fight back. So hell yeah, I’m in.”
Simon gave her a long, slow stare, then turned to Sean. “I like her.” he declared.
“Said you would.” Sean agreed.
Simon stood up. “Let me… let me plan this.” he said. “I’m not quite sure where an investigation like this might start. And no offense, Ava, but you being American is going to complicate matters if we just head straight for Saudi Arabia or wherever and start poking around. For the time being, fill out those forms I gave you and submit them. We can at least get your credentials sorted so that whatever we decide to do, we’re ready to do it. Okay?”
Ava and Sean nodded, and he stood. “Get some bags packed and ready to go, keep them by the front door or somewhere. I’ll be in touch.”
Sean let him out.
“Are we crazy?” he asked, on returning. “I mean, are we seriously going to kick off our careers in journalism by going to the Middle East and chasing nukes?"
“I think Simon’s either crazy or desperate to take us along.” Ava replied unconcernedly, stretching out on the couch.
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I gave my last fuck months ago.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear!"
Ava tucked her hands behind her head. “Sean, don’t you get it? Didn’t you put the pieces together? Didn’t you listen to a thing I just said?”
Sean frowned at her and circled around to drop in the armchair. “Clearly I didn’t.” he muttered.
Ava sighed and sat up. “Someone or some_thing_ wants us dead." she said. “You MUST have seen the Vancouver attack footage. And everybody knows about the, the quarantine field and come on! You think two million dead Californians happened by accident? Adam and I could have been in that, it kind of rams the point home!"
“You really think-?”
“No. I fucking know, Sean. I saw a man shoot a fourteen-year-old girl because she was in the way. That’s what we’re up against. I don’t know who, or what, or why, but I know that SOMETHING with more antimatter than we could produce if we turned all of the Earth’s civilizations to making it and pumped it out for a lifetime… Something with that wants us dead. And it’s somehow got some humans on its side too."
She gestured to the window. “And what are the options? Do nothing? Get drunk? Fuck a lot and try to enjoy ourselves before they succeed because we didn’t try and stop them? The Hell with that! I- I can’t!"
She was amazed to discover that she was crying.
Sean, very gently, shifted from chair to couch and put a hand on her upper arm. “You sure you’re not still feeling guilty over Adam?” he asked.
“Of course I still feel guilty over Adam!" Ava tore away from him and surged to her feet, angry now. “How does that change anything? Who gives a fuck? It doesn’t matter what my reasons are for doing it, it’s still the right thing to do."
“We could get killed.”
“Oh, wake up!! We WILL get killed some day. Cancer, or a car crash, or an antimatter bomb from space or… who the fuck knows?! Death doesn’t scare me, Sean. If it scares you, you’re welcome not to come along."
He laughed gently. “I did say ‘we’ could get killed, didn’t I?"
Ava stilled. “…Okay, what’s your reason?" she asked, turning to face him.
Sean shrugged. “A bad one.” he conceded, picking at something invisible on his jeans and not looking at her. “But, y’know. Better to do the right thing for a bad reason, right?”
“…Yeah.”
Ava considered challenging him for a better answer, but settled for shrugging and trudging out of the room and up the stairs into her bedroom to prepare a bag as Simon had suggested. Every fiber of her wanted to be sullen, angry and bitter pretty much all the time, and she was damned if she’d indulge that impulse, even if Sean couldn’t resist his impulse to drop a veiled and passive ‘I love you’ on her whenever he could, which was really starting to be a pain in the…
She paused, took a deep breath, and started over.
She had to do that a lot as she packed, just as she’d had to do every day for weeks now. Every single resource she could find about travel in the Middle East stressed modesty. Modesty! As if the God who’d created the human body had intended for it to be an object of revulsion and fear. As if men were so weak that women had to suffer the burden of controlling their impulses for them-!
Pause. Deep breath. Start over.
It was getting better, day by day. Every time she caught herself flying into a rage, every time she closed her eyes, inhaled and let go, it made the next time a little easier.
She took her time and focused as hard as she could on packing the bag as small and efficient as possible. Tight jeans were out, but that was okay, she had some loose slacks. These formed the outer layer, inside which were rolled her flannel shirts, loose tops and everything she had that would combine to cover her from wrist to chin to ankle without scandalizing the oh-so-delicate male sensibilities-
Pause, deep breath, start over…
Underwear, socks, sanitary pads, some makeup essentials, a pretty square scarf that should hopefully pass muster as a hijab if she needed it. She spent a few minutes practicing putting it on, threw it into the corner in disgust after she managed to jab herself in the back of the head with a pin - pause, deep breath, start over - retrieved it and, after a few minutes, became satisfied that she was putting it on correctly without having to refer to the WikiHow guide.
Experimentally, she wore it alongside the clothing she’d picked out. It wasn’t baggy and formless, at least. In fact…
“Modest and still hot." she congratulated herself, then realised that in testing her outfit she’d managed to completely undo all her progress on packing the bag.
She paused. She took a deep breath, and she started over.
Date Point 10y4m AV
HMS Sharman, Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Regaari
“Chasing after Shoo was more than just a personal mission for me, it became a lucrative contract for the Clan.”
Admiral Sir Patrick Knight had been summoned, and Regaari was now being politely interrogated in a meeting room somewhere in HMS Sharman’s structure. Ayma, apparently, was to be ‘debriefed’ separately.
Somehow, Regaari had expected the admiral to be a near-clone of major Powell - sturdy, strong, and rough. Knight in fact was tall and slender and the translator rendered him with a refined, intellectual accent similar to that of Clan Highmountain. “How so?” he asked
“The females are… extremely devoted to their ideal of Clan loyalty. More so than any male is to his clan, and that is quite a feat." Regaari explained. “Their devotion to one another apparently transcends species. They’re in something of an uproar right now over the wisdom of bringing a human - Shoo - into the Clan, but the one thing that none of them will even think of suggesting would be ejecting her from the Clan of Females. She’s a Sister, and will be a Sister for as long as she lives."
“And this benefited Whitecrest… how?” Knight inquired.
“I am an - apparently - prestigious officer of Clan Whitecrest, and I led an exhaustive investigation, chasing Shoo across known space.” Regaari explained. “Now, this was advantageous to Whitecrest first because it was a valuable intelligence-gathering venture in its own right. We tripled the reach of of our surveillance network in searching for her. That alone would have been reason enough to do it, but the mating contracts…"
“You did it all for the nookie?” Powell asked. His expressions were always harder to read than most humans, but there was just enough there for Regaari to guess at a joke of some kind. Joking or not, however, the observation was completely on target.
“For as long as the search continued,” Regaari told him “we had the respect and attention of practically every female on Gao. For males, that is a rare and hugely coveted position to be in - it means that for once WE get to choose our mating partners, rather than the other way around. We advanced our breeding program by generations during this operation.”
“Breeding program?”
“Selectively enhancing the Whitecrest line by mating with females carrying gene-stock from other clans. The Stonebacks, the Highmountains, the One-fangs… breeding for strength, intelligence, reflexes… Every clan has just such a program in effect, planning our own genetic futures.”
The humans shared an uneasy glance for some reason. “Is… something the matter?” Regaari asked them.
“Call it a cultural foible.” Knight conceded. “Eugenics has been an historically, uhm… tricky subject on Earth. Where does Kirk come into this?"
“When I was travelling with Shoo and Ayma, we found ourselves with a dilemma.” Regaari said, sitting back. Designed as the seats were for human proportions, his feet were dangling ridiculously but he didn’t care. “She wouldn’t go back to Gao, you see. She was convinced that she would bring down the Swarm of Swarms just by being there. Who knows, maybe she was right? On the evidence of Capitol Station, we wouldn’t have been able to fight them… and the commune she lived at and all the city around it would have been inundated with slavering predators. I think that thought scared her more than the possibility of being eaten herself.”
Knight and Powell both nodded. Regaari recognised that nod - it was the one that indicated agreement without wanting to interrupt.
“Returning her to Earth was also not within our power. No channels of communication, no help from the Dominion… we didn’t even know where Earth was.” he paused. “In fact, I still don’t.”
“The distal end of the Border Stars.” Knight told him. “A cluster we call the Local Group”.
Regaari tried to recall what he could of the Dominion’s galactic map. The galaxy was an incomprehensibly huge place, and the broad-strokes creation of a notional feature such as a band of uninhabitable systems which marked the no- man’s land between the Dominion and the Alliance inevitably included tens of thousands of stars. It was all far too big for any living being’s brain to accommodate.
“A long way from Gao and from what the Dominion thinks of as civilization, then.” he concluded. “And with the Dominion actively obscuring that information and stymieing efforts to contact your species… well, we were forced to stay on the move. Shoo disguised herself as a Sister and we took care to travel parts of the Dominion far from Gao, where she would be less likely to be discovered. It was there that we started to hear rumours.”
“About Kirk.” Powell checked.
“About Councillor Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk.” Regaari had long mastered the trick of letting his cybernetics transmit the name to the translator rather than trying to pronounce it. “We would find stations where they were still talking about their vagrant Deathworlder and the fact that one of the galaxy’s most notorious political figures had just swept in, collected them and departed. We had just started looking for him when… well, there was an incident. It persuaded Shoo to leave us and go it alone.”
**"**What happened then?"
**"**Ayma was furious with her." Regaari remembered fondly. “I think she’d forgotten that Shoo is a human, with human instincts. She saw her as a Sister, and expected her to behave like one.”
**"**In what way?" Knight asked.
“Forgive the broad generalization here, but… the Clan of Females stand together and they can be both savage and a bit stupid about it. Threaten one of them, and they will unite to make your life a misery, even if actually doing so is beyond their power. Humans, I think, will do that too… up to a point. And I think that point is the one where an individual decides to sacrifice themselves for the good of the rest.”
“That’s very broad strokes." Powell commented.
“Borne out by individual examples that I have personally witnessed, Major. Sergeant Leo Price, for instance.”
Knight and Powell looked at one another again. It was amazing how much humans communicated between themselves just by taking a half-second glance at each others’ faces. Regaari had no idea what the unspoken conversation had entailed, but Powell cleared his throat.
“So you returned to Gao.” he said.
“By way of Perfection.” Regaari duck-nodded. “Ayma didn’t know why, but I… made use of a resource.”
“The Contact.” Knight guessed.
“Now how do you know about her?" Regaari demanded.
“Via Kirk.”
“Ah. Of course. I should have known he would use her services as well… Well, for a fair price, she sold me information concerning Kirk and his ship. Contact information as well, which turned out to be obsolete. Or at least, he never got in touch via those channels. I have no idea why not.”
“In any case” he continued “when the Whitecrest clan set about trying to find Shoo, we were able to trace her to a station in the Signal Stars. FTS-1090 'Endless Possibility’. The trail went dead there."
“Why?”
“The station’s traffic records were corrupted. Every ship that stopped there over nearly half a Gaoian year, their origin, destination, flight plans… all lost. All we had to go on was civilian rumour and gossip.”
“And what did those have to say?”
“They were abuzz. A Gaoian female had fought with a human male and fled the station. Some time later, that human had left with some other humans in the company of a Rrrtk.”
“Fought?” Knight asked.
“’Wiped the floor with him' as you say." Regaari commented, clearly pleased for his friend’s prowess. “The station’s population weren’t sure whether to be sceptical of the stories of human strength, or whether to start thinking Gaoians are deathworlders too. The idea of a disguise never crossed their minds… though to be fair, it was a good disguise."
“That matches with Kirk’s final report…” Powell observed.
“That it does,” Knight agreed “but those logs being corrupted is new information, and not Kirk’s MO at all… Enemy action?”
Powell grunted and nodded. “Trying to cover their tracks.”
“Which means that Kirk, his crew and Miss Chang stumbled across something important.”
“At the kinds of speeds Sanctuary could get to, that something important could be anywhere, sir."
“True, but the escape pod is much slower… hmm."
“Enemy action?” Regaari asked, “What enemy?”
He knew a poker-face when he saw one, and both Knight and Powell had impenetrable ones. “Doesn’t matter.” Powell grunted.
“We do have plenty of enemies, after all.” Knight agreed, a touch more diplomatically. “And this all happened five years ago.”
Regaari considered calling bullshit - it was a phrase he’d learned early on from Shoo’s movies, and loved - but decided against it. It would only antagonize them, and be unlikely to work.
“Not that I’m authorised to make a formal offer…” he started. “But the Clans might well be interested in closer ties with humanity over the coming years. Knowing who your enemies are might shape that decision, or prepare us for coming up against them…”
Again, there was a borderline-telepathic silent conversation between Knight and Powell that took little more than enough time for both men to glance at one another. “Well said,” Knight agreed. “I’ll… need to take advice from my colleagues and superiors on that, however.”
“By all means.” Regaari agreed. “Now… on to the matter of Ayma and I visiting Earth…”
Date Point: 10y4m AV
Mrwrki Station, Uncharted System, Deep Space
Kirk
In the weeks since they had first arrived at Mrwrki, Lewis’ initial experiments with the nanofactory had largely revolved around creating a series of construction drones, which had in turn assembled for him an apartment, rebuilding part of the station’s structure so that the nanofactory and its control centre was basically his living room.
The apartment itself was little more than a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and a large working area, the latter comprised of a commodious comfortable chair, more volumetric screens and work surfaces and what looked to Kirk’s eyes like a hundred data pads strewn over the floor, piled on the surfaces, tucked into the corners of the chair, and generally littering the place like ticker-tape in the aftermath of an especially pompous parade.
Lewis was trying to keep himself to a healthy routine, to the point where Kirk was under strict orders from him to enter the apartment with a shock prod and zap him if he didn’t stick to the rules he’d set himself.
Quite why Lewis would need to be reminded to go to sleep, to bathe, to eat and to change his clothing was a bit of a mystery, but as Kirk understood it, a human in the grip of an obsession could neglect his basic needs, and Lewis had self-diagnosed a strong propensity for exactly that kind of obsession.
At least, that was how Kirk had described it to Vedreg. Lewis’ exact words had been “Dude, I’ll fall asleep on a slice of mouldy pizza inside a week if you don’t remind me to clean up and look after myself. Been there, done that.”
To his credit, Lewis was sticking to his schedule almost without prompting, and he was benefiting from it, too. Aboard Sanctuary, he had stuck to the bare minimum of exercise that Julian and Kirk had conspired to force on him. Now…
It was impossible for a human to seem “scrawny” by the standards of Kirk’s species. Humans - even unfit, skinny humans - were pretty much nothing but muscle and bone, and those muscles and bones were denser, tougher, stronger and proportionately larger. To an Rrrtk’s eyes, even Lewis was dense and sturdy enough to shake the deck plating as he walked, and Lewis was decidedly scrawny by human standards.
His general proportions hadn’t changed much on a regime of tai chi and yoga, but his movements had. Lewis had sort of… flopped about the place before, treating being upright as something he did en route to sitting somewhere else, with shoulders slouched and expression distracted, only to focus when he was sat at a terminal, working on a stimulating challenge. Now, he moved with the same kind of fluid alertness that Allison and Julian had possessed. His back was straighter, his step lighter, his expression here and now. It was like he was always at a terminal these days, always working on a stimulating challenge.
Maybe he was. He was certainly absorbing knowledge with a voracity that defied comprehension, and sometimes he made huge tangential links between two subjects that Kirk would never have thought to connect. What was the association between climate science and politics? What did either of them have to do with nanofactorys? For that matter, how did biology and computer programming enmesh?
Lewis had explained. Kirk prided himself that he was one of the smarter members of a species that had, prior to the arrival of humans and Gaoians, been generally respected as the only sophonts around who could give the Corti a run for their money, but Lewis’s exploration of those connections had been so arcane that he still wasn’t sure he understood it.
Could a local drought really spark a civil war? Let alone a regional conflict that went on to drag in half the factions on an entire planet? How could software evolve? In what possible way were either of those already impenetrable relationships relevant to using the nanofactory to build a weapon against the Hierarchy?
Lewis had finally silenced his questions by instructing him to “Go read the Dirk Gently books, dude.”
Kirk hadn’t been able to find an author by that name, but he had been introduced to Douglas Adams, to the concept of “holistic” and, in researching that, to the whole field of Chaos Theory.
The “fundamental interconnectedness of all things” seemed like a bizarre and nonsense concept at first, but the more Kirk had dug into it, the more he realised that he had been exploiting exactly that principle ever since he’d left ‘Outlook on Forever’. Relying on it, even. Everything came back to humans in the end - after all, he’d planned to use them to tear down the rusty and stifling entrenched power of the Dominion from the inside.
He snapped out of his thoughtful mood as he approached Lewis’ door. Kirk had gone without company for a couple of days while Vedreg slept, and yesterday’s attempt to check in with Lewis had ended in the human calling “Busy! Come back tomorrow!” through the door.
This time, the door opened.
Lewis’ outfit had changed dramatically, for some reason. He bathed daily and the first thing to come out of Mrwrki’s nanofactory under his control had been a machine for washing and drying his clothes. Even though the forge could have recycled them and built him new clothes every day if he wanted them, he’d stuck to the same fraying jeans and sand-coloured T-shirt that he had been abducted in, years ago.
These were now gone and replaced with robes of some kind, or something like a kimono or karate gi… it was hard to tell exactly what, given Kirk’s own lack of expertise with the intricacies of human clothing and the fact that Lewis had probably designed the garment from memory. The end result was something loose and comfortable.
Lewis was curled up in his Thinking Chair - the huge comfortable one that Kirk could almost have squeezed himself into - reading something off a tablet.
“Hey man. Come on in.”
“How are you doing?” Kirk asked, accepting his invitation and entering the suite properly. It was remarkably clean, especially considering Lewis’ self- confessed propensity for squalor.
“Trying to get my head around quantum computing.” Lewis murmured, in the soft way he always did when concentrating. “I get the theory, there’s just… subtleties to the way the Corti go about using qubits that’re giving me an idea.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t even ask me to explain, man. I’ve got, like, a shape forming in my head and, like, there’s a bit that I think is gonna fit there, but even if it does, ain’t no way I’m going to be able to explain it without telling you the whole shape."
“I like the new wardrobe.” Kirk changed the subject. “Very… zen.”
“I was going for Tron: Legacy, man. Flynn had his shit worked out."
“He did?”
“Yuh-huh. If you’re gonna spend however the fuck long in exile with like, two or three people to talk to, tops… may as well be comfortable and meditate a lot.”
He swiped right on the tablet. “It helps, actually. Weirdly.”
“I wouldn’t know. Is this what you were doing yesterday?”
“Yeah, dude. Ass finally went on my jeans. You came along while I was buck- ass, assembling me some new duds.”
Kirk snorted, amused. “Lewis, what possible reason would I have to care?” he asked.
“Yeah, yeah. Just because the whole galaxy are nudists, we’re the weird ones.” Lewis scoffed. “Clothing is practical dude."
“Practical for what, exactly?”
“Well, fuckin’ pockets for a start.”
Kirk just rocked his weight backward onto his four hindlegs, the comfortable sedentary posture of a Rrrtk not planning to go anywhere for a while. He was wearing a utility belt, two holsters and a pair of saddlebags, none of which would have begun to qualify as ‘clothing’ by a human’s standards, yet which meant that he was already rather better-equipped with pockets than Lewis had ever been in his jeans. Certainly, Lewis’ ‘Flynn’ robes didn’t seem to have pockets at all.
He decided not to press the issue. That way lay an argument just as intractable as trying to point out to the Kwmbwrw that they were, biologically speaking, obligate omnivores and that their strictly herbivorous lifestyle led to malnutrition problems that placed a permanent burden on their economy. Certainly, the Kwmbwrw and the Gaoians had been at odds over that point from the instant the Gaoians had made first contact.
“Not to rush you…” he said, delicately. “But I was rather expecting that you would have started to build things and experiment by now.”
“I have.”
“…You have?”
“Sure. I’ve just not built anything useful man. So it’s all gone back in the recycler."
Kirk angled his head so that he could get Lewis into his very limited range of binocular vision. “Nothing useful at all?”
“Well, I made the washer-dryer, and an oven and some cake tins for Vedreg, and don’t forget all these tablets…” Lewis shrugged, swiping right again. “But like, as for the Big Project? Yeah, I’ve thrown together a few basic ideas, some proofs-of concept. But I can either do the mad scientist thing and fill my space with every last shitty little project that’s never gonna come to anything until I’ve got nowhere to work, or I can keep the place tidy.”
“You do keep saying that you are naturally an untidy person." Kirk pointed out.
“Dude you have no idea what untidy really is.” Lewis told him, setting the tablet aside. “I’m being fucking careful here because I…"
He stopped, suddenly and visibly emotional, then sprang to his feet. “Room. How far to Sol?”
The room spoke in a clearly synthetic voice. "The approximate straight-line distance from this station to Sol is: Half a galactic radial length."
“That’s about seven kiloparsecs, Kirk. Twenty-three thousand light years. If we had Sanctuary here and I hopped in her right now and flew her straight home? It’d take me two and a half weeks, and that’s if I magically somehow managed to do it without having to stop to degauss every day." Lewis cleared his throat and gestured to the map: the straight line route strayed dangerously close to the galactic core, where starships never dared to venture. “If I took the spacelanes… Room, if I had a ship with a cruising speed of five hundred kilolights, how long would it take me to reach Sol via cleared spacelanes?”
“Calculating… approximate travel distance, one point three galactic radial lengths. Approximate journey duration in human units rounding up, not including necessary resupply and degauss stops: Sixty days.”
Kirk watched Lewis’ shoulders sag, before he turned around. “And Cimbrean is even further. Two months, Kirk. If I had the fastest ship in the Milky Way right here, it’d take me two months to get home. On most ships? Like, if I tried to hitch-hike home on freighters and whatever, I could be at it for years."
He dismissed the galactic projection with a swipe of his arm. “I am a long way from other humans right now. I like you and Vedreg well enough, sure. But… You guys can go without, if you have to. Me? if I’m not very, very careful, I’ma go crazy and I fucking know it. I have GOT to take care of myself: No mess. No clutter. Do my chores, exercise, say my fuckin’ prayers, whatever, and maybe I’ll be able to go a few years without completely losing my shit."
There was a long moment of silence, and then Lewis climbed back into his Thinking Chair. “So mebbe you’d better let me get on with all this studying I gotta do, ’cause the sooner I get it done and come up with a solution, the sooner I can get out of this cage you’ve shoved me in. Good talk, buddy. Let’s do this again tomorrow.”
Not quite knowing what to say, Kirk watched him in silence for a minute, and then pushed his weight forward onto all six legs again and made himself scarce.
Date Point 10y4m AV
Byron Group Headquarters, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth.
Kevin Jenkins
Rachael glanced up then gave him her professional smile and gestured to the door. “Go right on through, Mister Jenkins.”
“Thanks Rachael.”
Of all the perks that he had acquired during the last few weeks, Kevin was finding that the one he enjoyed most was that he could walk into Moses Byron’s office whenever the hell he liked. Nobody else in the Group enjoyed that privilege.
He whispered to himself as he entered Byron’s office, reflecting on his expensive suit and six-figure salary with bonus. “Look at me now, Moira…”
“What was that, Kevin?” Byron set his tablet down on his desk and looked up.
“Just talkin’ to myself, boss.”
“Only way to get some intelligent conversation sometimes.” Byron chuckled, and sat back, folding his arms comfortably. “What’s up?”
“Company wants a final report on that lunar jump beacon. Figured it’d only be fair to get your side.”
Byron frowned. He hated having the subject of that particular blunder raised. “Agent Williams already got that out of me.” he grumbled.
“Figure she’s not interested in hearing the positives, Mister Byron.”
Byron made a tired noise. “What is this, Kevin? Good Cop Bad Cop? Am I paying you to be my interrogator now?”
“You’re paying me to make sure the Company never has to visit your office ever again." Kevin pointed out.
“Okay, okay…” Byron stood up and hit his wet bar again. Kevin had noticed he did that in pretty much every meeting, and also that - excepting the meeting with Special Agent Williams (AKA Darcy) - he never actually drank what he mixed. Presumably it was all a ploy to put his people at their ease and steer the conversation his way. “What’s your poison?” he asked.
“I’m fine without, thanks. One DUI is enough for a lifetime.”
“We’ve got people could drive you back.” Byron pointed out.
“Takes all the fun out of it, boss.”
Byron sighed and reclaimed a little momentum by mixing something for himself - a Virgin Manhattan - before sitting down as he dropped in the maraschino cherry. “Okay. Fire away.”
“Robert Frost.”
Frost had been one of the four crew on Reclamation, the ship that Byron had sent out to investigate the disappearances of BGEVs one, three, four and six. Somewhere during the ill-fated mission’s chain of misadventures, Frost had been forced to take a translator implant. He’d been under the scanner of a surgical robot, about to have the implant whipped straight back out again, when a Hierarchy agent had stepped into his head and used his body to murder the Reclamation’s captain, Jason Nolan.
Things had only gotten worse for them after that, but a full recording of the changes in Frost’s brain as he was taken over had, briefly, been in the hands of the Byron Group’s scientists: Byron had promptly deleted it.
Byron set his drink down, a little too sharply. “What about him?”
“Williams wasn’t impressed that you destroyed evidence there. The scans of his brain, all that stuff…”
“Unethical.” Byron grunted. “Couldn’t be used without huge human rights violations, and couldn’t be kept without maybe ruining the Group if it ever leaked.”
Kevin had to agree, but he had the questions he’d been instructed to ask. “Not even to research ways to stop the control from happening?”
“I trust my people.” Byron said. “Whenever they know things I don’t, I defer to them. That’s true of you, and it’s true of Ericson and Billings. Both of them recommended destroying the data. When I discussed the implications with Mr. Williams - our Williams, that is, our chief of security - he said the exact same thing."
“And why not forward it to the government?”
Byron snatched his drink up again and stood to tour the office. “This may come as a surprise to you, Kevin, but I don’t trust the government." he said, fetching up by the window. “The government has been sitting on a secret this huge for years. It knows who destroyed San Diego and why, and more defence spending than my whole Group is worth has gone dark in going after them. All of which has vindicated my lack of trust in them, which I’ve had since long before pretty little Agent Williams waltzed in here and told me off like a naughty schoolboy."
He drained the mocktail in one, and set it down on top of his bookshelf with a shaking hand, plainly angry.
"Extinction?!" he snarled, spinning around suddenly. “These people are playing with extinction and they’re keeping people like ME out of the loop? People who could help?! Cause yeah, I knew something was up with the implants, but I was worried about… corporate sabotage, or spying. I was worried about losing more good people, so I added a failsafe to get them home fast in case something went wrong. Stuff like that, small tragedies that we could handle! Nobody said a dang thing about extinction, and I had no good reason to suspect it was even on the cards! But nooo, only the government can handle the responsibility of playing games with the lives of billions! Only the government has that right!"
He strode back to his chair and threw himself into it. “If I wasn’t happy with having that data used by my people, then what in the Sam Hill makes you think I’d forward it to the government?" he asked. “It’d be just as unethical if they used it, and just as ruinous to us if it ever got out that we were the ones that supplied it. And you can put every mother-loving word I just said into your report verbatim, Kevin. I don’t need a positive spin on that one."
Kevin took a deep breath and gave it time for some of Byron’s rage to dissipate out of the room. “You sure you don’t want something with alcohol in it, Boss?” he asked, lightly.
Byron grunt-chuckled. “One liver’s enough for a lifetime.” he said, echoing Kevin’s earlier sentiment. “Reckon if I start drinking every time I get stressed, that way lies a couple transplants. No thank you… did the Company want you to ask me anything else?”
“I think you’ve said enough.” Kevin replied, putting his phone away - he’d recorded the whole rant. “Anything you need from me before I head back?”
“Matter of fact, there is.” Byron stood up again, and retrieved an old- fashioned physical document in a slim black plastic folder from atop his filing cabinet. He spun it onto the desk in front of Kevin. “You hear all the brouhaha up in Vancouver over the three space cadets who came home?”
“They’re fellow abductees and friends of an old friend, in fact.” Kevin said, opening it. The folder contained duplex printouts of the three Sanctuary survivors and a quick run-down of everything that the Group had been able to learn about them. Even at a cursory glance, their summaries made for impressive reading, and they didn’t include some of what Kevin knew about Kirk and his mission.
“No kidding? Well, I want them for EV-Eleven, not least because this Etsicitty fella’s got about the most sophisticated prosthetic foot on Earth and that’s a market I wouldn’t mind breaking into. Any objections?”
“None, so long as that’s ALL they’ve got, cyber-wise.” Kevin shook his head. “It’s only stuff that touches the brain that I’m worried about… though, for personal reasons, I wouldn’t mind having a word with them.”
“That’s fine. Not a bad idea if you meet them in person and assess them anyway. Reckon your other employers will object?”
“I doubt it.”
“Okay. Go have fun talking to your friends of a friend.” Byron technically had to wait for Kevin to decide to leave but, despite that in Kevin’s opinion the man was a high-functioning psychopath and a narcissist, he was still a damn good boss and Kevin didn’t mind letting him think he had the power. Keeping Byron’s ego feeling un-bruised made life easier for everybody else who worked with him.
He stood and headed out. “Try not to get in trouble while I’m gone, boss.”
Byron toasted him with his empty glass. “Kevin, you’re on my speed dial.” he said.
Date Point 10y4m AV
Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Adam Ares
Training for the SOR was a delicate balancing act that weighed the need to keep the team on standby ready for a mission should the need arise, versus the hellish demands of keeping their bodies in the proper condition to go on that mission.
The result was training that varied in intensity throughout the week on a pseudorandom schedule, one day of which was the Heavy Day, followed by a light day for recovery.
Heavy day was designed for maximum effect at the expense of leaving the operator burned out and shaking, often barely able to move. Today was Adam’s heavy day, and he’d elected to go for a simulated suit run.
These were pretty simple: Wearing the EV-MASS undersuit under a weighted replica of the midsuit with a full tactical load - an arrangement that was actually worse to wear than the suit itself because it was loose on him rather than hugging tight and supporting its own weight - he set out for a dawn-to- dusk run. Pick a direction, go. Turn back at noon. And if you had any designs on saving your energies on the run out, you were just hurting yourself and everybody else you might need that little bit extra performance for.
He’d settled on a road run today, and had set himself the challenge of making it out as far as the coastal outpost of New Penzance.
New Penzance was nothing more than a research outpost - it had a cabin for the researchers, a boat shed with launch ramp and a weather station, and a radio mast for talking to Folctha. The parking lot was bigger than the combined footprint of all the buildings, and Adam jogged across it, slapped the side of the cabin, panted a smiling “hi!” to the surprised residents who were tending to their boat, then turned and jogged back down the access road, checking his timepiece. He’d made it just before noon, so when he reached the end of the access road he turned left and continued along the coastal road for another twenty minutes before the alarm went, calling him to turn back.
The return journey was always the worse. On the way out, even pushing the pace as much as he needed to for good training, he could at least enjoy the scenery, take in his surroundings, and they were fantastic surroundings.
The coast skirted the edge of the Scar, or the TMAZ, or the Skidmark, or whatever you preferred to call it, and so the lush Cimbrean forests that had once come right down to the tidemark - and the mangrove-like things that had once lived beyond even that - were now gone. Here and there a decaying stump jutted out of what was rapidly becoming scrubby coastal grassland. Imported Earthling grasses were outcompeting the native plants at an astonishing rate as they crowded out the sunlight and whipped the metaphorical rug out from under them.
A bird - an actual Terran bird, sleek and agile - whipped overhead, speared down into the grass and came up with something that could only be a native in its talons. An Earthling wouldn’t have been quite so… exploded.
A convoy of logging trucks swept up the road headed away from the city, and he raised a greeting hand when the lead truck honked at him. There was a lot of alien timber out there, and no point in letting it get eaten or choked by imported alien insects and plants. Folctha was getting hugely wealthy off a continent’s worth of virgin extraterrestrial forest, and most coveted of all was Pinkwood, with its delicate striations of alternating bands of dark chocolate and taffy pink grain. As a structural material it was worthless: as a luxury decorative wood, it was the most coveted thing on either planet, and its looming extinction made its devotees all the more crazy.
Of course there were protests and environmental campaigners who decried the rapacious logging of an endangered species, but the Reclamation Project had pointed out in an impassioned statement that the tree was extinct anyway, given that it was only a matter of time before the last one was killed by a marauding immigrant. In the face of which every veneer, tabletop and decorative turned piece that lived on as a treasured heirloom or favorite gift only served to prolong the plant’s unfortunate legacy and to remind humankind of the degree of care and seriousness with which interstellar colonisation would need to progress.
Adam’s muscles had been gently burning away all morning of course, but as he entered the young woodlands around Folctha, and more importantly when he crossed the field threshold for the gravity generator, ramping up from Cimbrean gravity to Earth gravity in about ten paces… that was the point when he hit the wall.
There were only so many energy-saving tricks that a man could do in these circumstances. He could stay hydrated, suck down electrolytes and sugar like his life depended on them, allow himself timed and brief rest breaks to stop, engulf an energy bar and recover a few drips of reserves before powering on…
But the only way to really get through was the trance.
PJ training had only reinforced something that Legsy had taught him when he was sixteen - that the human brain could enter a mode where pain, hunger, fatigue, thirst… all of it became abstract information. In such a state, focused completely on putting one foot at a time that little bit closer to home, a man could run, and run, and run, and run. The sun took its sweet time in ambling down to ground level, and the kilometers ticked by sporadically: vanishing in handfuls, and yet each one taking an age.
Adam had another level beyond the trance which he saved for the most serious exercise, when the only way to move forward was to literally break himself. He wouldn’t need it today.
There was an established end-point at the base: Rebar had rigged up a sheet of metal that rang like a gong when slapped in the big red circle at its center. Your run or whatever you were doing wasn’t complete until you staggered up to it and rang it, did a circuit around the dorm for good measure, and slapped it a second time.
Getting there involved thumping doggedly along the coastal highway, past the building he co-owned with Titan on Demeter Road, up Delaney Row, into Newlands Park and uphill beside the river as the lights came on to celebrate the hours of darkness. He crossed at the western footbridge, forced himself along Peake Way, past the MPs on gate duty, past the Gravball hall and the scenario course, past the open field where all of the base’s staff who weren’t Spaceborne Operators did their PT, up to the dorm, slapped the gong - this was where it got truly difficult in the last few seconds - staggered around the dorm counting every last step, slapped the gong again and…
Pain. Pain, exhaustion, weariness and reality all flooded back in as he let go and started thinking again.
Mechanically, his hand hit the stop button on his timepiece, then grabbed his drinking tube and he took a long, thirsty pull of his custom cocktail of high- performance sports drink.
He sat down on his butt, rolled backwards, and lay there for a minute or two while his breathing slowed and something resembling energy started to soak into his tissues again.
Voices started to percolate into his sphere of awareness, and there was something… familiar about one of them.
Well, okay. Every voice on the base was familiar, but this one was familiar in a way he hadn’t heard in a while.
“…just ran past me without acknowledging me. Do you think he’s okay?”
“Relax he’s fine. Ain’tcha Horse?”
Adam opened his eyes. Baseball grinned down at him. Standing next to him wearing what was probably an expression of concern, were two Gaoians. He didn’t recognise the female, but the male? He knew that white cowlick anywhere, especially coupled with a new prosthetic paw.
“Oh. Hey Dexter. How’ya doin’?”
The female chittered a Gaoian laugh. “You were right, Regaari. He’s overflowing with enthusiasm to see you again!”
Even Adam managed a laugh, and waved a hand reassuringly. “Just…” He looked to Baseball. “Whassat words the Brits use?”
“Knackered.” Base grinned. “How’d you do?”
“Got out past New Penzance.” Adam smiled.
“Shit!” Base swore, though his grin got all the wider. “You know we’re gonna have to try for Big Bay now, right?"
“No way your slow ass is getting out that far.” Adam grunted. He rolled over and, agonisingly, hauled himself upright with Base’s help.
“Right, ’cause you’re Speedy Gonzales.” Base teased.
Adam chuckled. Olde-tyme racist though it was, he’d always loved that cartoon. “Andale! Arriba!” he grunted, and began the laborious process of rolling over and heaving himself upright.
“Are you alright, Warhorse?” Regaari seemed genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine.” Adam reassured him. “Good training. And… hey! Good to see you, bro. Figured you’d come calling sooner or later.”
He hit the release on his bag and let it slam to the ground. Both Gaoians took an alarmed step back.
Ayma made an alarmed chirruping sound. “You were running carrying that?"
“Yyyup.” Adam nodded then aimed a thumb at Baseball, who scooped the bag up easily and slung it over his shoulder. “His turn tomorrow.”
“But that must weigh…” Ayma paused and evaluated it.
“‘Bout five times what you do.” Baseball told her. “It’s just what we do. You comin’ in for movie night, Hoss?”
“Ooh, what we watching?” Adam asked.
“You get the deciding vote.” Base told him. “Terminator Two, or The Windup Girl?”
“Oh man, we having a good movie night?” Adam asked. “Uh… Judgement Day, I guess.”
“Tee-two it is.” Base smiled. “Go on, bro, hit the shower.”
“Crue patch first. Ten milligrams.”
Base had already palmed one, and produced it with a smirk. “Pussy.”
Adam rolled his eyes even as he took the patch and pressed it firmly to his aching right knee. It had definitely gone click in a nasty way during his final circuit of the dorm. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see how tough you are when you try an’ run to Big Bay tomorrow, tough guy.”
“Man, get your stinky ass in that shower so we can watch Ahnold do his shit.”
They knocked fists, and Adam did as he was told, hobbling his way round the dorm’s side to the locker room and shower block.
Ordinarily, he would have soaked at length, but the lure of a good movie, gaoians, and the bowl of jambalaya he had waiting for him was all too strong.
He swung by the kitchen to grab his dinner, took a couple minutes to microwave it, and headed for the couch. Disappointingly, Dexter - Regaari - had elected to maintain his dignity in front of the female, and hadn’t joined the comfortable, warm tangle of relaxation on the couch. Adam could relate. He’d felt similarly awkward on the two occasions when Ava had joined them for a movie.
He stomped on that thought immediately and found somewhere to insert himself on the couch.
“So what is this movie about?” Ayma asked, perching herself delicately on the armchair, which was otherwise only ever used by Major Powell, on the rare occasion that he joined them.
Akiyama, as always, was the one who leaped to summarizing it. “Uh, okay, so this is the second movie in a series and… what happened was that some idiot invented a computer that took over the world and killed most everyone. This dude John Connor…”
Ayma listened, rapt, and occasionally asked questions about the time travel aspect of the story, and Adam grinned silently to Regaari when he climbed up onto the back of the couch and made himself comfortable.
“Everything okay with you two?” He whispered.
Regaari’s ears drooped very slightly. In order to avoid triggering the translator and having Ayma overhear, he had to reply in his faltering English. “She… only want be friend.”
“Ouch. Sorry, bro.”
Regaari made a complicated duck-wobbling motion with his head that probably served as a Gaoian shrug. “Is best, prob’ly. Make hard with other Gao. They not ready.”
He flashed a few teeth imitating a smile, and extended a bunched fist, which Adam happily met with his own, and they settled back to watch the movie.
Schwarzenegger was in the middle of spin-loading his shotgun when there was a knock on the door and Powell shoved his head round it. “Stay seated lads.” he ordered, even as the men on the couch were beginning the undignified scramble to get upright. “Sorry for interruptin’, but summat’s come up.”
Ayma stood up and gestured to his seat, a gesture he acknowledged with thanks as Titan paused the movie.
Powell perched on the edge of it. “General Tremblay just got back to me about our Gaoian friends visiting Earth.” he said. Adam shot a glance at Regaari, who nodded. “It’s all gone a bit political, he says, and he wants to know how soon we can make it happen wi’out compromising on safety.”
“Sir… so soon?” Rebar asked. The men disentangled themselves and settled into an alert posture, engaged with the conversation.
Powell admitted a small twitch of frustration, which coming from him was a sure sign of stress, along with his thickened accent. “Ambassador Hussein got involved. Dunno why, an’ I wasn’t told.”
Regaari growled. “Father Rafek.” he said, referring to the current Gaoian ambassador. “He’ll be keen to win points with Mother Yulna for his clan.”
“It will backfire for him if he presses too hard.” Ayma promised.
“Whatever the reason,” Powell said “I have my orders. Two Gaoian VIPs to visit Earth ASAP. Thoughts?”
“They’ll need the full-time attention of two Protectors, sir.” Base suggested, immediately. “We’re the only ones with the training in ET medicine for if they get infected or inhale an allergen or something.”
“And personal protection.” Adam agreed. “Lot of folks on Earth who might want to make some kind of a statement.”
“Statement?” Ayma asked, ears swivelling in mixed curiosity and alarm.
Regaari seemed similarly concerned. “You think assault is a possibility?”
"Bombs are a possibility." Blaczynski told them, a little too bluntly. He promptly received a light slap upside the head from Murray.
Ayma didn’t take it well. “Bombs?!” she squeaked. Her ears plastered themselves to her scalp and the fur along her spine bristled. Regaari shuffled closer to her and placed a comforting paw on her upper back.
“Worst-case scenario.” Powell told them, reassuringly. “And highly unlikely. Bomb plots take time to organise and if this goes quick and smooth, there won’t be that kind of time. Still, we have to consider all possibilities. So, it’s agreed; One protector per VIP. Aggressors? I’m thinkin’ not necessary."
“Probably not.” Firth agreed. “Horse and Base have got Personal Protection down pat, we’d just get in the way.”
“Locals.” Murray prompted.
“Aye. good shout.” Powell agreed. “If we need a marksman on the roof or whatever, local operators or law enforcement would raise less comment. This is gonna be public either way, but I’d still rather keep us out the spotlight."
“That just leaves us.” Rebar said, he looked to the Gaoians. “Don’t suppose you guys brought some kinda deathworld hazmat suits with you?”
“No.” Regaari admitted, plainly annoyed at himself. “We did not. We expected longer negotiations.”
“Can’t that nanofactory of yours make them?” Rebar asked.
“Too large.” Regaari explained. “The Springing Ember’s forge is for small tools and utensils, spare components and parts. Not for a whole excursion suit."
“We could fly back to Gao and acquire some?” Ayma suggested.
“How long would that take?” Powell asked.
Regaari looked at the ceiling, suggesting mental calculation. “In human units… nine days each way.”
“Call that Plan B.” Titan suggested. “We can fix something up for you.”
“You’re sure, now?” Powell asked him. “Earth’s right up there at the top of the list for biohazards.”
“Sir, if we make this thing and I have even a moment of doubt, you’ll hear about it.”
“Make what exactly?" Powell probed.
“Portable biofilter forcefield and a small gravity generator sewn onto a modified MOLLE.” Titan replied. He glanced left and right to Rebar and Sikes who nodded along. “Not difficult, especially if that nanofactory can build some Gaoian-tech ones. Even better if we can send ’em down to SCERF for Major Nadeau’s team to program and test. And we’ll need Horse’s skills as a seamstress to tailor the harness.”
The major nodded, satisfied. “Time frame on that?”
“Mmm… Two hours to put it together, a day to properly safety-test it.” Titan estimated.
"Two days." Rebar corrected him. “Once SCERF have delivered the parts, that is. And ideally, sir, I’d press for three.”
“I’ll pass that up the chain.” Powell sat back and rubbed his face. “So. Three to four days minimum, as many as… twenty or so if not.”
“We could… Uh, actually, never mind.” Blaczynski began.
“Problem?” Powell asked him.
“Nothing I can explain in present company, sir.”
Regaari’s head tilted in a way disarmingly similar to a concentrating dog’s. “If you had a suggestion for retrieving the suits from Gao faster than sending the Springing Ember," he mused “But the suggestion involves sensitive information… Then that implies that your ships have an impressive sustained cruising speed. Faster than I had suspected.”
Adam had already long since noticed Major Powell’s clear tell - when something surprised him or got past his guard, his best neutral expression slammed down, which it now did. Scott Blaczynski, however, was not so accomplished a poker player, and he had to fight to conceal a scowl. Either way, neither man could have broadcast a clearer confirmation of Regaari’s stunning leap of insight.
“I doubt they’re going to comment.” Ayma told him, answering on the humans’ behalf. “Please don’t antagonize our friends, Snowtop.”
“Snowtop?” Adam asked her. Regaari had a faintly put-out set to his stance that suggested a touch of light-hearted teasing.
“Come on, that wicked white mohawk of his? Snowtop’s a good’n.” Sikes grinned. A chuckle swept around the room, and Ayma looked quite pleased with herself.
“I do not have a ‘mohawk’ I have a white crest." Regaari grumbled. “Or did you think my clan’s name was an accident?”
“Right. Okay. So that’s the Defenders sorted.” Powell grunted, immediately regaining everybody’s attention. “Burgess, Ares? Thoughts on their suggestion?”
“Can’t be too careful.” Base mused. “Fields are great, but any car they ride in’s gonna want to be steam-cleaned and hypoallergenic before they get in it. Same goes for hotel rooms, too.”
“Shampoo, too.” Adam offered. “We don’t want stuff accumulating in that fur.”
“And anybody who shakes hands needs to sanitize first. Even better, they need a Frontline shot.” Base continued.
“Hm. We should have a couple stasis containers on standby too, so if it all goes FUBAR we can extract them to an ET hospital. One of those class ten ones.” Adam concluded.
“This conversation isn’t filling me with confidence.” Ayma confessed.
“That’s because, to be straight with you? This trip is a bad idea." Baseball told her. Everyone in the room immediately gave him their undivided attention. “You’re only safe in this room talkin’ with us because we’ve all got Frontline implants, and so does everybody else on Cimbrean. So does Zoo Chang, which is why things didn’t go real wrong for your homeworld the second you took her there."
“Earth,” he added “Is a whole different can of trouble. There’s microbes everywhere. In the air, in the rain, in the soil, on the ground and the walls, on every surface you touch and on everybody’s hands. There’s gonna be viruses, dust particles, pollen grains and airborne compounds comin’ at ya with every breath, and that’s just the stuff that Titan’s harness can deal with. What happens if a wasp decides to ruin your day? What if you scratch yourself on a rusty nail? I don’t even wanna think about what Tetanus would do to a Gaoian!"
He sat forward to lend some extra solemnity to his words. “Throw in the gravity, the weather, the poisonous plants and the fact that some crazy SOB might just decide to take a shot at you for reasons that only make sense to his buggy ass and no-one else’s? And that’s all the stuff we probably know how you’ll react to. How about, uh, atmospheric pollution and heavy metal contaminants?"
He tailed off and looked around. Very, very gently, Powell gave him the nod to continue. “…Look, me and Horse, we’ve got your back. We’ll be there and if we don’t keep you alive, ain’t nobody was ever gonna.” he said. “But this is a real bad idea, mother Ayma. A real bad one. As your Protector, charged with your safety I gotta tell you: the safest thing you could do is not go."
“…Fuckin’ A.” Adam grunted.
Ayma exhaled at length, looked down, and then back up and met John’s gaze levelly. Her ears were up and forward, and there was a determined set to her stance and the way her claws were slightly out that said everything before she even spoke a word.
“Thank you for your kind warning and counsel.” she said at last, and Adam suspected she was speaking very formally and diplomatically. Regaari had taught him that much about the Gaori language. “But I have a Sister on that planet, and I will speak to her at the very least. We are going."
Together, Adam and John glanced at Regaari, who was still standing behind her, where she couldn’t see. Slowly, and a touch awkwardly given the different structure of his shoulders, he shrugged.
Adam knew that shrug. It was one he’d deployed himself on more than one occasion when the women in his life were busy making it difficult.
“I think we’ve had our marching orders, major.” he said.
Powell made a deep noise in the back of his throat. “That we have, staff sergeant.” he agreed. “Right. I’ll pass everything you just said along to General Tremblay. Go ahead and finish your movie night, lads, and get a good night sleep in. I expect you’ll be busy tomorrow.”
A “yes sir” rippled through the humans, and Powell stood up. “’Night lads.”
“’Night, sir.”
Ayma settled into his abandoned chair as Powell left.
“Where were we?” she asked.
The men exchanged glances, then with a shrug Akiyama hit the remote again and the burning wheel that had been frozen in place on screen for the last few minutes resumed its bouncing journey.
Adam sat back and spent the rest of the movie in thought, pondering the task to come.
Something told him that his coming night’s sleep was about to be the best one he’d get for a couple of weeks.
Date Point 10y4m1d AV
Seawall, Stanley Park, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Earth.
Xiu Chang
Just running was a relief. Moving was a relief, not being surrounded by people asking questions, so many questions… getting away from her fussing mother, from a father who was constantly melancholy when he should have been delighted, from a big little brother she didn’t know how to talk with…
Just the freedom to run, under open sky in correct gravity rather than on a treadmill, when every breath that rushed into and through and out of her was dense and rich and right, almost intoxicating.
For the first time since arriving on Earth, Xiu was home. Apparently home was sweatpants, a cerulean running top, running shoes, asphalt pounding away under her, and chilly sea air smelling of salt water and distant fish. Too early in the morning for there to be anything but trees and benches to her left, and water and mountains to her right, and only the occasional hardcore jogger like herself to break the tranquility.
Earth itself was welcoming her home just fine. Trees and mountains and the smell of the sea hadn’t changed a bit.
It was people who were giving her difficulty. Old school friends who’d visit just long enough for an awkward hug and a gift before vanishing. The reporters poised around her parents’ house had only finally been persuaded to leave by the realisation that Xiu was determined not to make herself pretty for the camera, and was more interested in getting the hell away from them. Employers wanted experience and marketable skills, for which purposes Gung Fu, fluency in an alien language and three years of living as a vagrant in disguise apparently didn’t count.
It was all so complicated. And worse, everyone seemed to be disappointed and upset when she didn’t fit seamlessly back into their lives as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t been homeless and alone and had to fight monsters and nearly been killed, and…
As if what happened to her was her fault and she should just deal with it.
The city itself didn’t give a fuck, thankfully. It was comforting to run past the same old landmarks, be just another face on the street. An asian girl on her morning fitness routine, anonymous and glad of it.
She was breathing hard by the time she passed under Lions Gate bridge. Too many years of alien gravity, three weeks of hospital, binging on her mother’s home cooking and the last lingering effects of being spaced had all conspired to badly hurt her fitness compared to the last time she had run this route.
She paused at the Prospect Point lighthouse, mentally calculating how far it was to Siwash Rock which had been her objective for today.
Too far. Much too far, if she was being sensible. She’d be a wreck by the time she reached it, and she’d still have to get back.
“To hell with sensible." she muttered, not noticing that she’d said it in Gaori, and kept going. She wanted to be thoroughly exhausted, today, having had the bad news that morning that one of the girls in her ballet class had died less than four months after she, Xiu, had been abducted. A bad cold had turned into chest infection, had become a pneumonia without anybody realising. She’d gone to bed early to try and sleep it off, never to wake. She’d been nineteen.
Missing a couple of weddings and the birth of a little girl named after her had all been body-blows, too. Running and recovering her fitness was keeping her mind off how much she’d missed, at least. It was helping her cope.
There was a spot about two hundred meters further on where the seawall path kinked inwards to hug the bottom of the cliff, and when it did she almost tripped and fell over, because she’d just run into a dream.
Somebody had placed a sculpture out in the water. It hadn’t been there ten years ago - in fact, being burnished steel on a post in salt water, it probably hadn’t been out there for very long at all - but it was right out of the vivid dreams she’d had aboard Sanctuary: a faceless steel man, sitting cross-legged and pondering a globe held delicately in his left hand.
She gaped at it, immobilized by deja vu, and then decided that maybe sensible had its merits. She glanced back at it, half expecting it to suddenly stand and throw the ball to her, and then retraced her steps.
She was still in a badly shaken mood by the time the taxi she had called returned her to her parents’ house in Strathcona. Slightly more shaking still was the man sitting in their front room making polite small-talk over tea with her family.
Xiu would be the first to admit to a nigh-total lack of experience with men. She’d been kept away from them before her abduction, and then during the years of her absence, the male she’d spent the most time with had been Regaari, who probably didn’t count given that he wasn’t even human. Sure, toward the end there had been Julian, Lewis, Amir and… and Zane… but by and large, men were an alien species to her.
But, she’d spent years living among alien species and learning how to read them, and this one, when he looked at her, did something that the Corti normally did - he looked a little too long, he evaluated, he analyzed. She immediately took a disliking to him.
He was kind of easy on the eyes though. Tall, all the best features of both white and african heritage, and either his suit was tailored or he’d got unbelievably lucky at the store, and it didn’t look cheap enough to be store- bought.
Xiu was nearly as out of touch with fashion as she was with men, given that the inspirations for the styles that had inspired the inspirations for the previous generation’s inspirations hadn’t even been three seasons away when she left, but there was something almost… Qinis about the cut of it. She’d seen a gaggle of three of them once, parading down a station concourse, as tall and flimsy and decorative as orchids, and the ornate fascinators they’d been wearing seemed to have inspired elements of the man’s lapels and the subtle patterning around the hem of his jacket.
As slick and expensive as the suit was, the man wearing it had a kind of rough-and-ready, stubbled look, including a peculiar scar - a lattice of slim white lines slightly forward of his left temple.
She addressed her mother in Mandarin. “Who’s this?” she asked. “Another reporter? Please, mom, I don’t want to talk to him.”
Amazingly, he replied perfectly in the same language. “I’m not a reporter, Miss Chang. Nothing to worry about there.”
It took her a second to realise that he’d lacked any kind of an accent at all, which was a trait characteristic of translator devices, and sure enough when she glanced at the table there was a small silver cube there which was almost certainly exactly that.
She spared herself an irritated blush by muttering something about needing a shower, and vanished upstairs.
Once clean, she changed into her loose grey sweatpants and a white ribbed vest top, then lurked in her spartan bedroom in the hope that he’d go away. No such luck - eventually, there was a knock on the door.
Li Chang stuck his head around his daughter’s door. “You may want to talk to this one.” he told her, gently. Xiu sighed.
“Do I have to?” she asked. “I’ve spoken to the intelligence people, the doctors, the news…”
“I don’t think he’s going to be asking the same questions.” her father said. “I say give him a chance.”
She scooted up the bed and sat against the wall, acutely aware that she was behaving like a girl half her age. “Fine, okay…”
A minute or so later, the stranger knocked on the door and entered on her reluctant welcome. He’d taken the jacket off at some point, and Xiu had to admit, she hadn’t anticipated the large tattoo that seemed to completely cover his right arm. To her irritation, he took one look at the bare walls and floor and chuckled.
“Something funny?” she asked him.
“Hey, we seem to have got off on the wrong foot there. I’m sorry about that.” the man said. It had been years since she’d last heard a Texan accent. He cast about for something to sit down on, then gave up and offered her a hand to shake. “Kevin.”
She shook it, deciding that she could be polite at least. “Xiu.”
“Yeah, sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed, but I did the exact same thing when I got back too."
When Xiu just frowned at him, he waved a hand at the pronounced lack of items that her cleanup had left behind. “This. You spend a few years living out among the stars surrounded by all those critters with nothing but what you’re carrying… Get home, kinda feels like all that stuff ain’t yours no more, doesn’t it?"
“So you’re Kevin Jenkins.” She guessed, finally recognising him and irritated at the too-smooth attempt to identify with her. “I thought I recognised you from somewhere. The Gaoians showed me that news report you were in: You’re the reason it took me this long to get back. You’re the reason I had to spend all that time in disguise, and running.”
“Aww come on, be fair.” he complained. “It’s not like I ordered the Guvnurag to put that forcefield up there! And I sure as hell didn’t order the Dominion to start throwing folks to the wolves."
“You ran your mouth off.”
He exhaled, and lowered himself onto the floor. “Maybe I did.” he agreed. “I never thought it’d… Didn’t you ever say something out there that maybe scared somebody, or they took it the wrong way?"
Xiu didn’t answer. “What do you want?” she asked instead.
“Jeez, lady, why the third degree?”
“Really? You can’t see how it’s maybe a bit frustrating how people in suits keep showing up who want to talk to me and ask me questions? And the question is never ‘what can I do for you, Miss Chang?’ or 'Yes, about your resume, we have need of a Gaoian language expert for this movie we’re making, are you interested in auditioning?’ No. Every time, every time, it’s something people want me to do for them!"
Jenkins just watched her, warily. He was doing that Corti analysis thing again, so Xiu scooted forward on the bed, planted her feet on the floor and gave him her best glare. “So go on then. What. Do. You. Want?”
He considered his answer carefully, licking his teeth as he looked around the room.
“Full disclosure.” he said, at last. “First of all, you’ve gotta know from the news thingy that I’m an old friend of Kirk’s and… yeah, I guess I’d sure like to hear news about him. That’s my personal reason for coming here. Professionally…”
“I knew it.”
"Professionally," Jenkins forged ahead. “We have need, yes, of a Gaoian language expert. And an extraterrestrial survival expert, somebody who can live on a ship without much in the way of possessions-” he swept a hand demonstratively around the room “-basically, somebody with your skill set.”
Xiu glowered at him. “A spaceship?” she asked. “You’re offering me a job on a spaceship?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would I want to leave?” She asked. “I only just got back!”
Jenkins gave her another calculating stare, then stood up.
“…I know those scars on your arm.” he said, causing her to glance unconsciously at them. “A Hunter gave you those, I’ve seen their teeth right up close and personal. And that on your neck is where some fella had a knife to your throat. Up against a wall, if I’m any judge. Seen that plenty of times too. Scary place, this galaxy of ours. Ain’t it?"
“Get out.”
“You look at people like the Corti do too, you know.”
A sick, cold ball of anger dropped right into Xiu’s stomach. “…What?”
“When you walked in, first thing you did was… evaluate me. Calculate. And I saw you see me do the same to you, and I saw you didn’t like it. And I get why. Don’t much care for those little gray assholes myself, not after they bolted a prototype implant to my head like something out of the Terminator. I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal. Just a survival habit both you and me picked up out there."
When Xiu didn’t say anything, he apparently took it for permission to keep talking. “And then you come back here and it’s not like you imagined, is it?” he asked, rhetorically. “You imagined it’d all be your old bed and your ma’s cooking and then it turns out: things have moved on. The world’s changed. And home turns out to be a place in your head, that you can’t ever go back to, because those gray motherfuckers took it from you and you won’t ever get it back. Believe me, I tried."
Oblivious or uncaring of her mounting rage, he pressed the point. “I thought Earth was home too. but you and me? We were out there too long and it changed us. And guess what?! You weren’t here for their lives either! My daughter grew up, and so did your little brother. We both missed weddings, one of your friends died while you were gone…"
Xiu erupted to her feet and punched him full in the nose, breaking it. He staggered against the wall and clamped a hand over the sudden blood flow. He was too preoccupied with pain and surprise to say anything but he still managed to stare a wide-eyed question at her.
“I don’t know who you think you are, and I don’t care." she snarled at him. “You don’t know me, you don’t know what I went through, don’t try to… to project your baggage onto me and don’t you dare, don’t you DARE try to use me like that, you… you creep!"
He shouldered himself off the wall. “Y’don’t think mebbe that was a bit of an overreaction?” he mumbled through his hand, feigning bravado.
“Who told you you could come into my house and treat me like a prize?!" Xiu prodded his chest. “Nobody gets to do that! Not you, not anybody."
“An’ here I was thinkin’ we were makin’ a connection.” Jenkins muttered as he adjusted his grip, wincing as he pinched his nostrils shut.
“You came to my house." Xiu repeated. “You tricked my parents. You tried to manipulate me, you tried to get inside my head. You tried to use these-" she gestured at the ragged scar lines on her arm, and to the tiny cut on her throat “-to make me do what you want? My answer is NO. You go away right now!"
Jenkins nodded and opened the door. “Offer of a job still stands.” he croaked.
“Then get somebody who can treat me like a human being rather than an objective to put it in writing!" Xiu snapped. “Get. Out.”
She slammed the door behind him, catching him in the backside and congratulating herself as she heard him barely avoid falling down the stairs.
Then she sank onto the bed. She was shaking and crying when her parents rushed in seconds later.
Kevin Jenkins
Staggering across the road while holding his nose together nearly earned Kevin a car to the knee. He raised an apologetic hand to the driver - the other one being clamped around his bleeding nose adequately made the case that he was slightly preoccupied right now - and made it to his own car, fumbled with the door sensor and thumped down onto the driver seat.
He sat there pinching his nostrils and swearing for a good ten minutes before he was finally satisfied that the bleeding had ceased.
He pulled down the sun visor and peered into its makeup mirror. The nose wasn’t crooked at least, but it was bruised, there were dark splotches under his eyes for good measure, and his shirt was in dire need of a dry-cleaner’s attention. He touched the nose experimentally, and flinched.
“Way to go, dumbass.” he congratulated himself. “Fuckin’ perfect.”
Date Point 10y4m1d AV
Mrwrki Station, Uncharted System, Deep Space
Kirk
Kirk had once seen a human documentary in which a team of fishermen had sat and patiently repaired their nets after a successful trawl. At the time, he hadn’t fully appreciated that, while repairing the net was still massively less of a task than weaving a new one, it must still be tedious and time- consuming. After all, only deathworlders would consider it normal for an animal to damage a net of woven plastic fibers. Doubly so when the animal in question did so without claws, teeth or a knife, but simply with its own mass and strength.
To the fisherman, a routine part of the day. To Kirk… more than that.
Mending his own net - the galactic web of contacts, favours called in, bribes issued and reputations blackmailed that had kept him fed with information from across Dominion space was… tedious, yes. time-consuming, yes. Fiddly, delicate and at times frustrating yes. And it was hampered all the more that he had to do it now at arms’ lengths, and through proxies and agents, none of whom could be allowed to know who he was. The galaxy had not heard from Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk in a long time, and his sudden reappearance could not possibly pass without comment. The more he achieved before those comments began, the better.
His time away had changed some of the players, too. Politicians had retired, criminal figures had been arrested, killed or had wisely resigned into obscurity before either of those fates caught them. The only solution was to rebuild, slowly. And while that was a task that by and large was proceeding at a satisfactory pace, it did often leave him seated by his desk, trying to be entertained while waiting for a message to arrive.
Right now, he was listening to an audiobook.
“…unintended effects are always possible. For instance, the most dangerous road on Earth now appears to be a two-lane highway between Kabul and Jalalabad. When it was unpaved, cratered, and strewn with boulders it was comparatively safe. But once some helpful Western contractors improved it, the driving skills of the local Afghans were finally liberated from the laws of physics. Many now have a habit of passing slow-moving trucks on blind curves, only to find themselves suddenly granted a lethally unimpeded view of a thousand-foot gorge. Are there lessons to be learned from such missteps in the name of progress? Of course. But they do not negate the reality of progress.”
He paused the book and mulled that thought over, only to be interrupted by Vedreg.
If Lewis was a study in how humans could absorb massive volumes of information and correlate them in breathtaking ways, and if Kirk was a living justification for his species’ reputation for shrewdness and politics, Vedreg was…
Well, he had become very interested in baking.
At first Kirk had been uncharitably scornful of this, but Vedreg had proven once again that he wasn’t actually stupid, just… slow.
In English, Kirk knew, the two terms were used more or less as synonyms, but in the case of Guvnurag, the difference became apparent. Both in matters of the body and matters of the mind, nobody, not even the most inventively charitable liar, could have realistically described Guvnurag as “fast”… but they did have inertia, which could be the next best thing. It had certainly allowed them to outperform the Corti when it came to large forcefield technology and a few associated technological fields.
The Corti preferred for their research to yield dazzling new inspirations that could make the researcher’s reputation and earn them a promotion. Hard graft wasn’t their style at all, and so in areas where the patient ability to keep chewing away at the details yielded incremental, cumulative improvements, they were surprisingly lacking. Guvnurag were all about hard graft. They didn’t have much of an alternative.
And so, while Lewis and Kirk had been blitzing around the station familiarizing themselves with its layout, its capabilities and its systems, reinforcing some repairs and, in Lewis’ case, a thorough search for terrifying killing machines… Vedreg had parked himself in an unobtrusive spot and had thought.
He had then, after some trial and error, some research, the assembly of a few appropriate tools, and raiding the station’s food storage stasis lockers, baked an apple pie.
It wasn’t actually an apple pie of course. The nearest apple was tens of thousands of lightyears away, as was the nearest flour, not to mention the butter and eggs which neither Kirk nor Vedreg could have eaten anyway. And the less said about cinnamon, the better.
But, desiccating and then milling down some universal ration spheres had produced a dry edible powder, and fructose was fructose all over the galaxy, present in the cuisine of every species (though not, it had to be said, in the quantities called for by most human recipes: Earth’s deathworld conditions had caused plants to evolve that could generate sugar in terrifying quantities that had never been available to nonhuman chefs)
The real key to the dish, however, was a type of fruit called a “Rhwk”, the flesh of which was tart, sweet and not dissimilar to an apple in texture and culinary properties. Rhwk had long been a firm favourite of Kwmbwrw gastronomes, but Vedreg’s genius had been to recognise that the slimy fluid core of the fruit and the oily substance that protected its seed were acceptable matches for egg and butter respectively.
The result was… a failure. An abject one. What the oven eventually belched out had turned out to be a monstrosity of black caramelized fruit sugars and a “pastry” substitute that fell apart at a suspicious glance.
The second attempt had been marginally more successful. The third, practically intact.
The fourth had been a pie. Not, according to Lewis, an apple pie - the taste apparently had more in common with something called “grapefruit” - but still very pleasing to the palate.
Once the basic principle of the pastry was down, Vedreg had thrown himself into his baking with gusto. Lewis had complained about the enforced vegan diet at one point, but the nauseated signals he’d received from both of the obligate herbivores on the crew had induced him to drop the subject.
In any case, Vedreg’s offerings had grown commendably in complexity and skill, and he made BIG portions, the smallest of which wound up on Kirk’s plate. It was slightly disconcerting to see that Lewis ate slightly more than Vedreg, despite being roughly a tenth of Vedreg’s mass.
He also tended to the running of the place. Thanks to Vedreg, the station was clean, the lighting was powered, mealtimes were scheduled. By taking over in keeping Lewis fit and healthy, he had created time for Kirk to complete his objectives, and during the two days every week that Vedreg spent hibernating, the place noticeably went downhill. Despite all that, it hadn’t clicked for Kirk what it was that his friend was doing until the day Lewis had referred to him affectionately as “Jeeves”.
Vedreg, of course, had needed the reference explained. Hence why he was now pulsing purple-blue in amused confusion while watching “A Bit of Fry and Laurie.”
Lewis meanwhile was enjoying his weekly break from study to watch it alongside him. He had climbed - carefully - onto Vedreg’s wide back and was grinning at the comedy.
“I do not understand” Vedreg said. “His name is to drop a small object? It is… absurd.”
“That’s the point, dude, yeah. It’s surreal.”
“This word ‘sur-u-ree-lu’ does not translate."
“Aww, man, we’re getting pretty abstract here. Surreal is like… when things are like, reality but wrong in some way. Bizarre."
“I do not understand.” Vedreg repeated.
“Humor never translates.” Kirk told them both. “Ever.”
“Oh please, that’s bullshit. We’re all sapient, we’re all similar.”
“Our friend Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk is correct, Lewis.” Vedreg rumbled. “I do not understand human humor, and you will not understand the humor of the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun.”
“Alright, bring it. Hit me with your best joke, Jeeves.” Lewis challenged him. He sat up and - carefully, so as not to injure - slid down off Vedreg’s back.
“Very well… hmm… ” Vedreg rumbled a Guvnurag throat-clear. “Tiny Geverednig goes to her herd-father and declares: ‘largest one! I am thirsty!’ - The herd-father points to the mountain."
Kirk and Lewis exchanged mutual bewildered expressions as Vedreg glowed royal purple and produced a wheezing sound deep in his chest - his species’ version of uproarious laughter.
Slowly, he faded. “Do… do you not see? Largest one? The mountain?”
“…My turn.” Lewis said. “Uh… Three men walk into a bar. You’d think one of them would have seen it!”
He smiled hopefully as it was Vedreg and Kirk’s turn to express confusion. “I guess… puns probably don’t work so well. Okay how about an anti-joke?”
“Anti-joke?” Vedreg asked.
“Okay, so… ‘What’s so funny about a shuttle full of Corti exploding?’"
Vedreg flashed alarmed white. “…I can see nothing amusing in that scenario! It would be a tragic loss of sapient life.”
Lewis sagged. “Uh… yes. Exactly. That’s the punchline.”
“I am confused.” Vedreg told him.
“Okay, okay, I know. How about-?”
“My turn.” Kirk interrupted. “And this should prove my point.”
Lewis sighed. “Fiiiine.”
Kirk nodded at length. “Somewhere deep in space, a freighter picks up a distress beacon.” he began. “They rescue the escape pod and are pleased to find that the occupant is a fellow Rrrrtktktkp’ch. They explain that, sadly, their freighter is a slow one and that it will be many rikat before they next arrive at port, but the castaway is simply grateful for the rescue."
“At mealtime, the four of them sit down to enjoy Cqcq and Zrrk, in welcome to their new guest. Just as they have begun to eat, the captain says: ’Twelve.' his two crewmates laugh, and one replies ‘Eight.’ to further merriment. Naturally, this confuses the newcomer, who requests an explanation."
"‘We have worked together for hundreds of rik’, the captain explains. ‘We all know each others’ jokes by now, and so it is more efficient to refer to them by number.’ The newcomer nods his understanding and falls silent."
“Shortly thereafter, he looks around and ventures: ‘Fifteen?’. There is no response. ‘Nine?’ - Still nothing. Exasperated, he asks what he is doing wrong."
“The junior deckhand shakes his mane sadly and informs him: ‘Your delivery is terrible.’"
Vedreg promptly signalled blue confusion, but Lewis’ lips drew back into an imposing Deathworlder smile and he made a kind of wheezing noise that it took Kirk seconds to identify as a laugh. “Oh man… Oh… yeah. Yeah okay. That’s a good’n.”
“It seems I was wrong.” Kirk observed, deeply surprised. “You understood?”
“Heh, yeah. Your own delivery was pretty good.”
“What does delivery have to do with-?” Vedreg began, then sagged when Lewis and Kirk both turned to look at him. “…The herd is following a truly ancient father when four Mumruvnede fly overhead. The oldest child cries: ‘Face the wind!’?" He ventured, hopefully.
“…Was that a fart joke?” Lewis asked. “That was a fart joke!”
“…as a matter of fact it was.” Vedreg agreed, turning a slightly embarrassed shade of magenta.
“See! there IS universal humour!” Lewis turned and grinned triumphantly.
Kirk held up all four hands in defeat, and then handed him a tablet. “And while we were joking around…” he said “…contact has been made with Earth.”
Lewis grabbed it. “Yeah? What’d they say?”
“Nothing yet. This is all information on how to establish a secure line of communication. I imagine that we will hear more in due course but for now… it’s a start.”
Lewis sighed. “Frustrating.” he declared.
“But vital.”
“I know, I know…” Lewis stood up. “Arright, in that case I’ma call it a night. See you tomorrow.”
They bade him goodnight, and Vedreg pulsed through a thoughtful rainbow of blues and oranges. “Did he seem… upset by that, to you?” He asked.
“He is lonely.” Kirk replied. “Humans are intensely social creatures, old friend.”
“I feel the call of my home planet also.” Vedreg replied. “It is… stressful to be so far from my herd.”
“The difference, old friend, is that herd species feel comforted by each others’ presence, but do not care for one another in quite the same way that humans do." Kirk replied. “He is suffering… it makes me feel guilty.”
“You have confined us all." Vedreg agreed. “Even if for good reasons.”
Kirk shook his coat out a little. “I have total confidence in Lewis.” he said. “He will find a solution, and we will be able to send him home.”
“An alternative approach suggests itself, Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk.”
“And that is?”
Vedreg shone a brilliant cyan, as if the answer was obvious. “Bring more humans here.”
Date Point 10y4m1d AV
North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Julian Etsicitty
“So what’s the place look like?”
Allison was on a train in the UK - Julian could see green fields and more black-and-white cows than a sane nation should allow rushing past the back of her head, interrupted by occasional white cottages, trees and brick railside buildings.
Julian shrugged and aimed his own phone around the room. It was essentially unchanged from the last time he’d stood in it, except… colder, and lifeless. Without the gentle sounds of a house being lived in, rather than being comfortably cluttered, it felt more like a museum locked up at night.
“It held up okay considering it’s gone without maintenance for a couple years…” He conceded. “But it’s not the same without Grampa.”
“He had a lot of stuff!” Allison commented, bringing her phone closer to her face.
This was an understatement for the ages. Grampa E had been Navajo, Julian’s grandma had been equal parts Ojibwe and French, both of them had identified as American first and foremost, and neither of them had been afraid to collect keepsakes throughout their long and fascinating lives.
The result was that the rich green walls were almost totally obscured by photos, artwork and decorations, no two items of which matched. Three huge glass-fronted cabinets were stuffed full of whatever ornaments couldn’t hang on the walls, and that was without accounting for the iron pans hung on the walls by the fridge, the herb-drying rack above the kitchen island, the commemorative plates above the door, the cookie jar, three recliners, a futon, a coffee table with a humidor full of premium cigars tucked under it, and a TV as big as a ping-pong table. To this last was attached a venerable Sega Genesis - Julian’s favourite childhood plaything and already quite obsolete by the time he’d first picked up its controllers.
And that was just the big front room. The two bedrooms were equally cluttered, even the bathroom hadn’t escaped becoming a repository for decorative knick- knacks, and the utility room leading out to the back door was home to a drift of koozies, a stack of tackle boxes, and a gun locker layered in stickers and whatever magnets hadn’t been able to find a home either on the fridge in the kitchen or the freezers in the garage.
The less said about the unlimited salvage opportunities presented by the recesses of said garage, the better.
“Yup.” Julian agreed.
“What are you gonna do with it?”
“Shit, Al. Don’t ask me right now, I’m still… I still expect the old man to come shuffling out of the garage, you know?”
She moved the phone away from her face. “…I’m sorry, baby. He meant a lot to you, huh?”
“He raised me.” Julian shrugged. “I don’t even know. I love this place but it’s kind of the ass-end of nowhere. The land’s not worth much, and if we do go back out into space again then I’m not going to be here enough to look after it properly. There’s a pickup out there that I can probably resurrect, and two more that I probably can’t…”
“You’ve gotta start somewhere, though?” She asked.
“I already did. Cleared out all the spoiled food from the freezers, lit some scented candles… place doesn’t stink of three-year-old fish any more at least.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s next?”
“Got a message this morning that my dead letter’s waiting for me.” Julian said. “Figured I’d go pick that up, grab some essentials from the store, maybe have a campfire and s’mores.”
“Aww man, s’mores? You’re having s’mores without me?” Allison pouted, then giggled. She glanced behind her and realised that the pastoral landscape outside was now unambiguously urban. “Aaand I think this is Birmingham. I’d better get ready.”
“Good luck, Al. I miss you.”
“Miss you too, Etsicitty.” she wrinkled her nose at him affectionately. “You behave yourself ’til I get back, hear?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“SO hot.” She blew a kiss and ended the call.
There was nothing quite like having a gorgeous woman describe him as “hot” to boost Julian’s ego. Grinning, he grabbed his jacket and keys and headed out to where his rented truck was parked outside. That was one thing to say for the old place - you could have parked a couple of eighteen-wheelers outside with room left over to land a helicopter. An SUV, three pickups and a by-now thoroughly immobile ancient tractor weren’t taking up even half the available parking space.
He entertained himself for about half the long drive to town by perusing the local radio offerings before deciding that, time zones or not, Vancouver was probably fully awake right now.
He called Xiu.
There was a smile in her voice when she answered. “Hey!”
“Hey you.” he smiled too. “Just checking in. You okay?”
“Eh… my day started off pretty crappy.” she conceded. “But… yes, I’m okay now. You?”
“Pretty good. Place is in better shape than I thought. I just need to pack it up and sort a few things out then… well, I’ll have plenty of time to decide what I’m doing with it. What was crappy?”
“Nothing I want to talk about, just…” she sighed “…people.”
Julian chuckled. “I hear ya.” he agreed. “When’re you going to come down and look at this place?”
“The ARP haven’t come through yet, so I don’t exactly have a lot of money…” she demurred. “Please tell me you’re planning to come back up here though…”
He couldn’t contain a quiet, affectionate half-laugh. “Yes, Xiu, we’re coming back up there.” he reassured, teasing her with a patient tone. He heard a slight laugh from her end of the phone. “Like I said, once I’m done packing the place up we’ll have plenty of time to think.”
“Good. I-I, um…”
“What?”
“…I think I really need you. Both of you, Allison and you.”
Julian ran a tongue across his lips, trying to think of what to say. “That bad?” he asked.
“I’m… yeah.”
“Okay… look, it’s going to be a little while yet. There’s a lot to do. So I tell you what, if you need to? You just come down here. You know where I live
- I’ll pay for it."
Xiu paused long enough for Julian to come to a halt at a stop sign, where he exchanged slight nods of mutual recognition with a lurking state trooper before turning right and heading for Clearbrook.
“Julian… are you sure?” she asked at last.
“Hey.” he told her, warmly, deciding not to mention that his and Allison’s hazard pay plus their accumulated salary from serving on Sanctuary meant that Xiu’s travel expenses wouldn’t even noticeably dent his savings. “Don’t worry about it. If you need to come down here, you do it. Okay? I’ll take care of you. Of it.”
There was no reply.
“…Xiu?”
“Mi, yi sher-yan ina mo.”
Julian frowned. “Was that Gaoian?”
“Uh… yeah. Sorry. Th-thank you, Julian.”
“For you, anything.” he promised.
She made some kind of a noise, one he couldn’t quite discern the meaning of. It might have been a sigh, might have been a laugh, might have been the disintegrating beginning of a weak “um…”: it wasn’t at all clear.
“I’d… better help my mom cook.” she declared. “It’s good to, uh, to spend time with her.”
“Sure. Have fun, you.”
“And you…”
She was silent for a long few seconds before she finally hung up.
Aside from drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the wheel, Julian drove the rest of the way into town cloaked in contemplative silence and no small amount of guilt. Two things were becoming increasingly apparent: that Xiu was harbouring a large and growing crush on him… and that the feeling was mutual.
Considering his committed relationship with Allison, that part was hard to feel good about, and he’d have much preferred to raise it with Allison before now, if only there had been an opportunity. but in the hospital hadn’t seemed right, and over the phone while she was abroad? Even worse.
He checked the dashboard clock and performed a few mental calculations. He had about four days to go before Allison got back from the UK. He made his plan: After she got back from England, they’d go back to Grampa E’s place, he’d make her s’mores, they’d cuddle by the fire… and he’d confess. See how it went.
It sounded so simple, put that way. Like there was no big deal involved.
“Sure, Etsicitty.” he muttered. “No big deal at all.”
Clearbrook post office was pretty much unchanged from the last time he’d seen it. Same red brick construction, same flat roof, same flagpole and the words “United States Post Office” in steel letters on the corner of the building. The road had been resurfaced and given a fresh set of bright yellow lines and the trees were all a bit taller, but otherwise…
He parked up, headed indoors, and found it thankfully empty. The postal worker was a rotund middle-aged woman with candy-red dyed hair in a tight ponytail and enormous spectacles, who gave him a welcoming smile. Her name tag identified her as ‘Caroline’
“Hi! What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Hi, uh… Julian Etsicitty, I’m here for my dead letter?”
She froze. “Oh… Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
“Why, what happened?”
“Well nothing happened, I mean, it’s all here… all of it…" She recovered herself and produced a form for him to sign - ten years and change into the extraterrestrial contact age and the United States Postal Service still hadn’t weaned itself off hardcopy paperwork - checked his ID then vanished to stamp and file the form. “Head on out front, I’ll bring it round.”
“You’ll bring it rou-?” Julian frowned at her as she vanished through a door, then did as she said, heading back out into the parking lot.
After a minute of confused waiting, he became aware of a sort of… rumbling sound.
This turned out to be Caroline, dragging behind her a pallet jack, onto which was loaded a crate full of more USPS totes than Julian would have considered plausible.
“That’s… that’s my mail?” he asked, flatly.
“This is your mail.” Caroline agreed.
“All of that?”
“All of it. Yyyup.”
Sarcasm, or some kind of witty remark, was the order of the day. This whole situation was crying out for Julian to keep a cool head and deliver some kind of suave joke. He ran a hand through his hair and tried his best to compose one.
“Uh… Wow.”
Date Point 10y4m6d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ayma
The human male that Regaari kept calling “Warhorse” was fretting like a particularly neurotic Mother. This was, apparently, his job and Regaari had assured Ayma that he was extremely good at it.
Still. On some level, seeing this much attentive concern from a creature who was strong enough to accidentally dismember her was doing little to fill Ayma with confidence. All devotion to Clan aside, now that the moment had come to actually go to Earth…
It was after all now well established that Earth wasn’t merely a Class Twelve, a full two points of habitability rating worse than the minimum threshold for deathworld status, but it was a high end Class Twelve, spared only from Class Thirteen status by a quirk of Corti bias more than anything else. Earth was, in fact, possibly the most relentlessly and reliably lethal planet in the galaxy.
When faced with stepping onto a world with that kind of reputation, the fact that she was trusting her life and health to a harness of forcefields and localized gravity manipulation fields was… Well, it made human paranoia suddenly seem rather less unreasonable.
Regaari, as ever, was the picture of composure and calm, but she knew him well enough to detect a slight… fidgety edge. Whatever had happened to him on Garden had clearly solidified in him an absolute trust in these “Spaceborne Operators”, but even that wasn’t quite enough to completely quiet pre- deathworld jitters.
Warhorse himself was an incredible specimen. He was actually slightly shorter than Ayma, but there couldn’t be a millisecond of doubt as to which of them was stronger, heavier and more durable. Ayma had seen flimsier walls, and he was casually holding in one hand a bag that she privately doubted that she and Regaari could have lifted between them.
Baseball was standing nearby, calmly reading off a checklist. None of the words he was reading translated.
“Epinephrin.”
Warhorse tapped some ampules in a quick-access pocket on his chest. “Check.”
“Cetrizine.”
“Check.”
“Thiperamide.”
“Blue and green band, yeah?”
“That’s right.”
“Check.”
“Morphine.”
“ET dosage three, check.”
“Nitroglycerin.”
Regaari peered at him. “Wait, what?!"
“Relax, it’s a vasodilator.” Warhorse held up a calming hand. “ET intravenous dosage three. Check.”
“Intravenous? Nitroglycerin?!"
“Could save your life, man, God forbid. Trust us, and let us concentrate, yeah?”
“Sorry.”
Base smiled at him. “Last item anyway. Salbutamol?”
Horse nodded. “Check.”
He stood and slung the bag on with alarming ease. “Protectors ready.” he announced.
“Good.”
Major Powell had taken up the duty of delivering the Gaoians to Earth himself. The preparations had taken some days and no small amount of politicking, but the plan seemed to be perfectly solid and sound. Ayma and Regaari would constantly wear Akiyama’s custom-built excursion rigs, designed to counter the Earth’s oppressive gravity and filter out every wriggling bacterium and allergenic granule that poisoned its atmosphere.
The SOR’s “Defenders” had ingeniously packed on extra protection in the form of biofilter fields that charged from sunlight before sweeping their bodies clean of infection, and stasis field generators that would, in the event of a medical emergency, allow the wearer to be delivered safely to a class ten medical facility.
Finally, each Gaoian was to be shadowed by a medic. Friendly as they were, Warhorse and Baseball had stressed that the moment they jumped to Earth, both of them were going to be focusing intently and exclusively on their charges’ good health, and were not going to be much fun to hang out with.
All things considered, Ayma was almost getting… what was the term? Cold feet.
Almost.
Powell gestured with two pinched fingers to somebody outside of the marked jump array area - an ingenious idea that Ayma was going to be sharing with Yulna when she got back. Why should Mothers and cubs be exposed to the dangers of piracy, illegal research facilities and Hunters when they could just step from one planet, straight to another?
She felt her fur bristling. There was a whine, on the very edge of hearing, the feeling of building energy reached a peak and-
-She was on Earth.
She could tell it instantly. Even with her excursion harness protecting her from feeling the extra gravity herself, there was just an extra solidity to everything. Warhorse and Baseball both adjusted their loads slightly, Powell’s stance settled and widened. The humans to a man seemed immediately just a little more comfortable, a little more relaxed. Those high-gravity deathworlder muscles had been straining against gravity that wasn’t there, and now seemed to actually be grateful for the added burden.
Unexpectedly, they also sped up. While Ayma’s own movements felt ponderous and slow, and the suit just couldn’t disguise the way her foot dropped to the floor faster than was normal, the humans got…
She searched for an appropriate adjective and settled on “punchier.” They walked with a little more precision, their heads tracked faster as they looked around, and all of their little gestures and mannerisms just seemed to fit that tiny bit better, as if the mere fact that the planet they stood on was both larger and denser than the norm had been written into their body language.
Powell took a deep breath and smiled. “Like soup, innit lads?” he asked. Ayma imitated him and nearly reeled. The air was warm, humid, and rich, rich to the point of intoxication. Higher oxygen content, she recalled, and a memory stirred that in its primordial past Earth’s atmosphere had been richer, warmer and more oxygenated still, allowing for flying insects and land animals of incomprehensible bulk.
The filters must have been working, though. Aside from the tang of humidity, there was no discernable scent on what she was breathing.
The Protectors seemed satisfied that she and Regaari were well, at least, and indicated that the door could be opened.
Admiral Knight had gone on ahead the evening before, and was standing next to a shorter, rather sturdier man that Ayma didn’t know whose hair put her in mind of brushed steel, but who was smiling warmly.
Powell raised his voice enough to be firm: “Detail, ten-shut!"
Warhorse and Baseball all snapped fully upright, bringing their heels together and straightening their spines. it was an impressive gesture given that both Protectors were solidly layered in armour and equipment.
Powell offered a salute. “Sir. The special representatives from Gao, as ordered.”
The man he was addressing returned the salute. “Thank you Major. Your men may carry on.”
Powell nodded to the Protectors, and both of them promptly returned their full attention to Regaari and Ayma.
“Mother Ayma, Officer Regaari,” he announced “This is Lieutenant-General Martin Tremblay, Supreme Allied Commander for Extrasolar Defence.”
Tremblay offered a hand and shook their paws, rather more delicately than he needed to. “This day’s been too long in coming.” he smiled. “I’ve spent so long reading about the Gaoian people and what you personally did for one of ours that it’s a genuine pleasure and a privilege to finally meet you in person.”
Ayma felt her ears twist, feeling genuinely and awkwardly complimented. “Shoo always insisted there was nothing special about her.” she replied, diplomatically. “If that is true, then I must consider the pleasure and the privilege to be greater on my part.”
She caught the amused and impressed set of Regaari’s ears out of the corner of her eye, but Tremblay’s reaction was even more interesting. “Please, don’t waste a sound-bite like that on me!” he laughed. “Save it for the cameras. Sorry we couldn’t spare you those entirely, but the first official visit to the surface of Earth by nonhumans? That was never not going to be a media party."
Had he been Gaoian, Ayma decided that she would already be contemplating a mating contract. Instead, she made a reassuring purr.
Admiral Knight nodded solemnly. “The sooner we get that particular ordeal out of the way the better, I say.” he suggested.
“Agreed.” Tremblay nodded. “Let’s get this over with.”
Date Point 10y4m6d AV
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Wei Chang
Xiu had gone very small, and very quiet.
Wei wished he knew how to talk with her. But every conversation they’d tried to have ever since she came back just… tailed off. The elephant in the room between them - the confusion of their relative ages in terms of date of birth versus the number of years they had each lived - never got addressed.
It was so sad seeing Mom try and pretend like nothing had happened. Dad somehow seemed to be taking things in his stride, but he’d become… sad. After the initial joy and worry of Xiu’s return, their dad had been behaving like he was mourning something rather than anything else.
Wei just felt like there was a stranger living in their house who’d thrown out all of Xiu’s old stuff. A quiet, intense stranger who watched things a little too carefully, who flinched at benign sounds, and who occasionally spoke the wrong language without noticing.
There was still the essential Xiu there, of course - when she could be induced to smile, she came alive again, and she never became more radiant than when she was talking to this “Julian” guy. Under the patina that years of being a terrified vagrant in space had painted on her, Xiu could still smile and laugh and play. But Wei had no idea how to get past that patina himself.
Their parents were bustling around making sure the house looked perfectly presentable for their VIP guests, and a couple of men in suits and dark glasses were patrolling the place. When Wei and Xiu had tried to help they’d just been ordered to stay out of the way and stay presentable.
So, they were sitting on the couch together, watching the visitors from Gao on TV while Wei trawled his favourite social media, following the trending topics and trying not to rumple his smart clothes. Mom had taken Xiu out shopping and together they’d found some designer tops that managed to cover all her scars without looking like she was wearing them because they would cover her scars. Xiu kept absent-mindedly trying to roll up the loose sleeves, not noticing that they just fell straight back down again.
The general consensus on the ’net was:
That Gaoians were OMG SO CUUUUUUTE!!
Are you fucking kidding me they really do look like Rocket Raccoon WTF
Who are those guys in the armor behind the gaoins their HUGE?!
Some speed artist was already putting out hastily sketched comics of the two aliens with their beefslab bodyguards. They all revolved around the (exaggerated) size difference and grim expressions on the servicemen’s faces as they did things like delicately and intensely apply a band-aid to a grateful Gaoian’s minor boo-boo. Wei had a nose for these things, and he’d eat his sneakers if those two weren’t one of the memorable memes of the year.
Some of the military enthusiast circles and forums he’d found were tentatively identifying them as part of a unit based at HMNB Folctha. Their uniforms had been “sanitized”, meaning that they had been cleared of any identifiable unit markings or clues to their identities. The only thing any of the Internet enthusiasts could tell about them was that they were both medics. To a man, all of the veterans on those forums were commenting on how they seemed to be practically buoyant and bouncing despite an operating load that must have been pushing two hundred pounds. As if they were used to much more than that.
As they watched the camera focused on the male Gaoian - Regaari - behind whom stood the shorter of the two bodyguards who chose that exact moment to absent- mindedly conjure a Snickers bar out of one of his pockets and inhale it. The live chat promptly went crazy.
“That’s Sergeant Ares.” Xiu said, pointing to the screen. “He’s the one who treated me out of the escape pod.”
“Yeah?”
“…Saved my life.” Xiu nodded, gnawing on a lip.
“He’s hot.” Wei commented, and for the first time he succeeded in making Xiu laugh.
“What, you’re into boys now, little brother?” she asked.
“Please, I’m allowed to know these things, like, academically.” Wei told her.
Xiu smiled, and went back to watching the screen, quietly. Her smile faded again.
“…Xiu, are you okay?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“…Is there anything I can do?”
Xiu gave him a surprised look. Tears started welling up and she savagely got rid of them with a swipe of her hand, muttering something to herself in Gaori. “Wi-yo koo yin-shao pa, Xiu!"
“Hey…?”
She raised a splay-fingered hand to reassure him, and took a deep calming breath through her nose. “…I’m sorry, Wei,”
“What for?”
“I don’t know how to cope” She said. “I’m a wreck.”
Wei shuffled over and put a brotherly arm around her. “I missed you, you know.” he said, after a while. “We used to fight all the time. Didn’t we?”
She laughed weakly and nodded.
“You had your ballet and kung fu movies, I had my games. Not a lot in common except Mom and Dad and living in the same house. And now you’re back and we know each other even less.”
Again, she nodded.
“…I don’t know what I’m saying.” Wei confessed. “I just… What’s wrong? Why aren’t you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know at all?”
She sighed, and wiped her face again. “Ayma and Regaari were my family out there.” she said “And I ran away from them, to keep them safe. And they’ve come here to Earth. To see me!"
Not knowing what to say, Wei just gave her another squeeze round the shoulders. Xiu just watched the two Gaoians deliver brief and neutral speeches of thanks and respect, before the press conference broke up. “I guess they’re on their way here then.” he observed.
Xiu stood up. “Yeah.” she agreed. “Yaaay.”
“Hey… Xiu?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe just… try being glad to see them?” Wei suggested.
She just sighed, shook her head, and vanished upstairs.
Date Point 10y4m6d AV
North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
Radio wasn’t really Kevin’s thing, and that went double for country stations. There was only so much Kacey Musgraves a man could listen to, after all.
Not that this mattered for a modern man. So long as he had his phone, he could listen to whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
♪♫It was obvious you’d end this way to everyone except for you / the signs were there but living in denial is just something you do / I walk amongst the ruins and what’s left is a silent testament / to ignorance violent tendencies and stupid rhetoric…♫♪
“In a quarter of a mile, your destination is on the right.”
He slowed down, frowning, and triple-tapped the middle of his phone’s screen to pause the music. Quarter of a mile looked like a sizeable oblong stand of deciduous forest, alone surrounded by open fields of ploughed farmland.
The road was straight, but the verge wasn’t, not perfectly. As he got closer, he saw that the trees had been hiding a grey steel mailbox with a name on the side: “Etsicitty”.
It stood at the end of a dirt road, which he spun onto and bounced along, cursing the fact that he was driving a sedan rather than a four-wheel-drive.
It was a dramatic change. In an instant he’d gone from open Minnesotan sky to a dungeon of trees, trees and, for novelty, some more trees. Bright and clear as it was out, here on this track the light was much more subdued, cool and green as it filtered through new spring foliage.
He was just starting to wonder how long the trail was when it opened up into a cleared area that had been surfaced in packed-down rubble that was almost as good as blacktop. There was a single-storey house with brown panel siding tucked up under the trees, attended by three elderly trucks and a rust sculpture of a tractor that had probably, once, actually been a tractor long ago.
He pulled up somewhere he wouldn’t be in the way and heaved himself up out of the car. It wasn’t cold out, but Minnesota in April was never going to match a Texan’s standards for warmth at any hour, so Kevin was glad for his jacket.
The front door opened as he approached and he recognised Julian Etsicitty from his file. He was of only average height but in excellent shape, with a broad chest and wary eyes under unruly obsidian hair that clearly only earned his attention when it got in his eyes, being otherwise left to do whatever it liked. He didn’t look too great, Kevin decided. Like he hadn’t slept properly in a day or two. Certainly his jeans and T-shirt were rumpled and stained and he was barefoot, exposing the odd composite construction of his prosthetic.
Still, fatigue and stress or not, Kevin had seen the way his hand moved before. The nonchalant way it drifted down and aside slightly so that if he had to go for the survival tomahawk on his belt, he could do so immediately.
“What happened to your nose?” he asked.
“Said the wrong thing to somebody” Kevin replied. “Julian Etsicitty, I presume?”
Etsicitty didn’t relax. “Yeah?”
“I’m an old friend of Kirk’s. Kevin Jenkins.”
Julian relaxed. “No shit? Come on in.” He unlocked the screen door and shouldered it open. It produced a horrible scratching shriek as he did so. “Sorry. Still fixing the place up.”
“Reminds me.” Kevin popped the trunk on his car and grabbed the cooler he’d stashed in there. “My condolences.”
Julian accepted it with a kind of sad-grateful smile. “That’s kind of you. Thank you.”
“Just a few things. Fill the fridge out, y’know? I know what it’s like.”
Kevin scolded himself the second he said that. That exact same angle was what had got his nose busted in Vancouver. Fortunately, for all his wariness Julian Etsicitty took the comment for genuine sympathy.
He led them both inside. “’Scuse the mess.”
‘Mess’ was both an understatement, and uncharitable. There was more mail than Kevin would have believed, and it was all over everything. The kitchen worksurfaces, the island, the coffee table and three barstools had all been given over to it. Still, there was organization involved. The papers were neatly stacked and arranged and there was clearly some kind of filing system involved, an attempt to bring order to chaos.
“Jeez. That’s a lot of paper.”
“Legal letters. The courts, lawyers for the Red Lake reservation, lawyers for the county, for the State, the federal attorney handling my grampa’s will… all in conflict.” Julian tapped one of the stacks, pulling a slightly panicked face.
“Damn.”
“Yeah. But, you didn’t come here for my legal problems. Kirk had a lot to say about you. Coffee?”
“Yes please. How much of what he had to say was good?”
Julian reached over and clicked the kettle to life. “I think you managed to disappoint him, but… you know Kirk. If you’re human, he likes you automatically.”
“D’you know what happened to him?”
“He should have survived." Julian declared. “Him and Vedreg, they were the first to head for the escape pods. We didn’t hear from them after we launched, but… you know, we slept for a couple hours there before starting for home.”
“Slept?”
“Believe me, after what happened to us, falling asleep just seemed like the best idea. Ah!”
The exclamation was in response to finally finding the coffee. “How d’you take it?”
“Plain black. So you reckon he’s alive?”
“Probably.” Julian said, spooning out the granules. “But we spent five years in that pod. If he was in one of the faster ones, or if he set a different course… or both…” The kettle clicked off and he grabbed it to start pouring. “I mean he could be anywhere. And escape pods are pretty vulnerable to getting picked off by Hunters…”
“Lucky for him that the Hunters didn’t do a dang thing in those five years.” Kevin commented.
Julian handed him a coffee, quirking his head slightly. “They didn’t?”
“Nope. Nobody saw or heard from them for about that long right up until the Capitol Station attack.”
“Jesus.” Julian handed over the coffee. “What even happened there?”
“All I could tell you is I guess the Hunters wanted to prove that they’re the biggest fish in the pond.”
“I heard rumors that human starships got involved in the fight.” Julian said.
Kevin had to wonder if the man knew more than he was letting on and fishing for information. Either way, he was in danger of straying into information that at least one of Kevin’s employers didn’t think he needed to know.
He settled for a shrug and a lie of omission. “Well, we’ve got those ships, sure. Me, I’m a mushroom." Julian frowned at him, bewildered, so he elaborated. “Kept in the dark and fed on shit.”
Julian chuckled, and cleared off a barstool for him. “Wish I had more to tell you.” he said. “The last I saw of Kirk, he said he was gonna load Vedreg into a pod and we should get ready to eject as well. I think he’s probably alive - I hope he is - but where and what he’s doing…”
They drank their coffees.
“So, hey!” Julian perked up, changing the subject. “You’re doing well for yourself. Nice car, nice suit, you can afford to drop some groceries on a stranger…”
“I work for the Byron Group nowadays.” Kevin told him, deciding not to mention his other employers. “Biggest name in space, though Hephaestus might disagree. They’ve got the Allied shipbuilding contracts after all.”
“What’s your guys’ game? How are you profiting off space?”
“Mr. Byron’s big plan is pharmaceuticals and organic materials from other deathworlds.” Kevin told him. “It’s a smart idea, too. Antibiotic resistance has really turned into a big health scare these last couple of years. The Corti want to sell us their disinfectant fields and frontline treatments, but Byron reckons we should be looking for human solutions to the problem.”
“If it works though…” Julian suggested.
“Sure. Still, he’s right. We don’t wanna become another client species of the Dominion, do we?”
“I guess not.”
“That was the other half of the reason I came down here.” Kevin confessed. “We need people who know how to survive out there, and from what I hear of you, surviving is kinda your thing.”
“What, as like an office job?” Julian asked. He gestured to the paperwork ."Really not my thing."
“Far from it. Mister Byron told me he wants you on the crew for Byron Group Exploration Vessel eleven. A ship.”
“Number eleven?”
“Well… it’s the twelfth ship the Group’s built really, but one of them was a special case. We’re learning as we go, and the more people we can get on board with real experience the better-”
He stopped at a harsh metallic squeal from the screen door and a knock. Frowning, Julian stood up and opened it.
There was a blonde woman standing on the step with her arms folded and a severely pissed-off expression. She looked to be about the same age as Julian, and about the same height too. And, frankly, in similarly excellent physical condition.
Julian took a surprised step back. “Allison?”
“Phone not switched on, Etsicitty?”
“Uh…” Julian plunged into a pocket and tapped at his phone. Judging from the way its screen remained stubbornly black, it had a flat battery. “But… it’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Your plane wasn’t supposed to land until tomor-”
“Wednesday. It’s Wednesday, Julian. Today is Wednesday. I landed in Minneapolis five hours ago.”
“…Uhm… Fuck.”
Allison Buehler just nodded. “Uh-huh. Who’s this?”
“Uh… this is, um, this is Kevin. K-kevin Jenkins.”
“Oh. Kirk’s big disappointment.” Allison thrust her carry-on bag into Julian’s arms and stepped into the house properly. “What happened to your nose?”
Kevin tried to ignore the ‘big disappointment’ jab, stinging though it was. “Look, if you two need some privacy…”
“If Julian screwed up that big, something important must have happened." Allison shook her head. Behind her, Julian relaxed a bit. “Do you have something to do with it? Is this your paperwork?"
“Not mine, and I’m gonna give you some room anyway. ’Scuse me.”
He navigated past her, gave Julian a sympathetic raise of the eyebrows that said ‘good luck’, and discreetly fled to the safety of the car.
He checked his nose and decided that he couldn’t blame people for commenting. Xiu Chang had done a masterful job of breaking it.
He grabbed his phone.
“Mister Moses Byron’s office, Rachael speaking!”
“Hey Rachael, it’s Kevin.”
“Ah, yes Mister Jenkins. Putting you through now.”
“Thanks Rachael.”
There was a burst of gentle hold music and then-
“Kevin! How was Vancouver?”
“Xiu Chang broke my nose.”
“…That’s not encouraging, Kevin.”
“My own dumbass fault. She’s got it in her head that she’s home and that’s where she’s staying, and I pushed a bit too hard.” Kevin shrugged, even though Byron couldn’t see him. “But we’ll see. I’ve tracked down Etsicitty and Buehler and I think we might have a hook there.”
“Whaddya mean a ‘hook’?” Byron demanded.
Grinning to himself, Kevin explained his idea.
Allison Buehler
Once the screen door had howled shut behind Jenkins, Allison granted herself the luxury of a deep breath.
At first, she’d been irritated to discover an absence of Julian at the airport. This had swiftly grown into frustration and three or four outright angry messages left after the tone.
In hindsight, she must have looked like a goddess of rage when she was renting the car, and she’d spent the first two of the three hours she’d been driving from Minneapolis outright furious.
Then she had cooled down a bit, mostly from simple tiredness, and the rest from reasoning that it was unlike Julian to screw up so completely, which meant something serious had happened.
The last fifty minutes had been spent worrying that he was alright.
While it was a relief to find him present, upright and profusely apologetic, ‘alright’ would have been a stretch. She’d never seen him so distressed, nor so dishevelled. He’d plainly neglected to sleep or eat properly, his hair was unwashed and his chin was rough with short hairs.
One of the reasons she found Julian so sexy was that usually, he projected an air of never being out of his depth. Usually, the only thing that could disrupt his composure was Allison herself.
There was a heady feeling of power involved in being able to fluster a man like that: Finding him so badly unsettled when she hadn’t been around to cause it was so alarming that she completely gave up on being angry at him.
“God, Al, I’m so sorry I don’t know how the fuck that happ-”
She silenced him with a sweet, short kiss. “Hey. It’s okay. What is all this, anyway?"
Julian cleared his throat and scratched at his eyebrow. “Um… Legal letters.”
Allison picked one up and read it. Its content was so arcane and vague as to induce an immediate headache, but the words ‘inheritance’, ‘property’ and ‘dispute’ stood out.
“Oh. Oh no. They’re disputing your grampa’s will?”
“Everyone is.” Julian nodded miserably, sliding up onto one of the bar stools and running his fingers through his hair.
“Why?”
“Oh boy…” He cast helplessly around at all the paperwork and heaved a huge breath out. “Where do I start? Okay, so… So it turns out Grampa never really got along with the tribal elders at Red Lake.”
“Why? ’Cause he was Navajo?”
“I don’t think that’s it, no. Might be. I dunno, I never met them.” Julian shrugged. “So that’s problem one. Problem two is there’s a question mark over where, exactly, the reservation’s boundaries even are, and whether this patch falls inside or outside them."
“Why does that matter?”
“Because Grampa filed his will with the Federal Government as if this was reservation land, but if it’s not then it’s not clear if the will’s even valid. So, the State’s got involved there, and the feds, and… oh yeah, let’s not forget my mom."
“What about her?”
“Well, okay, say the will’s not valid but the house is on Reservation land. In that case, the property is divided equally among all Grampa’s descendents. That’d be me, but also Mom and my half-sisters. And they’re all over in the Netherlands."
Allison leaned against the fridge. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t even start, it’s all to do with the Dawes Act and fractionation and…” Julian trailed off, scowled and gave up. “Look, I’ve not even read half of it yet. I think the AIM’s probably involved too… plus of course there’s Grampa’s criminal record.”
“Criminal-? Oh. Right. Draft-dodging.”
Julian nodded. He studied a letter then set it neatly on top of one of the piles. “Claims, and counter-claims, and challenges and all of this shit’s been bubbling away for three years.” he said. “Nobody’s been arguing my side. It’s a mess, and I don’t know how to even begin navigating it."
“Almost sounds like it’s not worth it.” Allison commented. Julian straightened and looked at her, questioningly. “I mean… we’re going into space again, aren’t we? I know this place means a lot to you, but if you’re not here to look after it…”
Julian gave a long, thoughtful breath out through his nose and scratched at his stubble. “What are we fighting for?” he asked. “I mean, if we’re gonna head back out there… why? What are we trying to do?”
“Get the hell away from Earth. You know that.” Allison insisted.
“Yeah, I know. You feel valuable out there. I do too, I want to achieve something with my life too. And I couldn’t just sit idle, not when I know what’s out there.”
“But…?” Allison prompted.
“But… I mean, come on Al, you’ve got to have something you care about on Earth or you wouldn’t care about trying to protect it."
Allison folded her arms at her waist. “Do I?”
“Yeah. You do.” Julian stood up and rubbed her shoulders. “You’re not doing it for the fame, are you?”
She made a scoffing noise. “What fame?”
“Exactly.” Julian agreed. “But what do we mean by ‘achieving something’ if it doesn’t have to do with… with Earth? Or at least with some of the people living on it?"
Feeling annoyed at herself for doing so even as she did it, Allison curled into herself a little more and looked away from him. “Sure. Whatever. Maybe I do have… something. Does that change anything? Sometimes you have to let go, Julian.”
He frowned. “You okay?”
“Just… Yeah.” she sighed, looked him in the eye and almost lied to him. “Yeah, I’m fine. And you’re right, I guess. I just…” she gestured to Mount Paperwork. “For what fighting this is gonna cost you could just buy a new place. I know it wouldn’t be your grampa’s, but… I mean, even if you spent all that money fighting to keep this place you might not win.”
“True.” Julian conceded, reluctantly.
“And you said yourself, you want to go back into space.”
“Also true.”
“And if you do you won’t be able to look after this place even if you hold onto it…”
Julian put a palm to his forehead and rubbed it firmly down his face. “Allison, for fuck sake…"
She paused and took a good look at him, then at all the accumulated keepsakes and history around them. “…This place really means that much to you, huh?”
“Yeah. Yeah it does.”
She chewed a lip thoughtfully, then found some resolve and nodded. “Okay.”
Julian’s head bobbed uncertainly. “…Okay?”
“If it means that much to you, fight it. I’ve got your back, I promise.”
Julian sagged, relieved, then smiled a grateful nod before kissing her. “Thank you.”
She nodded, and managed a tight smile. “Maybe we should see what that Jenkins guy wants.”
Date Point 10y4m6d AV
Mrwrki Station, Uncharted System, Deep Space
Lewis
“Now THAT…” Kirk declared. “Looks impressive.”
Lewis patted its chassis happily. “That it does! Too bad it doesn’t work.”
“…Congratulations?”
“Yeah, now I understand some of that footage you managed to get from Capitol Station.” Lewis laughed. “How did you get that, anyway?”
“It was not difficult. Most of it was human propaganda footage, put out by your own government. It is meant to be seen."
Lewis considered the implications of that.
“No shit?”
“No shit indeed.” Kirk agreed. “I managed to secure some of the station’s security footage through a contact, too.”
“Must be a fucking talented contact.”
“She is, yes… so what is this?”
Lewis considered it. “It was meant to be power armor." he said.
“You don’t say?” Kirk asked. It was hard to see what else a humanoid metallic frame layered in armour plates and technology could be. “You mean it is not a novelty pizza oven?"
Lewis grumbled something and pushed the suit over by its forehead. It shook the deck as it crashed down, and Kirk took a dainty step back to keep his feet out of the way of the components that skittered across the floor. “Probably better at that than at being a working suit of armor, that’s for damn sure.”
“What were the problems?” Kirk asked, stooping to pick up the suit’s helmet and examine it.
“Problem one? Turns out the human body’s fucking strong anyway.”
“You don’t say?” Kirk repeated, setting down the helmet again and folding his arms. “Fancy that.”
“Shut up. I mean that even nonhuman-tech actuators and stuff can’t match us for all three of precision, speed and power. It’s… laggy. Problem two: power storage and generation. Needs a lot of both. The more I put on, the bigger and heavier the suit needed to be, which meant it needed more of both. And so on."
“Both of those sound like surmountable challenges, with time.” Kirk opined.
“Yeah, but then we run into the problem of mass." Lewis gritted his teeth. “See, what am I making here? If it’s a suit of armor designed for a man to wear then the man needs to be the one doing the actual moving around, right? The suit can assist him all it likes, but if he starts to tip over and needs to correct himself, then the difference between his mass and the suit’s… Nobody’s got that kind of core strength dude. Especially not with the latency problem."
“And if the suit is in control, then the human operator is more like a pilot, and could in theory be replaced outright.” Kirk finished for him.
“You got it.” Lewis nodded. “And it turns out that in order for the mass problem to not be there, the human operator needs to go entirely. Which means I’m making a humanoid drone. Which is… cool, but what happens if somebody hacks the drone? Like those Hierarchy fucks? Hell, if I got it to work then what happens if somebody hacks the armor?"
“Assuming you could harden it against being hacked…” Kirk mused. “Could the latency problem be fixed?”
Lewis hissed through his teeth. “I… doubt it.” he said finally. “’Cause there’s basically… like, option one: the suit responds to muscle movements. You move your arm, it senses you moving your arm, it moves its arm. Right?"
“I follow.”
“Well, okay, watch this shit.” Lewis took a step back and then swirled his arms vigorously in front of his face. To Kirk’s eyes, they were a blur. “Okay? And that’s fucking SLOW. I’m not all that fast, dude. Now let’s say I want this thing to be fast enough that even fuckin’ Ip Man could do his shit while wearing it?”
Kirk folded his legs up underneath him and sat down. This brought his eye level down to the point where he was only slightly above Lewis. “Yes…?”
“Not. Fucking. Happening. No way, no how, nuh-uh nope. Not if the suit’s reacting to the movement after it’s already begun. And that’s the kind of speed it needs to move at, so… boom goes Option One. Option two: brain scan."
“Brain scan.”
“Yu-huh. Shove, like, an EEG or some alien spacemagic equivalent in there. Well, what happens if there’s nervejam and the dude gets a headache or worse? What happens if he’s knocked around a bit and gets kinda confused? What if he’s unconscious and his buddies need to move him? Shit, what happens if the pads come un-stuck or the sensor becomes misaligned? And that’s assuming we can even isolate individual signals like that which… I mean, I don’t think anyone’s ever gonna know the human brain that well. Too many problems for my money."
“And Option Three?”
“JARVIS.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s how Tony Stark did it.” Lewis said. “Loaded an AI into the suit that figured out what he was about to want to do. Problem there? Tony Stark is fiction, man, and so are AIs like that. I may as well be talking about… uh, about scribing a fucking rune on the damn thing and casting a Golem spell. You may as well try and fly a spaceship by doing a tarot reading."
He snapped his fingers at a couple of servant drones, then waved a finger at the failed power armor. “Recycle that.”
“It would not really have been much use against the Hierarchy anyway.” Kirk told him, as the drones flitted in and began to remove doomed pieces of prototype . “They are not a physical foe we can meet in battle.”
“Gotta learn how to walk before you can run, my man. This was just me proving to myself that I knew everything I needed to make complicated shit before I moved on to the real projects.”
“Your point is taken, but I am from a species that is born knowing how to gallop." Kirk pointed out. “What is your ‘real project’ going to be?"
“Dunno yet.”
“…We have been here this long, and you have no idea?”
Lewis just made a semi-amused harrumph and threw himself into his thinking chair. “You’ve put a… a fucking huge problem in front of me, Kirk.” he said. “And I can sit here and absorb, like, biology and physics and mechanical engineering and quantum whateverthefuckery all day, but if it’s all for the sake of Earth, then I need to know what Earth needs."
“Like…” he spun the chair around and called up the Capitol Station footage. "Look at these motherfuckers! Where the fuck did that come from? Human special forces in space? Wearing a functioning armored EVA suit? And these dudes look like your average roid-jockey’s wet dream, so some shit’s been going down on Earth, man, and I don’t know the half of it. How am I supposed to help my people if I don’t even know what we’re up to?"
Kirk’s head bobbed slowly down and then up. “I had hoped to remain out of contact a little while longer, until we were properly up and running.” he confessed. “But you make a compelling case and… we were buzzed last night.”
“Buzzed? By what?”
“A scout ship. Long-range. Our sensors did not get a very clear look at it before it warped out again, but they did narrow down the options, one of which is very worrying."
“Worrying how?”
Kirk shook his mane, which Lewis understood as being something akin to an uncomfortable shrug. “One of the possibilities was a ship that I have placed on our security watch-list.” he explained. “It is called the ‘Negotiable Curiosity’ and it was very deliberately named. Its owner has a reputation for being able to dig up any mystery. He is… tenacious."
“Hierarchy?”
"Everybeing is Hierarchy, if they have implants." Kirk pointed out. “But I would be surprised if he was not out here on their orders, yes. Though, I doubt if he knows of them.”
“That settles it then.” Lewis decided. “I’m phoning home.”
Kirk made an amused sound through his nose. “I thought I was the ET?"
“Neither of us are on Earth right now, bro.”
“I shall turn off the outbound message locks on the FTL relay.” Kirk levered himself up onto his feet, they exchanged a fist-bump, and he left Lewis alone with his thoughts, which were already whirling with the letters he was going to need to write.
Lewis took a deep breath, and decided to do his yoga first. Always best to approach these things with a clear head.
Hopefully he’d think of a better introduction than "To whom it may concern…"
Date Point 10y4m6d AV
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Regaari
Xiu seemed… smaller than the last time Regaari had seen her.
When her family admitted Ayma, Regaari, Baseball, Warhorse and Stainless into their house, it was a stark reminder that humans were not all muscular, lean, predatory warriors. The young male was large, yes, but there was a roundness to his largeness that suggested a source other than physical conditioning and hard training. Her parents were lean, yes, but it was the leanness of increasing age and fragility. Both looked grey and tired.
It took a little coaxing and calling for Xiu to finally emerge, but when she did she picked her way downstairs as if walking to an execution rather than a reunion.
It didn’t help that Ayma said nothing and just stared at her. Nobody spoke, no sounds were audible except the creak of the steps, the rustle of clothing and a car accelerating down the road outside.
There were times when etiquette between Gaoian females became so tangled and complicated that even male Gaoians, who were perhaps the best-placed beings in the galaxy to have an insight into it, had trouble keeping up. A moment like that happened now.
Ayma spoke first, and she used the tone of a mother about to give a scolding. “Sister.”
Xiu swallowed and glanced up the stairs, perhaps considering the option to flee, but she looked back to Ayma and responded with an inflection that implied… not defiance, but not submission either. A standing of her ground. Her Gaori really had improved from when Regaari had first met her. “Mother.”
The silence stretched until it was vibrating and Regaari was desperate to snap at both of them when, at once, the two females ran out of resolve and collided
- gently in Xiu’s case and unreservedly in Ayma’s - in a solid hug that saw both of them sink to their knees. Gaoian and Human body language rarely aligned so perfectly.
Everyone looked away, giving them what privacy they could, and Warhorse had the presence of mind and good manners to shut down the translator. That left only Regaari able to understand what they were saying to each other, and he made a point of not listening.
Eventually, Xiu exhumed her face from the fur of Ayma’s shoulder and aimed a weak smile his way. “It’s good to see you again, Regaari.” she managed.
Unable to quite summon any words, Regaari settled for ducking his head vigorously. Xiu pulled back from Ayma, gave her a curious look, Ayma nodded, and Xiu stood to give Regaari a huge but controlled hug. After a few tentative seconds, he returned it.
She looked around. “Could we… have some privacy please?”
While Xiu’s family promptly nodded and left the room, Warhorse and Baseball were more reluctant. “This room’s not been properly sanitized, miss…” Burgess said.
“Please, guys.” Regaari turned to them. “We won’t take the excursion suits off, and I trust Xiu to shout if we need help.”
Both men turned to Stainless, who pursed his lips, thinking.
“We’re not goin’ further than the far side of that door.” he declared, pointing to it.
“Deal.” Xiu agreed. “Thank you.”
Xiu stood as they left the room, then sank down on the couch as if she was suddenly exhausted.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Ayma laid into her.
“What were you thinking?!" she demanded.
“Me? What are you thinking right now?" Fatigue gone, Xiu shot to her feet. “I ran away to protect you! To give you the chance to get on with your lives! And this is how you repay that? You come here?! Don’t you know that every breath on this planet could kill you?! Don’t you care?"
“Sisters stick together, Shoo, you know that!” Ayma yipped.
“NO!” Xiu spun away, clawed at her hair and gathered her composure. In a much quieter voice, she carried on. “Sisters care for one another. Sisters protect one another, Ayma. And you’re standing exactly where you shouldn’t be because you just don’t seem to understand that I don’t want you to get hurt. Not- not for me. I’m not worth that."
“Triymin thought you were.” Ayma pointed out.
“Triymin is dead." Xiu stumbled over the word. “I’m not worth that. I’m not."
“Well we’re not dead." Ayma pointed out. “And… I think you are worth coming here for."
“Why?” Xiu sat down again. “I’m nobody special, Ayma. I’m just… I’m just me. I wanted to be an actress. Lots of girls want to be an actress. I did ballet, I had a room full of… of shit that I didn’t need…" She spat the word in English rather than Gaori. “I was normal. I can’t handle being anything else."
Regaari laid a paw on Ayma’s shoulder. “Tell her.”
“…We had a cub.” Ayma said, getting his drift. “A female. We called her Shoo.”
Xiu sighed and rubbed her face. “I… I’m delighted. Really I am.” she said. “But… Um, I know that you don’t do family the same way that humans do. I know that little…” She smiled “Little Shoo will grow up in the commune, just like you both did, and Myun and - How is Myun, anyway?"
“Wealthy and quite happy to be a human fangirl." Regaari said. “She and I have a cub too. Or rather, she’s expecting one.”
Xiu sat back, stunned. “God. She’s old enough to have a cub now… her first?”
“Indeed.” Regaari duck-nodded.
“With you?”
Regaari duck-nodded again. “A male, probably, if the antenatal scans are accurate.”
Xiu’s face moved in a complicated way as she tried to smile and frown at the same time. “…I just don’t understand you.” She told them, quietly. “You have a cub together, she’s safe on Gao, and instead of being there for her you come here to this - this **death**world? You should be with the people you care about!"
“We are with the people we care about!" Ayma keened, stepping forward and delicately taking Xiu’s hand between two of her paws. “Don’t you see? It’s not about what you’re worth, it’s about…" she changed vocal gears, picking a word in English. "Family!"
“My family are outside.” Xiu said.
“Your family," Ayma corrected her “-are the people who care about you. And as our species proves, that’s not a matter of genetics. Here we are, Shoo: Here’s your family, right here in this room.”
“And we know you care about us too.” Regaari said. “You don’t want us to be hurt. But we don’t want you to be hurt either, and right now… it’s obvious that you are hurting."
Xiu blinked at them, then looked away, and down. She grimaced at herself and snapped her head back to blink back tears.
“Shoo?”
“O… WŎ wanquan mingbai Ie…”
“Shoo?”
Xiu sat forward and let out a long breath. “I had… somebody came to see me, a few days ago. He said things that made me so angry that I broke his nose.”
Ayma and Regaari inclined their ears in mutual confusion, not sure where she was going.
Xiu didn’t seem to notice. “I know why I was so mad at him now. It’s because he was right. I’m not home, am I? This really isn’t home any more. And I’ve been hurting myself trying to pretend that it is."
“So… where is home? Gao?” Ayma asked.
Xiu shook her head. “No… No. I’m sorry Ayma. I’m so sorry for running away, but it’s not. It can’t be, I won’t endanger Gao like that, or any other world. I won’t endanger you like that."
Ayma moved her head softly in agreement. “I know. That’s why we came here. I wanted to tell you that I forgive you for running. I… You were right.”
Very gently, Xiu sat back, took a deep breath, and let her hands fall onto her lap. “…Oh, I needed to hear that.”
“So… where is home?" Regaari asked her.
She looked at him, opened her mouth to say something, then plainly reconsidered and lapsed into thoughtful silence, staring at some distant point far away beyond the carpet. Regaari gave her a few seconds, and then verbally prodded her. “Shoo?”
“…I’m not sure.” Xiu said, shaking herself out of whatever trance she had been in. “But… but I think I have a good idea where to start looking.”
Date Point 10y4m6d AV
North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Julian Etsicitty
After carefully filing the drift of legal correspondence in a heap on the coffee table, the three of them had been able to fit around the kitchen island on the bar stools. Julian sat at one end with Allison next to him, and Jenkins and his sophisticated state-of-the-art phone complete with holographic projector sat at the other.
“So… pretty much since Scotch Creek released the first wave of warp and kinetic tech to the public, the second space race has been a whole thing." Jenkins told them. “You’ve got Hephaestus LLC up on Ceres, Red Bull driving their sales by sponsoring everything that flies higher than a football, BAE and Lockheed-Martin vying for the military contracts, Virgin’s space tourism and starkisser flights… and Byron Group.”
He swiped through a few items on the phone and then grinned as it delivered a shimmering, transparent rendering of what was clearly a spaceship. “Most of what the Group’s up to is applying space tech to people’s lives down here on Earth. Forcefield solar power, stasis fridges, sanitation fields… holographic phones and TVs…” he gestured to the phone with a smile and a shrug. “Doesn’t hurt that the Group makes the best warp engines and jump drives, too.”
When Allison and Julian just waited patiently and listened, he cleared his throat and forged ahead.
“What that buys is the cash for what Mister Byron calls ‘moon laser projects.’ He’s got big dreams: Human colonies, interstellar low-latency communications, interplanetary trade by jump array instead of freighter… you name it. Stuff that needs a big investment. Top of the list are colonization and trade."
“So you need explorers and market surveyors.” Allison observed.
“You got it. Folks who can find us worlds to live on, tell us what we’re going to have to do to live on them safely without killing all the locals. Folks who can talk with the locals and maybe find out what they’ve got that we want, and what we can pay them. Hence, the Byron Group Exploration Vessels. This here is EV-Ten, ‘Creature of Habit.’ The most recent one."
“Sleek.” Julian commented. It really was. The ship was clearly nothing but functional, but it was functional in the same way as a good knife - the sheer unyielding utility of its form was beautiful in its own right.
“Moon laser shit again. Mister Byron reckons the human ‘brand’ is gonna be about the aesthetics of function. Got to impress the customer, he says." Jenkins’ tone suggested that he had disagreements there. “Anyway… the thing is, about half of the ships in the EV program never came back. We’ve mostly figured out what got ’em, but if we can crew them with people who know what it’s like out there… Starwise people, you know? Like streetwise, but for-"
“We get it.” Allison told him. Julian suppressed a smile. She was entertaining when she got prickly.
“Right… Well. That’d be you guys. Xiu Chang too, if you can talk her into it.”
“Can’t you ask her yourself?” Allison asked.
Jenkins cleared his throat awkwardly. “She, uh… wasn’t receptive to the idea.”
Allison sat back. “Oh. My. God. Xiu broke your nose!"
“…Yeah.”
Julian and Allison frowned at one another.
“We like Xiu and we trust her opinion.” Julian told him. “If she got pissed at you, that’s kind of a deal breaker.”
“That’s a pity, because the Byron Group’s prepared to take on your legal SNAFU, win it, and install a caretaker to keep this place in working order while you’re gone.”
Allison stood up. “And now I see why she broke your nose!" she snapped, and span away.
Julian just folded his arms and glared. “You’d hold that over us?”
Jenkins raised both hands. “No! No! Nothing like holding it over you! I didn’t come here to threaten. I’m just sayin’…. you’ve got what we need, and we’re willing to pay for it.”
Allison turned and frowned at him, and Jenkins lowered his hands. “The offer’s honest. I promise.” He said.
Allison looked to Julian.
Julian briefly considered tossing Jenkins out on his ear… but the offer of legal assistance was far too good to waste, and there was still the unresolved question of how, exactly, they were planning to get into space and with whom…
“Give us a day or two to think about it.” he suggested.
“Sure. Here.” Jenkins pulled a business card from his inside jacket pocket. “Take your time.”
He laid it on the table and stood. “Hey… look, whatever you decide, good luck.”
Julian stood, shook his hand, and escorted him to the door.
Once the screen door had finished wailing itself closed, he took a moment to take stock of his situation.
“I say go for it.” he told Allison, turning to face her.
“Xiu broke his nose.” she repeated.
“He’s just one guy. There’ve gotta be others working for Byron.” Julian shrugged. “And… I mean, Xiu’s great but she’d be the first to say her head’s not completely in the right place sometimes.”
“Julian!”
“Remember that time she turned down Lewis by saying she wasn’t looking to ‘mate’ with anyone?"
Allison blinked. “She… Uh… Okay. Point.”
“Look why don’t you call her?” Julian suggested. “My phone still needs to charge and I think she’d like to hear from you anyway.”
Allison nodded. If there was a touch of nervousness in the way she did so, Julian decided not to comment. He wasn’t quite sure where Allison and Xiu stood with one another - they hadn’t really had a lot of time to discuss things since their night of… well, since he’d been their waiter. Their shirtless, eye-candy, objectified waiter…
He sat on a bar stool again, and tried to turn his thoughts to housework instead.
Date Point 10y4m6d AV
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Regaari
Regaari had ridden in plenty of motorcades before, during his time attached to Mother-Supreme Giymuy. He wasn’t quite sure about riding sideways in a “limousine” - something that Warhorse and Baseball had quietly waxed enthusiastic about for some reason - but he had to admit that it was nice to be sitting opposite the protectors, rather than crammed in between the door and their muscles.
This particular motorcade didn’t have far to go, as apparently the distance between the Chang family’s house in Strathcona and Vancouver City Hall was not great, but it looked set to be a tense, quiet and despondent journey. Mother Ayma wasn’t happy. Not happy at all. Seething, in fact, to the point that her claws were wearing small frayed gouges in the upholstery.
Regaari and Warhorse had figured out a gesture between them which was to mean “please turn the translator off and give us some privacy.” He used it now, and Warhorse promptly nodded and obeyed. The audioscape of the limo changed ever- so-subtly as the targeted white noise that the device used to cancel and overlay speech from each listener’s perspective shut down.
Regaari steeled himself, and spoke to Ayma.
“You’re troubled.” he said.
“My Sister is plainly miserable, Regaari.” Ayma said, so fast that it was almost a snap at him.
Regaari made a little growling noise that denoted understanding and/or agreement. “You’re right, that was inane of me. What I’m wondering is what else is going on in your head besides concern for Shoo.”
“What else should be?" Ayma retorted.
Regaari tucked his right leg up under himself so as to turn slightly in the seat and face her. “What about all of your other Sisters?” he asked.
Ayma hung her head and flicked an ear, irritated. “Must you use your analyst’s brain on me?” she asked.
“I can no sooner stop being a Whitecrest than you can stop being a Mother.” Regaari replied, evenly. “I know my reasons for coming here. To forge strategic ties, to advance the interests of my Clan and by extension all Gaoians. It’s my good fortune that I can achieve those things by helping my good friend and… I admit, indulging my curiosity about Earth into the bargain. But I do have to wonder what your reasons were for coming here. You’re the one who suggested it after all. Not to be crass, but what did you hope to achieve?”
Ayma looked out of the window for a moment before replying. “Maybe I’m just a mother looking out for a wounded cub.” she mused. “Is that… shallow?”
“No, not at all.” Regaari told her. “You wouldn’t be Ayma if you didn’t care. But Shoo’s not a cub: She was an adult before we ever met her, and as I recall she saved both our lives. She’s spent more years surviving on her own than she spent with us, and she has become good at it.”
Ayma ducked her head. “She did, didn’t she? She no longer has that childish turn of phrase.”
“Did your cub grow up, Mother Ayma?”
Ayma chittered. “She did!” she agreed. “She truly did. And… It pains me to let my cubs go, but I’m glad. I think she’ll be okay.”
“I think so too.”
Ayma relaxed, and turned her attention out the window again, watching the crowd of people holding signs welcoming them to Earth. “Yes. She will.”
Date Point 10y4m6d AV North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Allison Buehler
It was funny how heavy a phone could be. Most of the time it was an unconsidered thing, just a part of life on Earth that would sit in Allison’s handbag or pocket - and thank God fashion had finally got its head around the idea that women wanted pockets that were more than decorative - to be ignored it until needed, at which point it would be fished out, used and returned, unheeded.
It was like an extension of her own body in that regard. And just like an arm or leg, the weight of it only ever became apparent when it had become numb. Or, in this case, when she was staring at the phone working up the courage to hit “call”.
There was, as far as she could tell, no good reason for this. Xiu was a friend, good fun. She and Allison had hit it off pretty much the second she came aboard, and that bit of fun with Julian serving drinks while they watched Mulan…
Well, that had all been good fun. Very good fun. Exciting, even.
And… that was the problem. It had been exciting: not just the thrill of pushing the limits in her relationship with Julian, but… well. They could have pushed the boat out in private, but they’d chosen to invite Xiu in. Allison had chosen to invite Xiu in. Into something she wouldn’t normally have shared with anybody, into her sex life and into her relationship with her boyfriend.
And she had thoroughly enjoyed it. She’d enjoyed watching Xiu sneak glances at Julian, and not in a smug ‘yeah, bitch, look what I got’ sense, but in…
It rang.
She stared at Xiu’s name and the video call request in dumb surprise for three rings before her thumb swiped at the green call-accept icon automatically and her voice went into autopilot.
“Hey babe!”
Xiu waved at her from the other end. She looked… peaceful. Happy, even. It was a nice change. “Hey!”
“You’re looking good! Home agreeing with you, huh?”
“Well, uh…” Xiu turned the phone around and gave her a good look at a room completely empty of furniture or decoration. “That’s complicated.”
“…Wow. they threw all your stuff out?” Allison asked, scandalized.
“Oh! No, I did.” Xiu turned the phone back around again.
“You did?"
“Yeah!”
“…Why?”
Xiu shrugged, as if it was no great thing. “It… just didn’t feel like my stuff any more.” she explained.
“None of it?”
“Just some clothes.” Xiu looked around the empty space she’d made for herself. “Is that strange?”
“Maybe?” Allison asked. “I mean, you were huge on getting home, and the first thing you do is throw out all your stuff?"
Xiu made an awkward noise and tidied up an errant wisp of hair. “I just… it feels more like my place now that it’s a blank canvas.” she said. “Have you been following the news?”
“Nuh. Why, did something happen?”
“Wow, okay… uh… Ayma and Regaari.”
Allison frowned. “They’re on the news?”
“They, uh… they came here.” Xiu said it with forced lightness.
“…As in…” Allison took a heartbeat to get her head around what she’d just been told. “They visited you? Here on Earth?"
“Right here in my parents’ front room. Yeah.” Xiu had a nervous laugh in her voice at that. The camera jolted as she shrugged. “And, uh, apparently they’re going to go visit some US national park and then fly over to England and the King’s going to give Regaari a medal.”
“A medal? What for?”
“For… um… so there was this other thing in the news that we missed. Apparently the Hunters hit this big space station that’s meant to be, like, the biggest and most important in the Dominion.”
“Why am I only hearing about this now?” Allison sat forward.
“Because we were in hospital I guess. And, um, I was too busy trying to…” Xiu gestured to the room around her. “You know, trying to settle in up here and get back in shape that I guess I just forgot to check up on the last, uh, ten years of world history. There’s… a lot of it.”
“Wow, yeah. You missed the best part of a decade, didn’t ya? When you think about how much happened in, like, the sixties or the forties or whatever…” Allison agreed.
“You missed five years too.” Xiu pointed out. “Did you know there’s a city in the asteroid belt now? And another one on the planet Cimbrean?"
“I knew there were small colonies…” Allison said. “Cities?”
“Yeah… It’s… kinda scary. When I left… I mean, aliens were just a silly story when I left and all of this would have been on TV.”
“And now you’re fluent in an alien language and could probably get a job in one of those cities." Allison said. “Wow. Mindfuck.”
“Yeah… Anyway, uh… Regaari was on that station. With Mother Giymuy. She… didn’t make it.”
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry…” Allison moved the phone closer to her face, as if a little more digital proximity might make all the difference in comfort.
Xiu smiled for her. “It’s… it’s okay. She was very old even when I first met her, and Regaari told me the Hunters didn’t get her. I’ll miss her, but…”
Allison just nodded, and they had a moment of mutual silence before Xiu perked up again. “Oh! Okay, you know those soldiers who pulled us off the lifeboat?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, they went to that station to save people! Sergeant Ares, the one who treated me, he’s friends with Regaari! Apparently they fought together in that battle. My Regaari!"
“Wow. Small galaxy.”
“More like a really small group of guys in that job.” Xiu suggested. “Anyway, apparently the British want to give Regaari a medal.”
“And Ayma?”
Xiu laughed. “I don’t know if she wanted to scold me or check if I was okay. Both I guess? But it’s…”
Allison let her think, and after a thoughtful scratch at her eyebrow, Xiu turned back to the camera. “I guess I owe you an apology.” she said.
“What for?”
“For being so…” Xiu hunted for the right word “So down these last couple of weeks. It’s just… weird, being back here."
Allison scooted back on the bed and folded her legs. “Not like you imagined?”
Xiu shook her head. “No. Mom’s trying to act like nothing really happened, like she’s not sixty now. Wei doesn’t know how to talk with me and I don’t know how to talk with him and Papa’s… he’s kind of… sad all the time. Like, I’ll catch him looking at me and then he’ll look away and I think I can see tears."
Allison chose her words carefully. “D’you think that’s likely to get better?” she asked.
Xiu made a coarse noise in her throat and snarled something in Gaori. It was a good language for snarling in, like an angrier version of Mandarin as spoken by a mouthful of sharp teeth.
“Say again?” Allison asked her.
“I said… well. I said no. No I don’t. You want to hear the kind of work offers I’ve been getting?”
“Do tell?”
Xiu shook her head, smiling grimly. “Five publishers who want to ghost-write my story, some asshole from the Byron Group, and an actual porn studio!"
Allison’s mouth opened in outrage. “You’re shitting me.”
“Nuh. I think that guy was just trying his luck, though. Like, he didn’t expect me to say yes, but if by some miracle I did…”
“Did you break the porn guy’s nose too?”
Xiu went red. “How did-?”
“That Byron Group asshole showed up down here too.”
“I should have known he would…” Xiu kneaded her forehead. “D’you tell him to go away?”
“Can’t. He literally made Julian an offer that he can’t refuse… or if he does refuse, he’s crazy.”
“That good?”
“There’s this whole legal… thing with Julian’s grampa’s place. He could lose the house if it goes against him, and this place is real important to him."
Xiu sighed. “So if you sign a deal with them, Byron Group sorts it all out?” she asked. “That kind of manipulation is why I hit that guy.”
“Manipulation it might be.” Allison agreed. “But it sounded like everyone’s gonna get what they want.”
“Do I get to hit him again?”
Allison covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. Xiu was teasing, she knew: a sure sign that for all the ups and downs of discussing the things she’d learned, she was in a good mood. “Okay, so what was it lifted your spirits?” she asked.
“Just… I guess I cleared my head out. Figured out what’s really mine in there. Like my room."
“I hope there’s more in there than you left in your room!”
Xiu made a silent laugh through her nose. “There is.” she promised. “Look, can I come down there? Right now? I’ve… things are clear right now, and I want to act while they still are. Is that okay?”
“You know you can!” Allison told her.
“You don’t mind? I mean, just you and Julian in a little place in the woods… it sounds romantic.”
“Hey.” Allison sat forward. “There’s no way you’d make it less romantic, I promise.” she winked. “It’ll be… intimate.”
Xiu laughed, going slightly red across her nose and cheeks. Her fingertip ran absent-mindedly through the hair at her temple. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“Mm-hmm, just you, me, a gorgeous guy… and, oh my God, he has the hugest TV and there’s nobody around for miles, so we could crank the volume right up."
Xiu giggled. “Mm. I do like to get loud…” she mused. Her phone jolted as she stood up. “I’d better book a flight and… well, let my parents know where I’m going.” she said. “Uh… See you soon?”
Allison nodded, clearing her throat to try and cure a sudden and unaccountable case of dry mouth. “…Sure.” she agreed. “You, uh, send us the… details. You know.”
“Will do. Sure. Um… ’bye for now.”
Allison waved to the screen: Xiu smiled and ended the call. The instant the phone went dark, Allison tossed it lightly aside onto the blankets then let out a long and shaky breath. “Okay…”
She let herself fall backwards and put her hands over her eyes, thinking. “Wow.”
Julian called from the kitchen. “You okay?”
Allison peeled her hands apart and directed an embarrassed grimace at the ceiling. “Yeah! Yeah. She’s, uh… She’s coming down here!”
“So soon?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, if you wanna shower, the hot water should be full.” Julian suggested, appearing in the doorway. “Help work that stressful day off?”
A hot shower sounded like simultaneously the best idea and the worst idea right now, but a lot more of the former. Allison kicked her legs out and sprang up off the bed. “You make a compelling argument.” she smiled, and kissed him on the cheek. “Just through here?”
“Yup.”
Allison slid past him, grabbed her flight bag from where Julian had left it on the couch. “What are you gonna do?” she asked.
He just waved a hand helplessly at all the legal paperwork.
Allison sighed. “…Right. You, uh… have fun, I guess.”
The shower turned out to be amazing. She found a setting that felt almost like she was getting a massage from a wire brush and worked all the tension and travel grime out of her scalp and her shoulders, leaned forward and let decadently hot water steam and cascade down her back and legs. A different setting swirled and pulsed pleasantly across her chest and tummy, and the final setting just soaked, allowing her to employ an exfoliating scrub and get herself feeling properly clean for the first time since they’d been landed on the planet Aru.
Aru…
She killed the shower and gave herself the bare minimum of a drying-off, squeezing the excess water out of her hair and swiping it from her arms and legs with her hands. She combed her hair back, grabbed a pair of clean black panties from her luggage and wriggled into them.
Draping a hand towel around her shoulders completed the image. She studied herself in the mirror. Blonde hair slicked back and gone dark from the wetness, long limbs beaded with droplets, a lingering wet sheen on an abdomen that had only slightly suffered from not being able to do her usual regimen of crunches, and just enough breast visible behind the towel.
Perfect.
She unlocked the door. “Hey, Etsicitty?” she asked, stepping out into the living room.
He looked up. “Yea-? …Woah."
There was nothing like making him speechless, and she deployed her best dark smile. “Come here.”
He was up and sliding an arm around her waist in a second. “Yes ma’am!”
“Oh yeah.” she laughed and congratulated herself as she felt him kiss and nibble the side of her neck and gently push her back towards the bedroom. “Good boy.”
Date Point 10y4m6d AV
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Mother Ayma
“According to your Internet, there are many females interested in you…”
Baseball perked up and rolled across a bed to take a closer look at Ayma’s screen. It creaked, alarmingly. “No shit?”
“Oh yes. There is a poll. ’Left Beef versus Right Beef, who’s sexier?"
She wasn’t quite sure if the nicknames were intended to be insulting, but they seemed to please Baseball. “Fuckin’ beef? Awesome.”
“I would have found that insulting myself,”
“Are you kidding?” he turned towards the bathroom door and raised his voice. “Yo, Horse!”
A muffled “Yuh?” drifted through the door.
“You know what they’re calling us on the Internet?”
“What?”
“They’re calling us ‘Left Beef’ and ‘Right Beef’!"
Adam could be heard laughing beyond the door. "Which is which?" He called.
“You’re Left Beef.”
“I don’t think I understand the joke.” Ayma confessed. The Internet was a source of near limitless fascination and impenetrable in-jokes. The gist was that her Protectors had acquired almost as much celebrity - if not more - than Regaari and herself, with the commentary ranging from the objectifying and overtly sexual, to the dismissive, the political and the surprisingly well- informed.
“It’s like… Y’know what, never mind. You gonna vote?”
“On a poll as to which of two humans I find more attractive?" Ayma queried. “I don’t find either of you attractive!”
“Aww, c’mon.” Base smiled. Ayma bobbled her head in resignation, and touched her claw to “Right Beef.”
“You remind me a little of one of my mates.” she explained, while Base quietly pantomimed victory with a pump of his fist.
“I do?”
“Oh yes. He-”
They were interrupted by the bathroom door opening and a thoroughly bedraggled and uncomfortable-looking Regaari shuffled out, dripping wet and wrapped head to foot in towels and a bathrobe. Warhorse was slightly behind him wearing only a pair of shorts and looking rather more comfortable, though that was hardly strange. Moisture and humans seemed to go together well.
“Oh dear. Our turn?” Ayma asked.
Regaari made a show of seating himself in as dignified a posture as he could in front of the large mirror that dominated the main room. To Ayma’s eyes, he was still as sleek and handsome as ever, and in any other setting she might have been able to appreciate his slender strength and some fond memories of the time spent siring their cub together.
Next to any human, however, any Gaoian was skinny. Next to Warhorse, Regaari looked positively pathetic.
“Your turn,” he confirmed, fighting to maintain some semblance of gravitas when he looked half-drowned and was shivering uncontrollably.
“Yeah, uh… Dude. Don’t use Formulation Three.” Warhorse cautioned, referring to one of the hypoallergenic shampoos they’d been able to acquire for the mission. The Gaoians were going to need a thorough decontamination at the end of every day, and finding products that were safe for nonhuman skin but still tough on Terran pathogens and allergens had been… challenging.
Base’s brow creased interrogatively. “Okay, but why not?”
“Turns out it contains civet musk oil.”
“That’s bad?”
“Don’t. Ask.”
“Though, um, any clan which imported that… substance would surely become very wealthy and powerful.” Regaari fidgeted in his seat.
“Ah. you mean that… interesting scent isn’t you?" Ayma asked, flicking an amused ear. The vapor that had spilled out of the bathroom alongside Regaari and his human friend had a potent aphrodisiac component. “I shall have to alert Yulna to the danger of males trying to import this substance…”
Regaari’s ears wilted and he fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.
Ayma decided it would be cruel to tease him further. “Very well. Shall we go decontaminate, Baseball? Hopefully any lingering… awkwardness will have dissipated by the time we are done."
Base chuckled. “Sure.”
Ayma couldn’t hold back a deep wave of trepidation when they entered the bathing suite. “Does it truly have to be a wet bath?" she asked.
“Truly does, unless you wanna wind up breathing in all the deathworld stuff in your fur. And, uh, you’re gonna need to seal those robes in this here bag.” Base offered it. When Ayma duck-nodded and began to remove the garment, he turned around sharply.
“…What are you doing?” She asked.
“Just, uh…”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Ayma directed an exasperated glance at the ceiling. “You and I are of different species, and mine doesn’t subscribe to human body- squeamishness in any case.”
“You’ve got those robes, an’ overalls an’ stuff…” Base pointed out, still not turning around. Ayma stuffed her dirty clothing into the bag and sealed it as the instructions dictated.
“And you have those ‘ranger shorts’ which don’t seem consistent with any other human notion of modesty I have encountered." Ayma retorted. “Besides, how am I expected to carry my communicator and wallet in my fur?” She turned on her best Mother voice. “Now will you please recover your senses and help me decontaminate?"
The Mother voice worked. He cleared his throat and turned around, gave her a curious look, and then shrugged. “You’re right. You look more like a… a dog or a cat or something,” he agreed.
“I know what you’re saying, but please don’t compare us to non-sapient animals, Baseball.” she requested. “It’s not… dignified.”
“Right. Sorry.” He turned and grabbed some bottles. “So, this here’s the shampoos… Number three is out, so that leaves… these.”
Ayma’s nose twitched. “That’s… quite a potent scent. Why are they so perfumed?”
“Humans like our soap to smell good I guess.” Baseball, a man who smelled almost exclusively of clean sweat and testosterone, shrugged. “And these are prescription soaps for people with, like, delicate skin conditions and stuff, but they’re supposed to still smell nice.”
“They’re overpowering! Do your noses even work properly?”
Base scoffed. “Dude. Speciesist. Now come on, which smells nicest?”
“That one is… heady. What is it?”
“Uh… Coconut butter.”
Ayma ducked her head in a ‘let’s get this over with’ way and Baseball started the shower, which coughed and spurted before settling into a steady stream. He ran his hand under it once or twice, gauging the temperature, then invited Ayma to do the same.
“That’s… just right.” she declared, took a deep breath and stepped under it.
Gaoians had an uneasy relationship with water. Males from working clanless castes and the more notable labor clans like Stoneback tended to clip their fur right back to the undercoat so as to soak it and work long hours, cooled by evaporating water.
Females, however, were not usually workers, and the only time Ayma had previously managed to be truly drenched had been when she had fallen into a fountain in the Commune as a young female just out of cubhood. Water had gone up her nose and she had felt miserable for hours as she slowly dried.
This was… better, at least. The water was nice and warm, but it still made her fur heavy and plastered it down, leaving her - she knew - looking small and skinny and helpless. Still, when Baseball played the showerhead over her scalp and water flooded her ears, it was all she could do not to claw at him and escape.
She settled instead for shaking her head violently to dislodge it, and Baseball made an “Uagh!” noise as second-hand water splattered his face.
“Right, because you have grounds to complain." Ayma growled. She was already shivering, despite the water’s warmth.
“You’re the one who wanted to come to this planet.” Baseball reminded her. “Ain’t my fault that means a thorough shampoo once a day. Here.” He handed her the showerhead. “I got all the stuff you can’t reach. You’re on your own for the front and the awkward bits.”
Ayma accepted it and dutifully set about making sure every inch of her was properly soaked. Baseball, for his part, squirted a large (and cold) dollop of soap onto her upper back and started to massage it in with equal parts strength and delicacy.
“So who was this mate I remind you of?” he asked.
“I-? Oh. Daar, the sire of my third cub. Daar of Stoneback.”
“Big guy?”
“The biggest. Daar is the Stoneback clan’s great success story.” Telling the story was a welcome distraction. “The end product of their whole genetic program. He’s almost as strong as a human, in some ways.”
“Right. Y’all aren’t that far behind us really.”
“Far enough behind that if you were to punch me, I would have better chances of surviving a pulse pistol.”
“Yeah, but part of that’s… like, we’re made to punch. Gaoians aren’t. Bet you if you could use that long dorsal muscle for punching you’d hit about as hard as we do."
“I have my doubts.” Ayma shook her head again. Baseball raised a hand to ward off flying droplets. “…I’m sorry. It’s very hard not to do that.”
“You okay?” Baseball asked.
“I itch all over. Wet fur… what is the term? Sucks."
“Beats acute respiratory distress.” He reminded her. “Here’s the shampoo.”
Ayma accepted it and set about massaging it right into every hair follicle she had. “He’s a bit of a freak, really.” she conceded. “But that’s what his clan have been trying to breed for thousands of years: a freak.”
“I’m guessing they’re breeding from him, too.”
“With females who’ll accept the proposition, yes. As I did. Apparently I’m quite the catch,”
“Why’s that?” Base asked. He started rinsing out the soap again.
“My own genetic legacy includes Clans Highmountain and Goldpaw.” Ayma revealed.
“That’s good?”
“They specialize in science and philosophy and in commerce and trade respectively. Thinkers and merchants. A good legacy, and one I’m proud to be part of.”
Base’s hands paused. “See, that’d bother me.” He said. “Being just… being valued only for my genes.”
Ayma turned her head and gave him as best a sidelong glance as she could. “Why?”
“Hey, someday, kids’d be nice.” Base said. “But I wanna make a difference myself, not just be the daddy of the person who made a difference.”
Ayma turned away again. “Do you know how old I am?” she asked.
“No.”
“I will be fifty-four soon. That’s in Gaoian years. In humans years, I’m…” she raised her head slightly to perform some mental calculations. “…About forty- five.”
“Wow. I thought you were younger.”
Ayma duck-nodded again. “We don’t decline slowly like you do. We stay in our prime for most of our lives, but our geriatric decline is abrupt. The very oldest Gaoian I ever heard of was Father Fyu, who lived to be more than a hundred of our years old. The oldest I ever knew personally was Mother-Supreme Giymuy, who was ninety-two when she died. Most Gaoians… eighty of our years.”
“That’s not so bad.” Base said.
“Except that there are twelve of our years to every ten of yours.” Ayma said. “Most humans can expect to live a fifth as long again as I will, and… bear in mind, that life expectancy is the product of all our advances in medical science. And I mean no offense, Baseball, but our medicine is a very long way in advance of humanity’s."
“Oh.” Baseball didn’t apparently know what to say beyond that, and so settled for gently plucking the shampoo bottle out of her paw and starting the second lather.
“We… are not a long-lived species.” Ayma summarized. “Not by your standards, and especially not when compared to Corti or Guvnuragnaguvendrugun. If we stopped breeding, Gao would not even go a hundred years before it was dark and empty. Is it really so surprising that I might be proud to breed and raise the next generation?"
“I guess not.” He conceded.
“Not everybody can make a difference, Baseball. Not everybody should. I respect what you and Warhorse do, and what Regaari does, but you would not be here without… farmers, and builders and all the people who are content not to make a difference. You would not exist without Mothers."
Baseball’s hands were steady as he made sure she was as clean as possible, but his voice was uncertain. “I guess…”
“Is something wrong?”
Baseball thought before replying. “Just in my head.” he decided. “It’s your life, you do what you want with it. I guess I’m just not used to women who like raising kids and all that."
“What kind of woman are you used to?" Ayma inquired.
“Heh. Women like Technical Sergeant Kovač, or Corporal Deacon, or Major Jackson I guess.”
“I don’t know them.” Ayma said. “Well, unless you mean the Major Jackson who was your species’ first FTL pilot?”
“Yeah, she’s working with Public Relations a lot these days, and she and Major Powell are a thing. Not sure how much of a thing, but a thing. She’s pretty cool. ”
“And who are the other two?”
“Kovač is our spacesuit guru. Brain like you wouldn’t believe. Pretty sure she’s sweet on ’Horse, too, but she’s biding her time. Deacon’s fun. She’s one of Firth’s support techs, got small hands and strong shoulders. Conditioner?”
“What does it do?” Ayma asked, studying the offered bottle suspiciously.
“Should help with the itching.”
Ayma almost snatched it from him. “Oh, by all the Clans, yes please!”
Base was right, the second he started rubbing the ‘conditioner’ in, the worst of the itching faded away. “You know… if you ever retire from the SOR and find that you need a replacement career, you would be well received on Gao as a masseuse.” she told him.
“Strong but gentle, huh?”
“I am yet to meet a human who isn’t.”
Base chuckled, and handed her the conditioner bottle, which she set to work soothing her itching chest and abdomen. “But… I mean, you let me know if I’m getting too personal, but did you grow up and become a Mother and that was it? How do you know this is your calling if you never tried anything else?”
“Oh, I did.” Ayma revealed. “I took a research position at a Clan Highmountain observatory when I was young. The same one that discovered Gorai, our first colony world. But… I met my first mate there, we had a healthy female cub together, and… I immediately knew that this was what I wanted to do."
Baseball didn’t respond, but he seemed to relax, smiled and nodded.
“You approve?” Ayma guessed.
“Like I said: S’just not what I’m used to, but I feel you. Finding the thing you know you wanna do in life."
He grabbed the showerhead. “Final rinse.”
“Let’s get it over with…” Ayma sighed, and shut her eyes, feeling the hot water sluice the conditioner out of her fur. She just knew that her ears and whiskers were drooping piteously.
Eventually, the ordeal was over, and Baseball grabbed an enormous white towel. “Okay. Get dry.”
“I need the towel to get dry.” Ayma told him.
“Nuh-ah. This is for my protection.”
“…Oh.”
She sighed, aware that shaking water out was completely undignified and uncivilized… but also highly effective. Base raised the towel to shield himself and Ayma sighed inwardly, dropped to all fours and liberally covered the inside of the bathroom with water droplets.
It felt irritatingly cathartic and, just to spite Baseball for making her do it, she shook again a second time when he peeked over the towel, then stood up again.
Baseball wiped his face off. “Did you have to?" he complained.
“No, but you didn’t have to make me dry off like an animal.” Ayma retorted, and took the towel from him.
She threw the enormous cloth around her in a kind of rough toga and dried her limbs. Base handed her a second one. “You’re really bothered by that.” he noted.
“Wouldn’t you be?"
“Not really. We’re animals. Why try an’ pretend otherwise?” Base shrugged. “We walk around, we eat stuff, breathe… animals.”
“Personally, I aspire to be more.” Ayma sniffed, scrubbing the towel into the top and back of her head.
“Me too! But you don’t get there by forgettin’ what you are.” Base opened the door.
If the inside of the bathroom had been humid and fragrant, the main room smelled mostly of hot air, moisture and wet Gaoian. Regaari was sitting miserably still while being methodically blasted by some kind of hand-held hot air gun while Ares combed and brushed his fur. Already there was a… fluffy… quality to him that just didn’t look dignified.
He gave Ayma an affronted look that communicated quite clearly that he blamed her for his current predicament.
“Ah. This must be that ‘blow-drying’ I heard so much about." Ayma hazarded.
Base produced a second hot air gun. “Yup.”
“Is there any chance that I could…?”
“Nope.”
There was no appropriate word in Gaori. Fortunately, there were several appropriate ones in English, and Ayma dutifully selected one as she sat on the bed and awaited her turn.
“…Shit."
Date Point 10y4m1w AV
Allied Extrasolar Command, Scotch Creek, British Columbia, Canada.
General Martin Tremblay
“A nanofactory.”
“Yup.” Major Nadeau grinned. “A full-sized industrial one. Kwmbwrw tech, which puts it about five hundred years ahead of the prototype in Dusseldorf.”
“Which is a good seven years from being switched on anyway.” Colonel Bartlett added.
Tremblay inspected the summary that Kirk had sent them, after a long and tense absence.
After ten years of living at the Scotch Creek facility and seeing it go from research center to the sprawling nerve center of extrasolar defence, one thing he’d become thoroughly acquainted with was advanced technology. He might not be able to write the field equations from memory like Nadeau and Bartlett could, but when it came to spotting the strategic implications of every new piece of alien gear that came their way, he prided himself on leading the pack.
It felt good not to be playing catch-up with the geniuses.
“Suddenly, I feel a good deal more optimistic.” he mused. “We’re sure it’s Kirk?"
His intelligence advisor, Lieutenant-Colonel Clarke, pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Psychologically he’s yellow at worst, but until somebody with need-to-know on DEEP RELIC presses a scanner to his head, he’s orange.” he declared.
Tremblay sucked some air thoughtfully through his teeth. “Orange”, in the parlance of their system for classifying the likelihood that a given person was carrying a Hierarchy agent meant ‘high risk’. He would almost have preferred red - ‘strongly suspected’ - or even a conclusive black.
“And he’s not prepared to drop the shield and let anybody in?”
“No, sir. No jump beacons, no traffic. Not until Lewis Beverote finishes… whatever it is he’s going to finish. Until then, it’s communication only.”
“What, does he think we’re riddled with Hierarchy ourselves?” Nadeau asked.
“Either he’s being commendably cautious…” Clarke said, “or else he’s compromised. We have no conclusive way of knowing.”
“And Beverote needs to know what we need in order to put the factory to best use.” Tremblay read off the bottom of the report.
He tapped his thumb on the table to help him think. “…Shit.”
“Yup.” Clarke agreed.
Nadeau cleared his throat. “Sirs?”
“…We’re at an impasse.” Tremblay explained. “Can’t trust him, can’t gain his trust. Until we know he’s not Hierarchy, we can’t give him anything useful to do without potentially tipping our hand as to long-term strategy, and both he and that nanofactory are too valuable to waste on makework. We need to secure them, for better or worse."
“What about this ship he mentions?” Clarke mused. “The Negotiable Curiosity?"
“True. if Kirk’s an active agent for the Hierarchy then including that detail in his report makes little sense…” Tremblay drummed his fingers on the desk some more, then reached a decision and stood.
“Bartlett, Nadeau: You’re dismissed. Thank you.”
Both men stood, nodded, and made their exit. Tremblay turned to Clarke.
“I want to sent a JETS team after that ship.”
“Isn’t chasing a spaceship the SOR’s job?” Clarke asked.
“Too valuable, and still recovering from Capitol Station. Still, ships can’t fly forever. Eventually they’re going to land somewhere…”
“…and JETS can pick them up when they do.” Clarke nodded. “So, we need our informants to keep watch for this thing.”
Tremblay paced by his window, thumb pressed thoughtfully to his chin. “Do we have anything on this Bedu character?”
“I’ll find out.” Clarke promised. “Who were you thinking of sending?”
“I’ll ask our colleagues down south for an STS element, I think. And we’ll need a V-Class, obviously.”
Clarke nodded. “That should buy trust with Kirk if he’s not compromised.” he agreed. “Not to mention whatever intel we can get from that ship and its crew.”
“They’ll be pawns.” Tremblay predicted. He sat back down and started to compose his requests and orders. “Still. You never know…”
Date Point 10y4m1w AV
Mrwrki Station, Uncharted System, Deep Space
Lewis Beverote
There was an idea forming.
Okay. That wasn’t accurate. There were several ideas forming. Thousands. Most, so far as Lewis could tell, were completely batfuck crazy and of no practical use, ripped straight from the pages of old scifi novels. A factory that could turn an entire asteroid belt into an ocean of unmanned space fighters? Great idea, if only they weren’t fighting a digital species that didn’t even live in the real world.
Some kind of poison to induce implant rejection? Would have also induced fatal encephalitis.
And those were just the pertinent ideas, the ones that came even vaguely close to addressing the challenge that Kirk hat set him: Saving the Earth from the Hierarchy.
Some of his ideas were just crazy. Using forcefields to brew the perfectly aerated espresso. A field equation that proved that it was possible to build a Niven Ring if you used a solar-enclosing forcefield to power another forcefield that was powerful enough to overcome the tensile strength problem, after which point the only real obstacles were time and material. Twenty kilometer tall robots piloted by an uploaded human brain and powered by a captive black hole. The potential weaponization of mice, opera and the Big Mac. A nutritionally balanced and, importantly, palatable portable ration to replace the nutrient sphere, derived from maize and rice.
Okay, maybe that last one wasn’t so crazy.
The point was… all the data in the world was useless without context. How could you even start thinking about saving a planet from an implacably genocidal species of sapient software who held the lives of ninety percent of the galaxy’s population to ransom?
He’d been chewing it over for weeks. Fine, save the world. Great. But every scrap of data he was learning about every discipline he could think of was only doing more and more and more to convince him that there was nothing he could do.
Kirk hadn’t visited in a few days. Vedreg’s chromatophore strips had a sickly, cautious quality to them. Every conversation ended in an argument, in rage, in futility.
There was, he knew deep in his bones, just no way that he could save Earth.
And that was where the idea was coming from. The idea was this:
If it was true that once you had eliminated the impossible, whatever remained
- however improbable - must be the truth, then it followed that once you had eliminated all of the impossible courses of action, then whatever options remained - however dubious the odds of success - must be the one to go for.
When Lewis came to speak this thought out loud, it didn’t sound half as good as it had in his head.
He simplified it to something he preferred: “If you can’t do what you’d like, do what you can.”
He couldn’t save the Earth.
But, he was beginning to suspect, he might just be able to save the human race.
He deleted his files and started over.
Date Point 10y4m1w AV
Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota, United States, Earth
Regaari
Major Powell was practically radiating unease, not that Regaari could blame him. After all, what Regaari was about to do was a calculated risk that would have incredibly serious repercussions for the major if it went wrong.
“You’re certain about this?” he repeated, for what must have been the thirtieth time.
“I’m certain, major. You worry after me like a Mother with a sickly cub!”
“Aye, I suppose I do…”
Ayma made a nervous noise. “He really is not the only one. Regaari, this isn’t wise.”
“Aye.” Powell agreed. “This is a risky endeavor…”
“And a rewarding one, personally and professionally, for both of us.” Regaari insisted. “Now please. My mind is made up: I’m doing this.”
‘This’, meant unadulterated, unfiltered immersion in the alien beauty of the landscape that surrounded them. He and Ayma were, after all, visiting the most dangerous temperate planet outside of Nightmare known to exist, and that sparked his adventurous spirit in a way that surprised even himself. How could he not explore such a place?
Of course, when comparing Nightmare and Earth, the question of which was “most dangerous” was open to some interpretation. Nightmare had seasonal extremes unseen on any other temperate world and those extremes drove a boom-bust lifecycle that even the Earth couldn’t match. This in turn inspired absolutely vicious flora and fauna during the resource-rich summer and a deep, torpid sloth during the long, long winters.
And yet…
Clan Highmountain - ever the scientists and farsighted thinkers - had once sent an expedition to Nightmare, looking for clues to what awaited Gao in the future millions of years of its slow ascent into Deathworld status. Nightmare’s highly eccentric orbit had turned out to be surprisingly bad for diversity: with the whole planet being freezing cold for two thirds of its year and with a scorching hot summer sandwiched by brief, mild equinoxes, biome variation was almost nonexistent. Nightmare was essentially a single, worldwide temperate rainforest, having a remarkably uniform catalog of species from pole to pole. Every last one of which were impressively lethal, to be sure, but nothing like the rich diversity of what Earth had on offer.
Earth had so many ecologies that it boggled the mind.
To Regaari’s thinking that made it more dangerous, and far more interesting. The regular seasons might have made it easier to plan for and gather resources such as food, but even a day’s walk away may find a hapless wanderer in a totally different environment, surrounded by unforeseen lurking dangers. The very idea of being able to stand on a desert hilltop and see lush grassland, or gaze across a wide river to see forest on one bank and swamp on the other was compelling.
There were political calculations involved beyond his genuine desire to see what the humans called “Mother Nature”. Yes, the award he was due to receive from the “British” was a massive propaganda victory for Clan Whitecrest, but the real value would be in the footage of a Gaoian - a Whitecrest - walking unaided and (mostly) unprotected on the most infamous of Deathworlds. That would go down well at home.
It was certainly going down well on Earth. The reporters that dogged his and Ayma’s every step were being kept at a respectful distance, shooting video with long-throw lenses and drones that were, next to galactic technology, shocking primitive but still elegantly functional in their design and execution.
He recognised major Jackson, standing politely near to the reporters. She had spent time in front of many of them in turn, answering questions, putting on a smiling face, controlling the official Allied take on Regaari’s experiment, and occasionally conversing with Powell to pin down some minute detail of their message.
Deciding that he’d pontificated long enough, he glanced at Warhorse who was fiddling nervously with a pouch on his tactical vest, then at Ayma. Both gave him a reluctant nod.
Regaari gulped, read his hazard detector one last time and confirmed the air was currently safe to breathe, stepped out onto the bluff, deactivated the forcefield around his head, and breathed.
He immediately erected the shield again. The experience hadn’t been unpleasant
- far from it - but it had been the olfactory equivalent of walking into a room where loud music was playing. The nose needed time to adjust.
This time, he scaled down the field intensity by degrees, allowing more and more of Earth’s rich, warm, moist air to reach his nostrils until finally the field was gone and he could immerse himself in the full perfumed glory of it.
It was beautiful.
There were so many, many, many different and competing aromas, some subtle, some cloying, others brutally intense. For a long while he just stood there and drank in the bouquet of Earth, letting it suffuse him and change him. He had never experienced anything quite like it and he knew that he would later spend hours describing this little aspect of his adventure to his Brothers, all the while failing to properly convey it.
Behind him, he was dimly aware of cameras clicking and whirring madly as they recorded his obvious pleasure.
The second thing he noticed were the sounds. Once the cameras had died down a bit and the Park Rangers encouraged some quiet, the gentle, subtle sound of everything came to him. Life was here. Life in such enormous variety that it humbled what one might find anywhere else. Life in all of its tiny, scuttering, careful beauty. He twitched an ear as something small moved restlessly in a nearby bush, no doubt scared still by all this activity. A flying animal of some kind whirred as it burst out of one bush, undulated over a hundred meters of ground in three short bursts of powered flight, and vanished into another bush.
There was more to be seen than would be gained by simply standing still and let it come to him. He wanted to explore, and so he opened his eyes and set off on a tour with the Park Rangers who, casting the occasional glance at Warhorse, set about showed him things that challenged his perception of what a Deathworld really was.
First was the stunning, complex interplay of life itself. There was so much of it, even here, even in what was allegedly a rugged and comparatively empty part of the planet. The weathered badlands were far, far from dead and empty: They were utterly alive with flowers and shrubs and insects too numerous to count, buzzing and rustling in the breeze and each contributing to the loud but delicate nasal symphony.
Earth, the most infamous Deathworld in the galaxy, was bursting at the seams with life.
The tour wound on. Gaining in confidence, the park rangers picked out some binoculars and began to point out wildlife both nearby and distant. They steered him away from a fat, humming bee (a real danger, if it were to sting him) directed his binoculars to a bison (so big!) pointed out some nearby rabbits (which vanished when startled, so quickly that Regaari barely saw them do it) and off in the distance, a mighty, fearsome grizzly bear (that creature made even the well-armed Park Rangers nervous).
He watched it stand on its hind legs, aim its nose at them, sniff the air, the drop onto all fours and beat a dignified retreat. The bison had done something similar.
“It’s… running away?”
The park ranger nodded. “He’s just staying out of our way.” she agreed.
“Why?” Ayma asked.
“We’re an unknown to him and may be risky. Most animals will keep to themselves unless they’re forced to interact.”
“That seems wise, I suppose.” Ayma conceded.
“It’s deceptive.” Regaari mused. “I know that bear is a dangerous animal, but from this far away it almost seems…comical and fuzzy.”
“Maybe, but he’s decidedly not.” the ranger told him. “Like you said, that bear is far away. Up close, a specimen that big is a threat to even a bison. His has claws are about THIS long, his teeth are THIS big, and he’s stronger than any human alive.”
The Major huffed quietly at that, a slight grin on his face. Regaari would ask about that later.
“Anyway, that’s why we’re keeping our distance, and I think he has the same idea.”
“But surely that bear would not fear us!”
“Hard to say.” the male ranger chipped in. “Bears are unpredictable precisely because they’re so large and powerful. If he was hungry? Perhaps he may have investigated, but a good dose of pepper spray in its face would likely have scared it off. A mother protecting her cubs? Well…that’s a story we didn’t need to tell today.”
Ayma chittered at that. “Ah. That sounds familiar.”
The warden smiled at her, maybe not quite understanding the source of her amusement. “…But for the most part? He’d probably keep his distance, especially of a group this large. Wildlife is generally shy.”
“…shy? Why would he be shy?” Regaari asked.
“Because he’s smarter than the average bear.” the female ranger commented. There were chuckles at that, meaning that it was presumably some in-joke or pop culture reference that Regaari had yet to encounter. “We’re dangerous and he damn well knows it.”
Ayma’s ears twisted as she watched the bear pause atop a slight swell in the terrain and look back. “Understandable, but in that case why are we avoiding it?”
“Because he’s dangerous." the male ranger replied. “Which means that too close an encounter would end with him dead and maybe someone here hurt, probably quite badly. And none of us want either of those things.”
That struck Regaari as a very human thing to say - All the destructive ability in the galaxy, and no desire to do so. At least, not here, and not now.
“Anyway, he’s not even the biggest threat. There’s a pack of wolves yonder-” he pointed, and both Gaoians raised their binoculars. Regaari fancied that he saw a flash of fur among the distant grasses. “-that’s been skirting the outside of our sight, watching us. They know us.” he gestured to his partner and himself “…but don’t know you or anyone else here.”
“Wolves? Surely those would be a danger! I’ve read they were feared for millennia.” Ayma sounded genuinely alarmed.
“They don’t usually attack humans, not unless they’re desperate.” the female ranger reassured her. “And even they’d rather avoid the risk. Here, in this place? Attacking prey is dangerous. What if you were a wolf, and that bison turned around and gored you? You would be broken and a liability to the pack. Would you survive? The pack would bring you food and such, but what if you didn’t heal? A broken bone is practically a death sentence in the wild. What if the wound became infected?”
She smiled fondly at the wolves while the Gaoians mulled that point over.
“So how do they hunt, then?” Regaari asked. “They must take some risk.”
“They go after the sick and isolated and obviously weak, or smaller things like the rabbits. They won’t attempt larger and more dangerous prey unless they must. And, hell, sometimes rival predators decide to be friends. We’ve seen it more than once, particularly with bears and wolves.”
“Wh…friends? Why would they cooperate?” Regaari asked.
“Why not? Instead of competing for the same resource, why not share? We see it mostly with lone male wolves and bears. They may align for a season and hunt together. It increases the chance of a kill, after all. But beyond that, they do genuinely seem to enjoy company. We see polar bears up north, for example, playing with sled dogs when no food advantage at all exists.”
“Dexter.”
Regaari turned to Warhorse, who was monitoring something on a tablet. “Wind’s picking up south of here and the pollen count’s rising. Gotta call it, man.”
Regaari nodded sadly and allowed himself one last, full immersion in what his nose was telling him. He very much doubted he would ever get another chance. “Last chance.” he told Ayma.
She paused, then bobbled her head sideways - a no. “I’m not of Whitecrest stock.” she reminded him. “What you can enjoy might… I’m happy, anyway.”
Regaari duck-nodded, and, with one last blissful sniff, raised his shield again. Warhorse ran the medical scanner over him the instant it was fully up.
“…You’re probably gonna have a runny nose and watering eyes tonight.” he decided. Baseball promptly burrowed in his bag and produced some antihistamines.
“We’ll need to thoroughly scrub that fur out.” Adam added, as Regaari accepted one and swallowed it with a little water. “But… yeah, I reckon you’re fine.”
Baseball, Powell and the two rangers visibly relaxed.
They strolled gently back up the hill toward the waiting entourage of reporters, which Regaari could tell that Powell was doing his best not to scowl at. “Feel like making a statement?” the major asked.
“I think I have just the thing.”
They strayed close enough for microphones and cameras to be thrust in their direction and a clamour of questions that only quieted when major Jackson raised her hands and pleaded for peace.
Regaari had been choosing his words with care all the way up the slope. “That was an experience I know I shall never forget.” he said. “The word ‘Earth’ doesn’t quite translate properly into Gaori. We have a word for dirt and mud, another word for the ground beneath our feet… but I think having been here to see and hear and smell all of this, the word that fits best is ‘Yei’ which means… well, it means a place where things grow."
Lots of deathworlder teeth became visible as the journalists collectively grinned and started spinning that soundbite while Powell and the Protectors gently escorted Ayma and Regaari away from them.
Warhorse was the first to speak, once they were out of earshot. “Bro. That was a real nice thing to say.” he enthused.
Ayma chittered. “He could talk a summer flower into blooming in winter, couldn’t he?” she asked rhetorically, using a Gaoian idiom.
“Aye. Silver-tongued, so he is.” Powell agreed, using a human one.
Regaari admitted a smug little dip of his ears, but didn’t feel remotely embarrassed by the praise. “It was nothing,” he told them “but the truth.”
Date Point 10y4m1w AV
Cairo, Egypt, Earth.
Master Sergeant Roy Vinther
Sergeant Coombes was getting nervous. “There’s that guy again… Orange Five.”
“You know the drill, BOUNCER.” Vinther ordered. “Stay casual, just keep walking.”
“When are we gonna get a fuckin’ go on this thing?”
“Soon as we’ve got grounds to upgrade these fuckers to Red. You out of sight yet?”
“Made the corner, yeah. Got a good look at the guy, looks like he might be our Yemeni victim.”
“Looks like?”
There was silence and a couple of clicks on the line - Thomson must have been walking past civilians and unable to speak. Some seconds later, he was able to reply. “Looks a lot like.”
Vinther glanced over to where Staff Sergeant Walsh, their “intel weenie”, was sat behind him in the nondescript van they’d parked a hundred yards or so from the suspicious site. The description was a joke and a farcical one: Walsh was a Combat Controller with Duty and Secondary AFSCs in ops intel. He’d been forced out of the early SOR highway by an injury, making him by far the biggest guy on the operation. Not SOR-big, but still a large, strong dude, with an even larger, stronger brain.
Walsh got on the line himself. “BOUNCER, DRINKIN’ BUDDY. Scale of one to ten?”
“Solid eight for ya, DRINKIN’ BUDDY.”
Walsh nodded, then frowned at his tablet. “Convoy. Comin’ in from the north. Two SUVs, a van and a pickup.”
Vinther checked with their guy on a nearby rooftop, Staff Sergeant Porter. “HANGOVER, you got eyes on?”
“Sure do, BARKEEP. Headed right past you.”
Everyone promptly scooted down in their chairs so as to be invisible. They didn’t move or make a noise until the eight vehicles had rumbled past.
“BARKEEP, HANGOVER. They went into the compound.”
“Walsh…?” Vinther asked, over his shoulder.
“Red.” Walsh decided.
“That’s a red.” Vinther declared, for the Delta Force team to hear. “Go for stage two, just like we planned.”
Stage two took advantage of the quiet and careful reconnaissance they’d made on the compound, an old souk that had been long since converted into a warehouse or workshop of some kind, enclosing a large open area. It was a thoroughly permeable structure, but that worked both ways - plenty of ways in, and plenty of ways for hostiles to slip out or wait in ambush.
Vinther and Walsh had the “low-risk” approach - a corner of the building where an old window had been covered over with some drapes and not much else. Thompson had already checked it and declared that a stealthy ingress that way should be thoroughly do-able. They grabbed their M4s, were out of the van and up to the old souk in seconds.
Vinther took point. It was the work of seconds to move the drapes aside, pull himself through, and wave Walsh in after him.
Their radio clicked. “BARKEEP, HANGOVER.” he was whispering, sub-vocalising into his mic. “Shit’s moving down here, they got two hostages, so we better pick it up - Oh Jesus fucking Christ….”
Vinther and Walsh exchanged a frown. HANGOVER was a professional. Hearing him so upset was jarring. “Sitrep”
“They took her brain out, what the fuck? What the… fuck. Oh God"
“They what?"
“Black. We’re fucking black. We need the fucking Rangers in here right now." Walsh hissed.
“Call ’em.” Vinther agreed, aware that Walsh had probably sent that on all channels just for the few extra seconds it’d earn. He darted up the hallway they were in and to a doorway, carefully swept his gun around the whole room as he stepped over the threshold. Once happy that it was clear, he scurried over to the window that looked into the courtyard.
About a half-dozen people were standing around watching invisible forcefields delicately, bloodlessly and seamlessly reassemble a woman’s head. Restrained next to her was a weeping younger woman with a strong family resemblance to the victim and vomit down her front. Even as he watched, the forcefields dropped the victim delicately onto her feet. She blinked and looked around and then, without any speech or apparent communication at all, stepped over to help one of the others in picking up her terrified former family member.
“BOUNCER, you got a shot?” Vinther asked.
“Yeah.”
“Take it.”
The unfortunate new biodrone’s head burst. The hostage screamed and collapsed, hands flailing as her other captor met a similarly decisive end. She wrapped herself into a tight ball with her hands over her head as the remaining biodrones reacted as a single unit, drawing guns and firing at BOUNCER’s position.
Vinther took his own shot, and watched in astonishment as it clearly ricocheted off something solid between him and his target that he couldn’t see. Rapid-fire and the lightning-strike detonation of flashbangs at multiple points around the compound heralded the arrival of the Rangers.
“Watch the hostage!” he ordered on an open channel, and lined up another shot.
He didn’t get to take it. Something made of nothing swallowed the last of the biodrones, and there was a roaring, shrieking noise as a very large and completely invisible object kicked up dust and loose objects. A flapping cloth hanging from the wall caught on it as it rose, and, sensing valuable intel afoot, Vinther kept his helmet cam trained on it as the cloth draped across it and revealed its outline.
It looked for all the world like a classic flying saucer.
The cloth slid off, the howl of UFO engines hit a peak, and it was gone with a sonic boom. For a few seconds, some last gunfire rattled around the old souk, and then the all-clear came in. A Ranger medic double-timed over to the hostage, who was wailing and cradling her loved one’s body, and Vinther relaxed.
Walsh was beside him. “Holy. Shit.”
“Yeah. Did you fucking see that?"
“I saw.” Walsh nodded.
“A spaceship. They have a fucking spaceship on Earth.”
Walsh nodded again, and rubbed at his brow. “Well,” he said. “’Least we know about it now…”
Date Point 10y4m1w1d AV
Saint James’s Palace, London, England, Earth
Major Owen Powell
Admiral Sir Patrick Knight was in his element surrounded by ancient brickwork and the bustle of the working palace, guiding the VIPs and their Protectors into the back of some understated black cars before stepping into one himself. He seemed to fit in at the very heart of Britain’s constitutional monarchy, unlike Powell, who’d spent so many days now involved in the business of the Gaoian diplomatic tour that he was about ready to throw himself at the walls to burn off his excess energy.
Goodness knew how Burgess and Ares were faring - between the fact that their own routines far exceeded his for strenuousness, and the much greater atmospheric oxygen relative to what they were used to in Folctha, he would have expected them to be fizzing by now. That they were holding it together was at once both surprising and encouraging.
“Penny for your thoughts, Powell?”
He jumped slightly as Rylee Jackson, who somehow managed to be quiet even in the hard heels of her Air Force “blues”, stepped up beside him and gave him a gentle touch on the elbow. Any more affectionate gesture than that would have to wait for back in the hotel.
He rubbed at his chin to cover the startle. “Just findin’ it a bit strange that two American lads under my command are off to meet the King, and I’m sat here twiddlin’ me thumbs until they come back.” he mused.
“Jealous?” she asked, teasingly.
Powell watched the motorcade depart and turn towards the Mall. “Yes an’ no.” he decided.
Jackson looked around. “We’ve got half an hour before they’re due back, nothing to do in that time and you’re on edge. I know it’s not much next to your usual regimen, but why don’t we take a stroll, get a look at the place? I’ve always wanted to visit England.”
“Aye, that sounds nice.” Powell agreed. “Bloody nice weather, too.”
“If you say so.” she half-smiled, and picked at the blue pullover sweater she had on over her shirt. “It’s kinda cold for my tastes.”
“Blue sky.” he pointed out.
She rolled her eyes and her smile got a little broader. “Oh, yeah. Break out the beer and hot dogs.”
This got a chuckle out of him. “Arright. Not sure where we can stroll to around here though."
“That’s fine. let’s just get away from those cameras.”
They did so, heading away from the stable yard and hugging the wall until suddenly they found a secluded spot where nobody could see them. Powell felt a hand on his upper arm and when he turned to check on her she surprised him with a brief, but tender, kiss.
He blinked, and laughed. “That was nice. What was it for?”
“Come on, how often do you get to sneak a kiss in the grounds of a royal palace?” she grinned and, with a tilt of her head, suggested they should start walking again. “I know, I know, we’re on the job, there’s media around, I should be more careful…”
“Oi.” Powell chuckled at her. “I won’t tell if you don’t. I like the thrill of a little danger meself.”
“Fuckin’ A!” she nodded, then put a hand to her mouth guiltily. “Probably shouldn’t swear here.”
“It’s not fookin’ church.” Powell teased.
Their stroll took them back around an internal corner of the stable yard, and back into view of a news crew. “So… what did you mean by ‘yes and no’?" Rylee asked him.
Powell shrugged. “I never met the King, but they have that tradition of service… I remember there was this interview Harry gave, when he was crewin’ Apaches in Afghanistan. Summat came up and he just ripped the mic off and belted for his machine with ‘is mates. I’ve got a lotta respect for ’em in that regard. You know better’n anyone, it’s gotta be hard bein’ military and bein’ a celebrity at the same time.”
“Tell me about it.” She kept a professionally neutral face as the camera turned to watch them pass. Just two officers going about their business, rather than two… close friends enjoying each others’ company.
“So, yeah on that level I’ve got a lot of respect for His Majesty and the lads. But…" Powell checked they weren’t in earshot of anybody. “I’unno. I’ve always been summat of a republican meself.”
“Isn’t the King your commander-in-chief?”
“Aye. An’, don’t get me wrong, I take that fookin’ seriously. So long as that’s how it works, I’ll go wi’ it. But if there was a referendum tomorrow about becoming… I dunno, the United British Republic or summat like that? I know which way I’d vote. I’d rather have a proper constitution than all…” he waved a hand at the Tudor opulence around them. “-this.”
“Pity.” Rylee mused.
“Don’t tell me you’re a monarchist?” Powell asked her.
“It seems to work for this country. It just wouldn’t be Britain somehow without it, you know?"
“It’s not like all those buildings and stuff would just go away. Hell, it’s not like we’d roll out the fookin’ guillotine, neither.” Powell pointed out.
“Yeah, I know. Just…” she sighed and smiled at the brickwork. “I dunno. Somehow, I think the magic would go out of it.”
“They’re just blokes.” Powell pointed out. “Nice blokes, sure. Probably. But they shit just like the rest of us… and I bet they’re fed the fook up with cameras, too.”
“Hmm. Too bad all of the princes and princesses who’re old enough aren’t single.”
“Now there’s a fookin’ original fantasy nobody’s ever had before…” Powell retorted, knowing full well she was only teasing.
She laughed again. “Yeah, and it’s not like I need the visibility, is it?”
“Money’d be nice.” He suggested.
“Eh. Maybe. Y’know, I don’t know what I’d do with more money?”
“Aye. Me either.”
“So is that why you didn’t go with?” she asked. “I mean, you commanded the mission…”
“Same reason you turned down the Medal of Honor.” Powell told her. Jackson had summarily dismissed any suggestion that she should receive it even though the President had practically jumped at the chance to give her one after her mission-saving stunt during Operation Nova Hound. Current scuttlebutt had it that she’d be getting an Air Force Cross instead. “I don’t need the publicity, I don’t-”
“Powell, I turned down the MOH because the politicians don’t like letting ‘heroes’-" she gave the word a contemptuous flourish that suggested she thought of herself as anything but “-put themselves back in harms’ way. Accepting it would have ended my career. I can handle publicity and fame, even though I bitch about it. But I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep my wings."
“Wouldn’t know what to do wi’ yourself without them, huh?”
She shook her head. “Would you know what to do with yourself without the SOR?”
Powell bobbled his head, conceding the point. “Guess I wouldn’t… that ain’t gonna end well for either of us though. You know that, right?”
She nodded. “Yup. Either we live long enough that something forces us to retire, or we get our asses KIA.”
She checked to make sure they weren’t overheard, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone I said this, but sometimes? I feel like I’d prefer the latter. It scares me less.”
Powell nodded. “To die will be an awfully big adventure.” he quoted.
She nodded. “Peter Pan? That’s us alright. Scared to grow up.”
“Christ, when you put it like that it almost sounds fookin’ cowardly.”
“Peter Pan was a coward."
“He was a child. Immature. Not the same thing.”
“Great, so either we’re cowards or we’re childish.” She grinned, but there was an uncertain edge to it, and she stopped suddenly. “Do you think that’s true? Either of them?”
Powell shook his head. “I’m walkin’ around wi’ a woman who literally took a fookin’ bullet for me.” he said. “An’ she did it fightin’ cannibal fookin’ monsters from outer space who want the whole human race dead. How much more mature or brave do you want?”
“Don’t-”
“No. Harden up and accept the praise that’s due ye.”
She sighed and waved a conceding hand. “From you? Okay. But only from you.”
Powell smiled with her and they resumed their stroll. “I coulda gone with.” he said, gesturing toward Buckingham Palace. “But, this is a diplomatic thing. Strengthening ties. Best to let Regaari stand out in the clear, aye?”
“What’s he receiving, anyway?”
“The George Medal. For acts of bravery in, or meriting recognition by, the United Kingdom. Though, I hear they’d have preferred to take the time and commission a whole new medal recognising gallantry by ETs, but…”
“Not enough time?”
“If we get through this whole visit wi’out summat goin’ catastrophically wrong, I’ll consider it a bloody miracle.” Powell grumbled. “Five fookin’ days. Five! I’ve run some hasty bodge-job ops in my time, but five days’ notice to babysit a couple of ETs around a planet that’s become a fookin’ byword for deadliness up there…” he jerked his head skyward “Just about wins the prize.”
“Worth it, though.”
Powell scratched the side of his head, thoughtfully. “You think?”
“You said it yourself, Dexter saved the mission.” Rylee pointed out. “And I’ve met Gaoians myself. If you ask me, we want them as allies.”
Powell rubbed his jaw uncertainly. “I reviewed Warhorse’s helmet cam footage. Regaari? He fookin’ deserves what he’s receiving today. It’s the rest of his species I’m not so sure on. An’ to be honest, even a scrappy little gaffer like him… I mean, what would an alliance even look like? If we were to do joint trainin’ and it turns out they wouldn’t wind up slowing our lads down? I’ll eat my fookin’ beret, badge and all. They’re not deathworlders.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Absolutely.” he nodded. “If we ally with the Gaoians, it’ll be nice, but we’ll be the ones doin’ all the hard graft. Bet you.”
“You’re on.” Rylee grinned. “Though, I’ll be kind and have a cake replica made. No sense in wasting a good beret. Fair?”
“Aye? So either I’m right, or I eat a cake. Not exactly a fookin’ lose-lose, is it?”
“Fine, fine.” She laughed. “Loser treats the winner to a nice meal. Somewhere fancy.”
“Oh, aye. Yeah.” Powell rolled his eyes. “A date with you’s way worse than eatin’ cake."
“That’s my cruellest offer, you sarcastic sadist.” she waved a mock-scolding finger. “Besides, you’ll be paying.”
“Only if I lose.”
“Oh you’ll lose.” She told him. “I promise.”
“Done.” Powell glanced toward Buckingham Palace again. “…An’ I hope to God you’re right.”
The Mall, London, England, Earth
Ava Rios.
“Is that them? I think that’s them!”
“Sean, for crying out loud…”
“What? It’s kind of a big deal, Ava. Aliens visiting London? And we have front row seats!”
“Yeah, but that’s not them.”
“Oh…”
Sean deflated, and Ava fidgeted with her camera.
They had front row seats all right. They had press seats courtesy of Simon Harvey, who’d figured that alien VIPs in the heart of London was a decent starting point to test his young apprentices before they got on to the real deal.
“Okay. That’s them." Sean asserted, as a convoy of black cars turned onto the Mall and processed with dignified slowness in their direction. Ava had to agree.
Cameras were being focused all around, and she raised her own, doing her best to stay on top of doing her job, when her mouth was dry and her heart pounding.
Simon put a hand on her upper back, in a reassuring avuncular way. “Nervous?”
“Part of me hopes he’ll see me, part of me hopes he won’t…”
Simon patted her shoulder. “You’re fine. You’ve got this.”
She nodded, and kept her eye to the viewfinder as the cars stopped in a genteel semicircle behind the barriers, under the watchful gaze of Metropolitan Police in their high-vis yellow jackets that reminded her so much of Cimbrean Colonial Security.
To her dismay, Adam stepped out of the car first. A sea of people near the front of the crowd earned Ava’s immediate hatred by going mad for him - she took a picture, framing him versus them as he awkwardly raised a hand to acknowledge the attention before getting back to the job of tending to Regaari as the Gaoian carefully levered himself out of the car.
By the time the VIPs were on their feet, had received the attention of the crowd, and had been escorted into the palace, she’d managed to become totally focused on taking pictures, while beside her Sean, armed with a tablet, did his damnedest to keep up with the flow from her camera, swiping them into a multitude of different folders for immediate upload and sale to whatever news and stock image agencies couldn’t be present to generate the pictures themselves. Within hours, one of Ava’s pictures would be on the front page of a newspaper.
Adam was the last to be ushered into the building, and she finally relaxed as it was closed behind him. He’d never even glanced at the press.
She met Simon’s eye, and he nodded. “Well done.” he told her.
It made her feel much better.
Date Point 10y4m1w1d AV
North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
Allison Buehler was perched sidesaddle on the front of an elderly pickup, elbows-deep in its engine. She was gracious enough to dignify Kevin’s arrival with turning her head, giving him a cool stare, and then calling for Julian, who emerged from round the back of the house with a knife in one hand and an uncomfortable reminder that meat was dead animal in the other. Not that Kevin had ever not known that or been troubled by it, but a skinned goose carcass was an unsettling sight if you weren’t prepared for it.
Unless you were used to it, it seemed. Even Buehler gave it a slightly uneasy glance as Etsicitty hung it by its feet from a hook under his house’s eaves and rinsed his hands from the garden hose.
“Shoot that yourself?” Kevin asked him, by way of an ice breaker.
“Nope, it was defeated in battle and committed hara-kiri.” Julian told him, and mimed handing him something. “Here’s yer sign.”
“…Huh?”
“Never mind… If you’re here about the contract, we’ll discuss it after dinner.”
“…Don’t suppose I can convince you to discuss it earlier?” Kevin asked. “It’s not even noon yet.”
“Nope.” Etsicitty told him. “You can go an’ come back, make yourself useful or, hell, just take a stroll round the property. But we’ve got a lot to get done while it’s light.”
Kevin considered his options, then decided he may as well ingratiate himself by being useful. “Uh… you need a hand with that pickup, miss Buehler?”
She laughed. “You’re gonna help me do engine maintenance in that suit? You’re a brave man, mister Jenkins.”
Kevin shrugged the jacket off, threw it onto his passenger seat and rolled up his sleeves. “Fuck it. Dry cleaning’s a travel expense.” he declared, declining to mention the two spare suits in the trunk.
Buehler made a could-have-been impressed motion with her head, and waved a hand that was black halfway to the elbow in the general direction of her toolbox. “One and one-eighth.”
Kevin ambled over to it, turned a few socket wrench heads over in his hands until he found the right one, and handed it to her.
“Your enthusiasm’s overwhelming.” she muttered, leaning back into the engine and ratcheting deep inside it. There was a kind of plastic spattering noise from under the truck, which, when Kevin stooped to look, turned out to be murky brown fluid gushing into an ancient yellow bucket.
“What’re we doing?” he asked.
“Complete fluid change. This thing’s not been driven in six years.” Buehler told him. “Water, brakes, transmission, oil… all of it.”
The separator finished draining, and she slipped a hand deep into the engine to close it off again.
“Where’d you learn how to do this?” Kevin asked her.
“Not being a fucking little girl about getting my hands dirty?” She asked. “This isn’t rocket science. These things are made to be maintained… Here.” She popped a filthy air filter out of its housing and shoved it into Kevin’s chest. “Replacement’s in the garage.”
Brushing dirt out of his shirt, Kevin followed instructions and head for the garage. Etsicitty had vanished in there and was cleaning and sharpening his knife.
“She doesn’t like me much, I think.” Kevin ventured, setting down the old filter and collecting the new one.
“She doesn’t hate you either.” Julian replied calmly. “You’d know.”
“Any advice?”
“Don’t try and be her friend, ’cause you ain’t. She values honesty, Jenkins. You’re not here to be our buddy, you’re here to hire us. So, be real about that if you wanna be on her good side.”
“And you?”
Etsicitty tested the edge of his knife by effortlessly slicing a strip off a sheet of paper. Apparently this was satisfactory, because the blade then vanished into the leather sheath on his pocket in an easy, practiced motion. “I like everybody if they don’t give me a reason not to.” he said.
“…Right.”
Allison was waiting impatiently for the new filter when he ducked under the ceiling canoe and stepped outside again. He tossed it to her. “How about alien tech?” he asked.
Allison turned back around and easily installed the filter, closing the housing with two firm snaps. “Why?”
“I AM here to get you on the payroll. Be useful to know what you can do.”
She snorted. “It’s idiot-proof. What more is there to say? No user-serviceable parts, just pull the faulty module, order a replacement from the nanofactory, plug it in. God knows what you’re supposed to do if it it’s the nanofac that’s busted, but…” She jumped down and wiped two greasy hand-prints onto her jeans. “You’re welcome to bow out of the oil change while that nice shirt’s still kinda clean.”
“What, and play Triumvirate Online in the car for eight hours on company time?” Kevin grunted. “Tempting, but no.”
He caught the half-smirk that she covered by turning and digging under the car for the bucket. “Suit yourself.”
To Kevin’s surprise, the work turned out to be enjoyable. Messy, yes, but despite her frosty attitude Buehler did the bulk of the dirty work herself and relegated Kevin to fetching wrench heads and buckets, storing nuts and parts safely, and fetching the fresh fluids from the garage.
She even loosened up enough to give him a high-five when the truck grunted into life around about noon. “Thanks. That goes a lot faster with two.” she told him, turning a cloth rag grey as she wiped the worst of the grime off her palms onto it.
“I actually kinda enjoyed it.” Kevin admitted.
“Feels good to work with your hands, yeah.” She patted the truck affectionately.
“What’s next?”
“Next, I’m gonna clean up then take this thing for a drive, make sure it’s working okay.” She replied. “Gotta get rid of the old oil and stuff properly, pick up groceries, stuff like that.”
“Ah.” Kevin looked around. “Uh…”
“Julian’s up in the back woods. Said something about making sure the beavers don’t flood us out.”
“Think he needs a hand?”
She grabbed a bottle of bright orange hand cleanser. “Look. You’re trying to get in good with us, I get that. Hell, maybe you’re a great guy to have for a friend, I don’t know, but your relationship with us is pure business and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“I’m just trying to establish a rapport.” Kevin defended himself.
“And there’s your problem.” she said. “Don’t. I ain’t interested in a rapport. I’m interested in getting the fuck offa this planet and you’re the man with the spaceship. So let’s focus on that and maybe I might decide to like you."
Kevin shook his head and sat on the hood of his car. “You have a completely different attitude to most folks I’ve met.” he observed.
She rinsed her hands off into yet another bucket, and the orange slime she’d spread all over them took most of the filth and grease with it. She started slathering on a second dose. “Yeah? Y’know, I saw that footage of you telling Kirk and Vedreg about religion. I thought you were a straight talker. What happened to that guy?"
“You an atheist?”
“That’s none of your damn business, and don’t change the subject.”
Kevin shrugged. “That was fifteen years ago.” he pointed out. “That’s a long time. People change. I learned stuff about how the world works.”
“And how does the world work according to Kevin Jenkins?" she asked, rinsing her hands off again. They were almost perfectly clean now, so she shook the water off them and wiped them dry on her backside.
Kevin rolled his jaw thoughtfully. “Way I see it, if you’ve found somebody who isn’t trying to manipulate or use you, you’ve found true love.” he said. “And, uh, no disrespect, but I don’t love you.”
She gave him a flatly skeptical stare. “A guy like you believes in true love?”
“Nope.” Kevin stood up. “Do you?”
“By your definition?” She looked thoughtfully in the direction of the woods for a moment, and then nodded with a half-smile. “Absolutely. Look, make yourself comfortable indoors. We’ve got a big TV and satellite. Hell, we’ve got an old Sega if you want, whatever. I’m gonna be gone a few hours, and so’s Julian.
“Sure?”
“Don’t get motor oil on the couch.”
“Right.” Kevin fetched a change of clothes from the trunk as she headed indoors. The screen door did its banshee impersonation behind him as Allison vanished into a bedroom.
Things had tidied up nicely inside even in the two days since he’d last visited, and he took a quick tour. Kevin didn’t believe in Feng Shui, but rearranging the furniture had done a lot for opening the place up and making it feel brighter, now that the big glass doors out onto the deck weren’t half- blocked by the television and the antediluvian floral-print heavy curtains had been taken down. There were dark patches on the walls where some of the infinite decorations had hung for decades, protecting the pigment. The incandescent bulbs were gone, replaced with modern smart LED bulbs. Already the place looked less… kitschy.
“Hey, look, I said we’d win this thing for you…” he called out “But I wouldn’t get too premature on the decorating if I was y’all. You haven’t even signed up yet!”
“We’ve not!” she called back through the door. “Just took some things down and moved some other things.”
“Beats the crap out of paperwork I guess.” Kevin admitted.
“Julian needed the break. Too many fancy legal ten-dollar words, you know?”
“You get used to them, with time.”
“You can get used to anything with time." she commented and opened the door, having changed into a plaid shirt and clean jeans. “But, he’s happier doing physical stuff. Me too, for that matter.”
She fished down the back of the couch and producedfor him a remote control. “Knock yourself out.”
“This ain’t exactly how I’d planned on spending company time.” Kevin objected.
“You want us on that spaceship?” she asked.
“Yeah!”
“Then sit your ass down and watch TV and we’ll talk it over with dinner.”
Kevin took the remote off her and did as he was told, and Allison grabbed her coat and bag. She glanced wistfully at the back room where the gun locker was, muttered a reminder to herself about needing a license, and vanished with a screech of badly-maintained screen door. Some seconds later, the truck they’d spent all morning servicing grumbled awake and pulled out.
Kevin turned the TV on, browsed the planner for a few minutes, and settled on watching the NCAA highlights.
This became the Pro Drone Racing highlights. Then the golf highlights. Then the Indycar highlights. Boredom was inspiring him to idle contemplation of the merits of suicide when movement out the back window caught his attention, which turned out to be Etsicitty picking his way between the trees with a rifle on his back and three dead beaver in his hand.
There was a shed next to the log pile that Etsicitty vanished into. Kevin sat waiting for him to emerge, but the wait took long enough that he eventually gave up and found a movie to watch in the form of Star Wars Episode VIII.
It was firmly in the late afternoon by the time Etsicitty emerged from the shed with red hands and some gory remains, with which he vanished back into the woods. He returned empty-handed just as the credits rolled, and entered through the utility room, the door on which was mercifully silent. There was the sound of running water and, at length, he padded through into the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. His prosthetic foot sounded strange on the linoleum.
“Good couch, ain’t it?” he asked.
“Damn good.” Kevin admitted. “I’ve been sat here for hours, and I’m not gettin’ antsy.”
“Drink? We got Pepsi, iced tea, water or milk.”
“Pepsi’d be good, thank you.”
Julian closed the fridge stepped around the couch and sat down next to him, handing him a drink can. “Star Wars?”
“Yup… Hey, uh…”
“Yeah?”
“What’s with the beavers?”
Julian chuckled. “Good eatin’ on them.” he said. “Hell, beaver tail’s a delicacy.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nuh-uh. You gotta hang it a day or two, but you cook ’em right and they taste kinda like smoky pork. Pelt’s useful, too, but it can get kinda cut up in the spring when they fight.”
“So you hunt them for food?” Kevin asked.
“Trap ’em. They need it, too. Stupid furry fuckers are rodents, and they breed like rodents too. And round here there’s nothing eating them.”
“There ain’t?”
“Nope. All that farmland’s buffering them and keeping them safe.” Julian scratched at the back of his neck. “Right now the population’s getting just big enough to eat more than the land can give ’em, so I’ve either gotta cull them right back, or they’ll starve anyway. We may as well get a meal out of it, right?”
“Bet you make a lot of friends in PETA with that attitude.”
Julian produced a silent beat of humorless laughter that was over as soon as it had started. “I love animals.” he said. “But this isn’t a natural landscape, and if it’s gonna remain healthy it needs a human hand on the tiller, and a lot of the time that’s going to mean trapping and shooting. Sucks for the beaver, but you’ve gotta look at the big picture. Either I can snare three beavers and kill them quick and humane, or dozens of them can slowly starve to death because they ate everything. I know which sounds less cruel to me.”
“…I hear what you’re saying,” Kevin conceded “but that still… I dunno, it seems cruel.”
Julian shrugged. “Deathworld.”
He took a swig of his water and set it down on the coffee table. “And believe me, I know better than most just how much of a deathworld Earth really is. We’ve tamed her, a fuck of a lot. But she’s still an ornery old mare at heart and she’ll kick you down and stamp on your head if she gets the chance. Most people don’t realise that because they don’t need to.”
“How does she stack up to Nightmare?”
Julian shrugged. “By and large? Earth is nastier.”
“Nightmare’s a thirteen, though. We’re ‘just’ a twelve.”
“Yeah, but the Corti created the planetary classification system, or at least they refined the algorithm, and I guess it inherited some of their prejudices.” Julian said. “The big-headed little fucks don’t like eccentric orbits or whatever, and they didn’t really see that when you’ve got a predictable deep freeze cycle with a short summer, that’s going to put limits on what kind of life forms you get.”
“Sure, in the summer…" He patted his hatchet. “Mangrabber vines and bombfruit and murderpigs and minizillas and don’t even get me fucking started on the Go-to-hell tree. THAT thing was a nasty surprise.”
“Go-to-hell tree?”
“Spreads its seeds by spontaneous combustion right at the peak of the summer season, and the timber can self-ignite even when it’s been dead and drying out all winter. Good thing I didn’t build my hut out of the stuff, or I’d have lost everything.”
He grinned. “And if you think that sounds outlandish? We’ve got plants right here on Earth that do something similar. An’ there’s the thing. We’ve GOT exploding fruit, and carnivorous plants, and big smelly dangerous critters here on Earth, and here they’re awake for two thirds of the year if they go to sleep at all. Everything hibernates on Nightmare."
“Come on, a Venus Flytrap couldn’t even hurt a Corti.” Kevin said.
“Nope, and that’s what made the Corti decide Nightmare deserves a thirteen and Mother Earth only got a twelve. But what makes her way nastier is the diseases." Julian nodded. “Cut yourself on Earth, and you’d better sterilize that wound in case you get a staph infection or something. Sometimes, you can sterilize it and get an infection anyway. You gotta boil the water, cook the meat, keep yourself wrapped up warm…”
He took another sip of water, and a thought seemed to occur to him as he was swallowing. “Hell, do you know how much disease avoidance and control is built into EVERYONE’s daily lives? Like, we don’t even notice it! Fuck, there’s a whole aisle in the supermarkets for soap, and another one for scrubbing the bacteria out of your mouth that’d eat your teeth otherwise. Then there’s the one for household cleaning products, bleach, mold killer, the fact that every single food item in that store has an expiry date, the soap and sinks for people to wash their hands in the bathroom, the tissues for covering your mouth and blowing your nose, bug spray and zappers because insects are a disease vector… Hell, there’s a whole industry and market sector in scented soaps because we have to scrub ourselves everyday or else stink of bacterial action in our skin, so we may as well put some perfume in there so we can wind up smelling pretty afterwards…”
“Don’t forget the pharmacy.” Kevin pointed out.
“You’re right. And all those antibiotics are on a time limit anyway.”
“Meanwhile, you just spent the morning trapping a knee-high critter that’ll chew through a tree and dam a whole river.”
“Right.”
Julian scratched at his hair a bit. “Most folks live in cities now.” he pointed out. He didn’t have any particular style, Kevin noticed - it was just dark, shaggy, and ignored, presumably right up until it got in the way. He wondered if Julian was in the habit of just taking his knife to it every so often rather than finding the services of a barber. “They’re not in touch with what Earth is really like, or what humans are really like as a species: We’re fuckin’ predators. There’s nothing on this whole planet we can’t, won’t and haven’t killed and eaten at some point."
“Some folks’d argue we don’t have to.”
Julian shrugged. “I’ve got no beef with vegetarians or vegans.” he said, amicably. “Their diet’s none of my business. But even if we stopped farming livestock tomorrow, we’d still have to cull the beavers. May as well do it humanely and eat ’em afterwards."
Kevin chuckled. “You’re a talkative guy when you open up.”
Julian laughed with him. “I nearly went full Tom Hanks on Nightmare. Didn’t paint a face on a volleyball, but I sure as hell talked to myself a lot.”
“The nice thing about talking to yourself is nobody interrupts you.”
Julian chuckled some more. “Heh. Yeah, you’re all right.” He declared.
“Glad one of the three of you thinks so."
“Well, provoking Xiu into punching you in the face didn’t exactly endear you to us…” Julian stretched.
“I really didn’t mean to.”
“I get that. Hell, first thing she ever did to me was brandish a knife at me.” He grinned at Kevin’s concerned frown. “My fault for sneaking up on her.”
“So she brandished a knife at you for sneaking up on her, broke my nose for saying the wrong things… Shit, what does she do to a man who actually hurts her?"
“Breaks his ribs, knocks him out and then throws him out an airlock.” Julian replied promptly. Seeing Kevin’s expression he raised a reassuring hand. “-into a river. She’s not a murderer, he lived. And in fairness to her, it was Kirk who cut the bastard’s arm off.”
“Kirk wh-? My Kirk?"
“He’s his Kirk, but yeah. Remember that prosthetic of his? There’s a fusion blade hidden in there. And, uh, Zane had it fuckin’ coming. It’s a long story."
“Damn… Kirk went up against a human and won.”
“Dude, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to go up against Kirk myself. Sure, he’s an ET, but there’s a sharp-ass brain in there that thinks like twenty steps ahead of - oh, they’re back!”
“They?” Kevin asked, as Julian kicked his legs out and stood up eagerly. There was a snapping noise and he cursed, sitting back down and examining his prosthetic foot. “Y’okay?”
“Fucking first metatarsal’s gone again.” Julian made a resigned noise through his nose and started unhooking and peeling back layers of synthetic myomere. If the composite “bones” of his foot hadn’t been carbon black wrapped in obviously artificial white “muscles” and “tendons” then the view of his foot flayed open would have been an obscene one. He dug around inside it with one of his smaller knives to scrape out the dried adhesive from a previous repair, and dug a small tube of superglue out of this pocket.
“Simple fix.” Kevin noted.
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” Julian grumbled.
“Can’t you get a better one?”
“Not one that feels and behaves just like a real foot and weighs the same… there we go.” Julian sat back and rested his ankle on the opposite knee.
The door squeaked loudly, and Xiu Chang stepped through it, with a large bag over her shoulder and Allison behind her wearing a mischievous grin.
“…Ah.” Kevin cleared his throat and stood up. “Miss Chang.”
“…Mister Jenkins.” She put the bag down, warily. “How’s the nose?”
“Healing.”
“Good. That’s… good.”
Kevin became acutely aware that Allison and Julian were sharing an increasingly amused expression as he and Xiu both stood there in awkward silence.
He manned up.
“Look, for what it’s worth-”
She spoke at the exact same time. “I feel like maybe I-”
“You fir- I mean-”
“No, after- um, if you’re-?”
“Well if-”
“Um…”
Allison shook her head and rubbed her eyebrows. There was a smile pushing at her cheekbones. “Mister Jenkins first.” she instructed.
Kevin sighed. “…I went about this whole thing wrong.” he said. “I shoulda just been professional with you instead of tryin’ to sympathize and diggin’ up painful stuff. I’m sorry.”
Xiu nodded. “And I should have kept my cool and not punched you.” she replied. “I’m sorry too.”
“Apologies accepted?” Allison asked. Behind Kevin, Julian started reattaching the synthetic muscles of his foot to their frame. Both Kevin and Xiu nodded, and shook hands. “Friends?”
“…Not yet.” Kevin decided. “I came here to do business, and you’re right: We should keep it that way.”
“I think us abductees and friends of Kirk should stick together.” Julian suggested.
“Sure. But… best for everybody right now if I just be the dude in the suit.” Kevin nodded.
“Yup.” Allison agreed. She gestured to the table. “We brought pizza. Sit down and…”
She smiled. “Let’s talk business.”
Date Point 10y4m1w1d AV
Starship ‘Negotiable Curiosity’, Planet Perfection, The Cradle Worlds
Bedu
“At last! Civilization! Food!”
Mwrmwrwk made an irritated cooing sound. “Hzzkvk, if you could please tear yourself away from the window for a moment and go run a diagnostic on engine three? It would be a shame to have come all this way only to explode on final approach thanks to an uncontrolled fluctuation.”
Bedu frowned and checked his console as their obese Vzk’tk technician croaked in alarm and galloped astern.
“That,” he accused her “was a lie.”
“What was?” Mwrmwrwk asked. She gave no indication of aborting their approach.
“There is no fluctuation.” Bedu observed.
“I never said that there was.” She replied, not turning in her seat. “But it would be a shame."
Bedu mentally chastised himself. Like Hzzkvk, he had become over-excited at the prospect of finally getting out of the ship for the first time in far too long. Unlike Hzzkvk, he was not ignorant of the subtle game that he and Mwrmwrwk played at Hzzkvk’s expense, using carefully ambiguous phrasing to slip veiled insults and farcically unnecessary errands past him via his near- terminal case of stupidity.
To have one such joke slip past his own critical faculties was vexsome. Mwrmwrwk was troublingly intelligent, and that was never a fact calculated to leave a Corti shipmaster feeling well at-ease.
She was, however, an exceptional pilot, and thoroughly worth the irritation. Hzzkvk was… less worth the irritation, though he performed his tasks with a commendable diligence.
“How soon until we land?” he asked.
“Half a Ri’ ago."
“Say again?”
“We have been on solid concrete for half a Ri’. Not a bad landing if I say so myself."
“I must agree.” Bedu forced himself to concede. “I hardly felt it.”
Mwrmwrwk purred some quiet Kwmbwrw laughter, which he took as his cue to stand, wriggle slightly to settle his travel-stiffened joints, and pad around to the top of the ship’s exit ramp, which was directly behind the flight deck.
Perfection had been named by Corti, and by Corti standards it absolutely was perfect. The finest Locayl architects had been tasked with planning the system’s capital city according to scrupulous and elegant mathematical principles laid out by the Directorate, and its balmy class three climate and lucrative co-ordinates as a cross-roads for the four largest, wealthiest and most influential members of the Dominion Council - the Directorate, the Domain, the Guvnurag Confederacy and the Kwmbwrw Grand Houses - had made it prosperous beyond compare.
Their landing site, alas, was not among the gleaming spires and delicate ultratensile steel edifices of the upper city, but was one of dozens that dotted the sides of the great megastructure of the mid-level city. Ground level was still a good two hundred meters below them and some of the very highest penthouses were as much as two kilometers above.
He took a moment to admire the sheer architectural grandeur of it, then sent a message to the address he’d been given by their employer. The message was a terse one, explaining only while that the primary objective was not met, there was mitigating data to explain why.
There was a thump as Mwrmwrwk came down the ramp, then reared onto her hindfeet and, reaching up to hold on to the Negotiable Curiosity’s nose for balance, stretched out to reach her full and impressive height.
Kwmbwrw were deceptively large. When they were on all fours (which was most of the time) they were only as high at the shoulder as a tall Gaoian, and that meant that sometimes their real size could be overlooked. They were long- limbed, covered in curly chocolate fur with a long tail that was usually held coiled between their legs and almost nothing in the way of a neck.
Mwrmwrwk was, apparently, rather plain and masculine by her species’ standards, though Bedu would have been hard-pressed to know his pilot from a stunning exemplar of Kwmbwrw femininity. She had a single large, brown eye riding high above a wide and flat mouth, with two more eyes further round the sides of her head for peripheral vision. This arrangement provided her with two zones of narrow binocular vision and as a result, when working on something that required her fine attention she had to turn her head away from it and squint.
As she reared up, Mwrmwrwk’s tail unfolded to its full length, held rigid behind her for counterbalance. Standing upright like that, she was taller than even a Qinis or Rrrtktktkp’ch, but that height was all limbs. Next to their extraordinary length, her body was almost comically short and keg-shaped.
She took a huge breath and produced a different kind of purring noise, signifying delight and relief. “Fresh air…”
“Don’t you have post-flight checks to run?” Bedu chided her.
“Bedu, your conviction that you are the only competent being in the galaxy is showing again.” she retorted, dropping back down onto the three strong and stubby fingers that bore her weight on her forefeet and tucking the each hand’s two delicate opposable digits safely out of the way. “I did them already.”
“So quickly?”
“The ship can run multiple diagnostics at once, you know. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’m due some shore leave. I assume I’ve been paid…?"
“What kind of a negligent employer do you take me for?” Bedu asked, instructing his implants to transfer the funds.
“Bedu, nobody could ever accuse you of accidental negligence.” Mwrmwrwk shook herself in an entirely too smug way and headed for the elevator. “Oh, thank Hzzkvk for me, would you? He can stop checking the engine for fluctuations now.”
Bedu permitted himself a moment of amusement, then settled back into the more orthodox Corti frame of mind of irritation. “Hzzkvk!” he called. “We are down safely. You can relax now.”
“But I have not found the fluctuation, Bedu!” the technician objected.
“It can wait.” Bedu promised. Hzzkvk’s memory was shoddy anyway from all the Cqcq he smoked. In a few hours, he’d have completely forgotten the imaginary emergency.
He wired the Vzk’tk his payment. Unlike Mwrmwrwk, it was no fun to play games with him. “Come along.”
“Where are we going, Bedu?” Hzzkvk asked him. Behind them, the ship sensed the departure of its master and locked itself up.
“We are going,” Bedu said “To see a Contact.”
Date Point 10y4m1w1d AV
North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
“So. The deal on the table as it stands is this: The Byron Group is offering the three of you employment as crew aboard our next extrasolar exploration vessel. You’d be looking at a two year contract - six months of training and then eighteen months of mission time, with a possibility of renewal or transfer to a different post inside the group after the ship’s mission is complete. Naturally, this all comes with sponsoring any work visas, citizenship applications, whatever. In addition to payment and employee benefits, the Group is offering to pay all expenses and provide legal expertise to help you through the dispute over this house and land, and, if that dispute is resolved in your favor, to install a caretaker who will tend to the property in your absence.”
Kevin pushed the two copies he’d prepared of the agreement across the table, along with his own copy for Xiu. He’d memorized it in any case.
“What happens if you don’t win?” Julian asked.
“Whatever happens, you won’t be paying a cent. If we can, we’ll see what we can do about bringing all the people who wind up sharing the property around the table to sell it back to you. Though, it’ll be up to you to negotiate a price and sort out your finances. If you look at the salaries you’ll be receiving, however…” all three of them flipped through and found it. Xiu’s jaw dropped, Allison arched an eyebrow, and both of Julian’s eyebrows migrated north and hid under his fringe. “I think you’ll agree you shouldn’t have trouble there.”
“This is… very generous.” Allison mused. “What’s the catch?”
“There are a couple.” Kevin admitted. “First catch is, it’s dangerous work. Half the crews we sent out never came back. Now, the three of you have already been out there and come back. You know how it works out there, you’ve got the skills and experience, and the ships we’re making now are are way better than the first generation." He paused and shrugged slightly. “But there ain’t no such thing as safe.”
The three of them exchanged a medley of expressions. Allison pursed her lips thoughtfully, Xiu looked tense and pale, and Julian just nodded, as if that was self-evident.
“Second catch is we’d like to examine Julian’s foot and see if we can’t put it to good use for folks down here on Earth. Even if it does break now an’ then, it’s a long way ahead of where we’re at right now.”
Julian nodded. “Doesn’t sound like much of a catch to me.” he said.
“Third catch is that you’d all be under nondisclosure agreements, and would have access to some… sensitive information. I can’t go into detail right now, but you would absolutely need to keep secrets. For the rest of your lives, most likely.”
“Fourth catch is no implants.” Allison guessed, correctly. Kevin frowned at her.
“Well… yeah.” he said, adding an unspoken question just with his tone of voice.
She sat back and folded her arms. “Let’s just say Julian and I know that not having implants really isn’t a catch."
Inwardly, Kevin made a note to pass that observation along to Darcy first chance he got. “Miss Chang?” he asked.
She looked up from reading through the agreement, as if surprised to be spoken to. “Oh. Um… well, having things in my brain never seemed like a great idea anyway so… sure. No problem." she ventured.
“Okay. We can go into the details later.” Kevin declared. “That’s it for catches. On to the perks.”
“First perk? Training. Honing your existing skills and givin’ you a solid grounding in any other skills that the mission might need. Right now we’re envisionin’ it’d just be the three of you aboard this thing, though that might change. Creature of Habit was eight people, Reclamation was just four. Among other things, correct me if I’m wrong but none of you know how to actually fly a spaceship, do you?"
They all shook their heads.
“Well, one of you’s gonna learn. I’d suggest Miss Chang.”
“Hey, I’ve not agreed to this…” Xiu objected, holding up both hands in a warding gesture.
"If you agree to it." Kevin corrected himself. “Sorry. But you get the idea. Second perk is full medical and dental, plus a bereavement fund for your loved ones or charity of choice. Third perk? You get to name any and all stars, planets, moons, continents, oceans, species and so on that you discover. If it’s not already in the database, you get to name it. Though we’d, uh, take it as a kindness if you didn’t name them directly after yourselves…"
“Like… what, the continent of Allisonia?” Julian asked. “Planet Chang? Etsicitty Island?”
“That kinda thing, yeah.” Kevin agreed. “Word got back to us a while back about a mining colony run by a human who called the place ‘Carltopia’. Guess what his name was?"
“That’s just sad.” Xiu opined. “Even though, um, Planet Chang has a nice ring to it…”
“Way I hear it every other name ever given to the place was along the same lines.” Kevin shrugged. “Like I said, you get to name ’em. All we ask is if you do decide to immortalize your names, you do it subtle-like."
“And what exactly would our duties and responsibilities be?” Allison asked.
“Explore strange worlds, seek out new life and civilizations, boldly go where no-one has gone before?” Kevin suggested.
“Be serious.” she chided.
“I am.” Kevin told her. “You’ll be an exploration vessel. Now, admittedly your mission is a private one, surveyin’ for resources and opportunities that the Byron group can one day turn a profit on, so there’s none of that space hippy ‘bettering ourselves’ bullshit here but… yeah, that’s the shape of it. We’re most interested in useful biological samples from other deathworlds, especially antibiotics, but… anythin’, really. Spices, oil, useful cultivars we could experiment with on Cimbrean…"
“Precious metals?” Julian suggested.
“Nah, the Hephaestus LLC have the metals market to themselves for now.” Kevin said. “Asteroid mining’s just way better than diggin’ shit up on a planet, and the Sol belt is gonna last ’em forever. Still, the survey data can’t hurt. Might be one day they get split up by competition laws and we’ll be able to sell them charts for other systems, who knows? Be nice if we could set up a diamond mine on a nice Class Ten somewhere, though. Kill off the slave trade… hmm…"
“That’s a big dream.” Xiu said. “The Gaoians have only got two colonies, and they’ve had warp drive for nearly a hundred years.”
“No disrespect to your friends miss, but it could be we’ve got motivation and drive that they lack.” Kevin suggested.
“Hah!” She beamed. “You’ve obviously never met a Gaoian.”
Kevin bowed his head and spread his hands. “I defer to your superior knowledge on that subject.” he said. “So. I mean, there’s a lot more to discuss, but that should give you a good idea of what kind of a fine mess you’d be gettin’ into. You in?”
Julian and Allison both opened their mouths to reply, but Xiu got there first. “Not yet.” she said. “There’s… things we need to talk over first. Us three.” she circled a finger to indicate Allison, Julian and herself.
“…Yeah. Don’t just put us on the spot like that.” Allison agreed. Julian nodded with her.
“I’ve already spent about four days longer on this than I’d planned for.” Kevin complained. “This trip’s gettin’ expensive, and my boss is antsy for an answer, whatever that answer is. I appreciate this is a big decision, but every day it’s not made is a day that a billion dollars of infrastructure ain’t doin’ shit ‘cause it’s waitin’ for you."
“You’ll have your answer tomorrow.” Xiu asserted.
Kevin knew better than to argue with her by now. Exhaling, he stood up and gathered his things. “Tomorrow, then. Please."
Xiu stood up and offered her hand, which he shook. “I promise.” She said.
Julian Etsicitty
There were starlings dancing in front of the sunset. They boiled and surged, gossiping among themselves as they played away the time until the light died and they could, as one, vanish into the branches and rest.
For now, they shied away from Jenkins’ car and the cone of dust it left behind as it vanished down the dirt path, and Julian listened until even the distant whisper of its motor and wheels were inaudible and all there was to hear was crows scheming in the woods, a mourning dove, and crickets settling in for the evening.
It was a peaceful moment, that he punctuated with a deep cleansing breath before turning toward the woodpile. The wood wasn’t quite ready yet, but it would burn if he built the fire properly. Building a fire with green wood was a skill that had kept him from freezing to death on Nightmare, especially after his first run-in with Go-to-hell tree firewood.
The fire was about ready to light when he heard the screen door squeal - for the umpteenth time he reminded himself to oil that spring - and Allison smiled at him as she padded barefoot down the concrete steps in short denim and one of his plaid shirts.
They greeted each other with a kiss. “How’re we doing?” Julian asked.
“Pretty good.” Allison smiled, and sat down on the log next to the firepit. “Though he’s right, I’d rather have said yes or no today, you know?”
“Mm.” Julian agreed. He fished his firestriker out of a pocket and stooped. “I guess whatever Xiu wants to talk about, it must be kinda important.”
Long years of practice meant that he had the tinder going first time, and he carefully caged it in thin kindling, then thick kindling, and finally a tent of split firewood. One well-aimed breath into the glowing heart later, and he had a lit fire.
Allison smiled at him. “You’re good at that.”
“I have my uses.” He stood up. “What’s she up to now?”
“I pointed her to the spare room, but if she’s got any sense she’s using up all the hot water right now.” Allison chuckled. “’Cause if she doesn’t, I will. This place has a GOOD showerhead.”
“Please, you think I’d settle for a bad one? I know the value of a good shower.” Julian beamed.
Allison laughed again, and gestured to the fire. “How long before we can cook on it?”
“When the first logs are mostly ash.” Julian said. “About twenty minutes. You don’t rush a good fire.”
“You learned that from your Grampa?”
“And a whole lot more.”
“He teach you how to get a lady a beer?”
Julian chuckled. “Yes ma’am.”
She wrinkled her nose at him again. “Good boy.”
Grinning to himself, Julian hit the fridge in the garage. Grampa had been partial to Leinenkugel’s, and there were still a dozen bottles in the garage fridge, about the only things that hadn’t spoiled in the three years it had been unpowered. He grabbed two, used the bottle opener magnet to de-cap them, ducked under the canoe hanging from the ceiling, and returned to Allison, who had drawn her knees and arms towards her core and was fidgeting.
He handed over one of the beers and sat next to her. “You cold?”
“Kinda.”
“That, I can fix.” He scooted closer and slipped his left arm around her waist. She made a happy noise and snuggled into his side. “Better?”
“Better.”
“Good…. good.”
She sipped her beer and turned to look up at him. “Are you okay?”
“Just… hey, uhm… Al, I’ve got kind of a confession. Something I need you to hear me out on and… well.”
“Hey.” she kissed him. “You’re telling me. That already means a lot. So… what’s up?”
“It’s about, um, Xiu. And, not what happened today. Something else.”
There was no way he imagined the way Allison went a little stiff under his arm. “Wwwhat about her?” she managed, completely failing at false nonchalance.
“She’s, uh… I’m pretty sure she’s got a crush on me.” Julian said. “Like, a BIG crush.”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, she does.” Allison agreed, relaxing again. “And… oh, you feel the same way, don’t you?”
“Uh… Yeah.” Julian swallowed. “Yeah, I do. Sorry. I figured I’d better get that out there so-”
Allison kissed him, gently. “I ain’t mad.” she promised. “Um… Since we’re being real, I kinda… I kinda have a crush on her too.”
Julian’s brain drew a blank on that one, and his face followed suit - he simply hadn’t considered that possibility.
“Y-” he began. He tried again. “Wh-? But y-?”
Allison giggled and kissed him again. “See? It’s okay. You did good, you were honest with me, I was honest with you. No fight.”
“Okay, okay, but run that bit by me again where you have a crush on Xiu?” He checked.
“…Yeah! I, uh… Yeah.”
“When you say you have a ‘crush’ on Xiu…?”
“I mean…” Allison took a giant slug of beer and set the bottle down. “I mean I guess I’m a little bit in love with her.”
Xiu Chang
Xiu’s breath caught in her throat and her hand stopped an inch from the screen door’s handle.
“Isn’t that what a crush means?” Allison asked. “She’s gorgeous, I like her a lot… Hell, I flirt with her, and she’s flirted back and, and my heart just starts going ba-bam, ba-bam. I’ve got a huge crush on her. Isn’t that what you meant when you said you’ve got a crush on her too?"
“Well… yeah. But I mean… aren’t you straight?” Julian asked. Neither he nor Allison had noticed Xiu moving around in the house.
“Hey, if you’re surprised, imagine how I feel!" Allison laughed, a touch desperately, and ran a hand through her hair before shrugging. “But there it is. I… yeah.”
Very carefully, Xiu stepped back from the screen door and listened, not daring to make a noise.
Allison seemed to gather her thoughts. “I’m kinda the jealous type. you know? Like, I guard what’s mine, and that includes… well, you. But I kinda shared you with her, didn’t I?”
“Only ‘kinda’? You enjoyed it." Julian observed. “You had a great time! Right?”
“Yeah! And, so did you.”
“Yeah. You know how I get off on it.” He agreed. “But I’m not the jealous type.”
“Right… But you’re right. I enjoyed it. Hell, it was my idea." she picked up her beer, swirled it thoughtfully, then drained the last of it. Julian was barely halfway through his.
The fire snapped and threw a handful of fire dust skywards. All three of them watched it fade.
“So you’re comfortable with her in a way you’re not comfortable with anyone else.” Julian summarized.
“Not quite. I’m comfortable with her the exact same way I’m comfortable with you. I mean…” She gesticulated helplessly to try and help her think. Julian handed her what was left of his beer, which she accepted with a smile and swigged. “…You think I’m hot. I think you’re hot. That’s what got us started on this, right? But what keeps it going for me is that we’re both… You’re kind of a misfit, babe. You don’t really belong here, just like me.”
“You don’t think we belong here?” Julian asked. He gestured around at the idyllic darkness around them, and Allison sighed.
“Right here?" she asked. “Maybe. A fire, a little place in the woods, a cold beer… Throw in some weed and it’d be perfect. But what about the rest of Earth? All the… the politics and the bullshit and the assholes who don’t see a person, they just see a, a…"
“An asset.” Julian suggested.
Allison nodded, staring into the fire. “Or an ass. Yeah. That’s it. That’s why I signed on with Kirk, ’cause he was interested in people. S’why I really want to take this Byron offer, ’cause I guess I get the same thing, that they’re interested in us."
“Kirk still used us.” Julian pointed out.
“He found uses for ours skills, yeah. That’s not the same thing: with him it was still personal, you know?. That big white freak just… he was using me, not using me. You with me?"
“…You’re right.”
They were silent for a moment, and then Allison looked up and raised the bottle towards the brightest point of light in the sky. “To Kirk. Whichever star that is, here’s hoping it protects you.”
“That’s Venus.” Julian pointed out. “And I can’t toast ’cause you’ve got my drink.”
Allison finished it. “You got more?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Xiu smiled as she watched Allison giggle and kiss him, and mouthed “Good boy” to herself at the exact same time as Allison said it.
He wasn’t gone long. They knocked their bottles together and drank.
“So… misfits.” Julian said, settling in beside her again after taking a second to check on the fire. “You really hate Earth that much?”
“I love Earth. It’s people I struggle with." Allison corrected him.
“Xiu and I are people.”
“You’re not people, you’re Xiu and Julian. It’s… not the same thing."
Julian rubbed the back of her neck. “What’s the difference?”
“You both make me feel like… you make me feel like Allison.”
“You are Allison." Julian observed, plainly not following her.
“I mean you make me feel like a person. Like…" Allison took another giant swig of her beer. “Like you value me as me, and not for what you want from me. This whole shit with this house and the lawyers and the Byron Group, it’s just… it’s just people not giving a fuck about each other, and only thinking about what they can get. Using one another."
“That’s what people do.” Julian agreed. “That’s… pretty much the whole of human civilization right there.”
“Exactly.”
“The aliens are no different.”
“No. But you are, and Xiu is. And that means a lot to me. It’s what I love about you."
“…Both of us?”
“I guess so…” Allison finished the last of her second-and-a-halfth beer. “I’m still figuring that out. Whether it’s… I dunno. Whether it’s like a girl- bromance, or more than that.”
“What would it… If it is more than that, what would that mean for us?" Julian asked, carefully. “For you and me?”
Allison turned and kissed him.
It was a hot kiss, too. A bit needy, a bit reassuring, a whole lot of two people who were stupid for one another, expressing it. Allison’s hand snaked round the back of his head and gripped his hair, while his own hand came up to her face, on her cheek, brushing her eyebrow. Ordinarily, watching a kiss like that would have made Xiu feel awkward, or that she was intruding on their privacy. Instead…
Instead she felt warm inside, watching it. Happy. It was the first thing to bring a genuine smile to her face in weeks: it was beautiful.
She reached a decision.
She watched as they cooled down into smiles, pressing their noses and foreheads together, whispering happy reassurances that Xiu couldn’t hear. They both flinched when the screen door squealed open and Xiu stepped down out of the house.
“Uh… hey.” Julian managed. “You found the bed okay?”
“There’s only two, Julian.” Xiu told him, smiling. She could hear her own heartbeat, in her chest, in her ears and in her throat, punctuating the anticipation in her stomach. She took a breath and committed. “And, um… I love you guys too.”
Allison and Julian looked at each other. Then back at her. Then back to each other again.
“How much…” Allison cleared her throat and started over. “How much did you hear?”
“Probably all the important bits. You’re right.” Xiu said. She sat down in the dirt between Julian’s feet. “Since I got back here, you two are the only ones who’ve…”
She trailed off, then shrugged and smiled weakly at Allison before picking up a stick and poking at the fire. “I thought I’m straight too. So, I’m just as weirded out there as you are. But…. straight or not, it doesn’t really matter, because I’m not ready.” she told them. “For anybody.”
“You’re not?”
“I’m… no. I mean, God, I could watch you two all day, but the thought of actually doing anything just freaks me out. Maybe one day, I… but, no. Not soon, anyway."
She sighed, then threw the stick in the fire. “I don’t want you to hurt each other for me. Okay? Please don’t ever do that. I want you both to be happy. That’s all I want from you.”
Allison scooted off the log to sit next to her, and hugged her hard. Xiu twisted around and buried herself into the hug, glad to be there. She felt Allison kiss and stroke her hair and hold her tight, and Julian….
Julian thumped down off the log, put his arms around them both, and held them. “Whatever we figure out, we figure out together.” he promised. “All of us.”
Xiu shut her eyes and embraced the sense of peace they were giving her. She was, she realised, finally, truly, and at long last… Home.
++End Chapter++
Chapter 34
Chapter 25: “Where We Stand” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Etsicitty house, North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Julian Etsicitty
“Um… Allison fell asleep.”
Julian glanced down and to his right. Allison had indeed fallen asleep, curled up next to him on the bed with her head down on one arm.
He brushed some blonde hairs out of her face. “So she did. It is midnight…"
“…Oh.”
Xiu glanced at the wall clock guiltily. “I’d better let you sleep too.” she suggested.
“I guess… I mean, you don’t have to.” Julian told her.
They’d spent eight hours together just hanging out. Sitting and lounging around on the bed, discussing everything from current world politics to all the Disney movies that had been released in their absence. There was an elephant in the room that hadn’t been touched on at all, but at the same time, not touching on it had seemed… right, somehow.
“Yeah…” Xiu began to scoot off the bed, then paused and turned back. “Um… thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not freaking out.”
Julian chuckled quietly, and looked back down at Allison. “Freaking out… I’m more worried about pinching myself and waking up.”
That earned one of Xiu’s biggest, prettiest smiles. “Two females who’re into you at once. Every male’s fantasy?”
Julian diplomatically ignored the unconsciously Gaoian way she’d phrased herself and kept playing with Allison’s hair, acutely aware that there was honestly a ‘yes’ in there, but there was something more important underneath. He shook his head. “Not that.” he said.
“Are you sure? I can see your ears going pink.” She teased. He laughed, but it faded quickly and he stopped playing with Allison’s hair and took a thoughtful breath.
“I don’t want to wake up and find I’m still on Nightmare.” He said. “All alone.”
He swallowed and fidgeted into a more traditional cross-legged position, feeling suddenly vulnerable, and tried to turn it into a weak joke. “Kinda suck, wouldn’t it?”
Xiu’s smile had faded a little, but she nodded understanding. She opened her mouth to say something, then a thought seemed to occur to her and she darted forward to give him a stinging pinch on his forearm. He clutched at the spot reflexively and blinked at her.
“Still here?” she asked.
He paused, then shut his eyes and nodded, grinning. “Yeah. Still here.”
She offered him her arm. “My turn.”
Rather than pinching it, he took her hand and studied the three ragged scar lines that ran from her elbow to her wrist and up the back of her hand to the knuckle. Hunter teeth were scalpel-sharp, and would have cut cleanly if they had sliced across her arm rather than raking along it. As it was, the marks were there to stay.
She hesitated and bit a lip. “Please… don’t.”
He let go of her hand again. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, I just… don’t like them.”
Julian looked at her arm again. “If it helps.” he replied. “I like them.”
Xiu studied her scars as if wondering whether they were looking at the same things. “How can you like them?” She asked.
“If you didn’t have them we’d never have met.”
“I don’t, um.” She frowned. “What?”
“Well, think about it. You only have them because you survived getting them. And, here you are. If you’d never got those… who knows where you’d be?”
Xiu swallowed and looked at her arm, as if seeing the marks there in a slightly new light.
“So… yeah. I like ’em.” Julian finished. “’Cause you’re here.”
“My God, Julian.” They both jumped as Allison chimed in. “That was fucking romantic.”
“Well, I mean, uh…” Julian cleared his throat awkwardly and never made it as far as a coherent thought.
“Sorry.” Xiu apologised.
“S’okay.” Allison sat up and thrust an arm up into the air, stretching. “Just…”
“Don’t kiss him.” Xiu nodded, looking a touch crestfallen. “I know.”
Allison laughed a little and gave her a hug. “Actually… I’m warming up to the idea.”
“You are?”
“You are?”
“If you both want to.” Allison nodded. “Yeah. Though, uh… maybe get my permission first? I don’t think I’m ready for… not yet.”
“Small steps.” Julian agreed. He looked to Xiu, though he was pretty sure the moment was wrong.
Xiu backed off the bed and perched on the edge “Not… right now.” She said.
“Yeah. Not yet.” Julian agreed.
Xiu stood up and aimed a thumb over her shoulder toward the other bedroom. “I’d better… and let you…”
“You sure?” Allison asked. “It’s a big bed, and he’s warm…”
Xiu shook her head. “I need some time to think.” she said. “It’s okay.”
It was Allison’s turn to seem disappointed. “Okay… Sweet dreams, babe.”
Once he’d heard both doors click shut, Julian stood, pulled his shirt off over his head, threw it into the laundry hamper and turned out the light. Near- pitch darkness marched straight into the room and set up shop like it had never really left.
He undid his belt, let his jeans fall to the ground, and climbed into bed. Beside him, Allison finished squirming out of her own clothes, and she snuggled up to him. “You okay?” she asked.
“…You’re warming to the idea?” Julian asked her.
Allison kissed him on the cheek by way of a reply.
“Al…”
“What? I said it, and I meant it. If that’s what you want…”
“This is starting to sound like you want… I dunno, like some kind of a poly thing?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
She kissed him in the dark. “What do you want? Be real, baby, what would you like?”
“…Lots’a different bits of me are all saying ‘both of you’, and for all kindsa different reason.” Julian told her, honestly. “But…”
“But?”
“I’m kinda scared there’d be a loser, if we went that way. Like, one of us’d wind up being the spare wheel. I don’t want that to happen to any of us: you, me or her."
His night vision was coming in, and he could just make out how Allison rested the side of her head in her hand and thought about what he’d said. “…God, that’d really hurt her, yeah.”
“How would we avoid that?”
“We’d be real.” Allison said. “That’s the key to any good relationship.”
“…True…”
“Right. So, why should that change just because we’d be three and not two?” she pointed out. “One-on-one relationships can have a loser too.”
“You really want to do this, don’t you?” Julian asked.
Allison put her head back down on his shoulder. “I don’t know why exactly, but I do.” She agreed. “I don’t want to spend my life stuck in other people’s’ comfort zones. Yeah, if we do this, maybe one of us gets hurt. And it won’t be Xiu. I won’t do that to her."
“But…?” Julian asked.
She nuzzled into his shoulder. “So maybe we get hurt. I’ve been hurt before, and I don’t think it’s so bad next to never trying.”
“So… are we going for it?”
“I want to.” She said, simply. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s up to Xiu.” Allison kissed him again, then rolled over. “Be the big spoon?”
Julian smiled to himself, and cuddled up behind her, infiltrating his arm over her waist. “Yes ma’am.”
“Mmmm…” she issued the hugest, most content sigh and wriggled back into him. “I love you.”
“What, no ‘good boy’?"
She nodded sleepily. “They mean the same thing, dummy.”
He smiled, kissed her just below her ear, then put his head down and let her fall asleep. “…I know.”
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
London, England, Earth.
Regaari
Any being who travelled from planet to planet needed to get used to sleeping according to what their body demanded, rather than according to the local diurnal rhythm. When travelling from Gao to Gorai could mean landing at a completely different time of day and in a day/night cycle that was nearly a third longer. It never paid to try and adjust to local time unless you were intent on staying for a while. The difference was even more pronounced on Earth, with its too-short day.
Hence why Regaari was awake at 5am.
The other three weren’t. Warhorse and Baseball, in true deathworlder fashion, seemed to have learned a skill that Regaari wouldn’t have thought possible, in being able to just sleep, wherever and whenever they were, for as long as they needed.
What was even more impressive was that Regaari knew that should he make the smallest noise of alarm or distress, both men would be awake and alert immediately.
They seemed to have discovered a quirk in Ayma meanwhile. After their nightly ritual of shampooing, rinsing, conditioning, rinsing again and then blow- drying, she went completely berserk. The moment the blow-dryer was turned off and she was able to escape the ordeal of being bathed, she would flit restlessly around the room, cleaning up every object that was even microscopically out of place, flipping TV channels, asking questions about every subject that crossed her mind, and even on one occasion pouncing from the bed onto Warhorse’s shoulders and imitating a human cry of “Giddyup!”
After about an hour of this she would, quite suddenly, crash and sleep until somebody woke her.
This had left Regaari to occupy himself for several hours a night every night, and so he had discovered the Internet.
Data networks were easy. Every species had one, and each was a reflection of the minds of its creators. Which, when the minds in question were human, meant that the Internet was anything but easy. Being almost completely illiterate in English only complicated matters.
Still, after some trial and error, Regaari had eventually managed to navigate the prickly shibboleth maze of in-jokes, references and running gags, some of the more enduring of which were as old as Warhorse. Beyond them was an opportunity.
Regaari was an older and much wiser male than he’d been in the days when he had first criticized his Fathers for cozying up to the Dominion. Gone was the earnest, naive young Whitecrest, and in his place was the kind of warrior who didn’t have too many scars not on account of staying out of fights, but on account of winning them. And for all that he was a skilled agent of conflict in the real world, when it came to data and intelligence Regaari knew he was among the rarified stratum of the very, very best.
Compiling a script to trawl assorted translation sources for probable meaning and then convert the written English into the specialist, high-density code that his implants could read was almost trivial. English may have been a context-heavy and intricate language, but the Corti had excelled themselves when they had created the universal communication medium that was the intermediary through which all translation took place. It was believed to be capable of communicating every possible nuance of meaning, including detailed descriptions of sensory experiences in senses that no known species possessed or could conceive of.
Still. The word “fuck” gave it trouble. Perhaps due to their own bias towards orderly and logical systems, the Corti had never considered that an innocuous monosyllable could carry such a titanic freight of varied meaning. It wasn’t that the word specifically had a nebulous meaning, but that the ‘formal’ meaning, so to speak, was just the root of the most hideously tangled snarl of colloquialism that Regaari had ever heard of.
Somehow, he just knew that he’d be debugging the algorithm that decided which particular “fuck” was being used in a given context for as long as he tried to use the script. But, it would do.
What it would do, was allow him to read English and, haltingly, write it too. This was important, because Regaari’s opportunity had three components.
The first was simple intelligence-gathering. Not that he would gain anything classified or sensitive this way, but that didn’t matter. Simply an insight into what humanity’s informed civilians, retired veterans and armchair strategists thought of their species’ position was edifying enough. What he found there impressed him - short on specifics though they might be, a hard core of amateur analysts were busily assembling a dossier on humanity’s strategic position that was every bit as thorough as Regaari’s own, and often rather more informed.
It made for mixed reading. The innate superiority of humans as warriors was ultimately badly outweighed by the logistical superiority of the rest of the galaxy. On the other hand, nobody could think of a way in which the planet Earth itself might be vulnerable save through technological possibilities so outlandish as to be pure fiction.
Part two was more fun than part one. Humans were already well-disposed toward Gaoians. Annoying instincts vis a vis dogs and cute fluffy animals aside, Sister Shoo was substantially better-known to the Internet than she probably suspected. Adopting and protecting her had done Gao an enormous favor, there.
So, part two was further cementing that relationship. Which led to part three - mischief.
Baseball and Warhorse weren’t remotely shy about their affection for each other, and on this particular occasion were asleep and rumbling spooned up close, with one of Base’s hairy arms resting gently on Horse’s waist.
Picking up Base’s phone, logging into a social media app that allowed new photos and video footage to be uploaded directly to the Internet was trivial. Making it seem innocent would have been equally easy - just a curious Gaoian accidentally activating a device he didn’t know how to stop - but that wasn’t the point. The point was to humanize himself and, more importantly, to humanize the SOR.
He mimed the “shush” gesture that he’d learned and played the camera around the room, taking care to capture as good a view as he could of the two Protectors. Ayma got a little screen time, curled up with her nose stuffed into her fur and an ear twitching slightly as she dreamed, then back to Regaari for a wave to the crowd and… done.
Too bad for one staff sergeant John Burgess that his social media profile was set to ‘public’ by default. Less than a minute after it was uploaded, the video had leaked.
Less than ten minutes later, the footage was on Youtube.
By the time, two hours later, that Warhorse stirred in his sleep ahead of waking up for a bright new day and Regaari had to close all the browser tabs, ‘#SleepyBeef’ was trending across the planet and Regaari himself had secured the affection of tens of thousands of humans.
Not bad for five minutes’ work.
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds
Mwrmwrwk
“I have a bounty to claim.”
The creature manning the desk was a Mjrnhrm, and a long way from home. The acid-etching on the brow-plate of its chitinous head made it clear that this particular one had been exiled for some unspecified crime, and somewhere in its travels some misadventure had cost it a limb. Rather than going for cybernetic prostheses, the creature had opted to receive cloned (or, possibly, donor) organic transplants instead. The replacements were slightly paler shade of mottled dark verdigris.
“The wanted person boards are on the left.” it said, communicating clear impatience and disinterest.
Whether or not its misadventures had robbed it of a sense of manners or whether all Mjrnhrm were like that, Mwrmwrwk couldn’t guess. She’d never met a Mjrnhrm before.
“It isn’t a person.”
“A bounty on something that is not a person.” It put the tablet it had been reading down and its vestigial wings buzzed briefly, signalling clear and naked derision. “Please, do regale me, o brave explorer. Which fabled lost planet have you uncovered? A deathworld full of sapient trees? A city built entirely of platinum? Mrwrki Station?”
“Yes.”
It buzzed again. Some subtle shift of pitch and frequency that was inaudible to Kwmbwrw ears was enough to communicate the difference between derision and confusion. “What?”
“I have found Mrwrki station.” Mwrmwrwk willed her translator to broadcast sincerity and irritation in equal measure.
The Mjrnhrm tilted its head, studying her skeptically and with no small sign of cautious avarice. Mwrmwrwk could hardly blame it for that - given the size of the finder’s fee on Mrwrki, even the small percentage that bounty officers took from each contract would translate to a healthy lump sum in any currency. “…Prove it.”
“What kind of fool do you think I am?” Mwrmwrwk asked it. “Open the transaction and log my report. Then I prove it.”
With an air that suggested it would have preferred to be grumbling aloud, it did so. Mwrmwrwk promptly uploaded her identity information, and the sensor records she had discreetly copied from Negotiable Curiosity’s memory.
The Mjrnhrm studied the proof in front of it for nearly a full two Ri’.
“It pays to be skeptical in my line of work.” It declared, and opened a few tools and programs that, within the protected environment of the transaction, dissected her file in search of evidence of forgery. “But, I can find no evidence that this is a fake…”
“So?”
“You present me with a gamble.” It said. “Mrwrki is a myth. No serious being believes it did anything other than explode. And the size of the reward… I can only just afford to pay out.”
“You sound very much like the last three bounty officers I went to.” Mwrmwrwk told it. “All of them have missed the opportunity of earning, by my estimation, forty-four Dominion Development Credits.”
Its vestigial wings thrummed as it thought long and hard.
Then, very slowly and carefully, it poked its pincer to the large blue accept button.
A notification in Mwrkwrki’s field of vision informed her that she was now many hundreds of times wealthier. It was an absurd sum - enough to buy a fleet of ships the size of Negotiable Curiosity. There was no use - or any real point - in trying to conceal her delight, so instead she reared up to her full height, thrust her forepaws into the air and cooed a long and loud trill of Kwmbwrw triumph.
Then she dropped back to all fours.
“A pleasure” she told the Mjrnhrm, which had covered its auditory organs “to do business with you.”
“If I come to regret it, I swear by the etchings of my kin that I will spend the last of my funds on somehow finding the Human Disaster himself and hiring him to come after you.” it replied, though there was a note of amusement and confidence that it would need to do no such thing.
Fighting to preserve a semblance of dignity, she exchanged gestures of respect with the odd creature, shuffled around and ambled out of the bounty office, fantasizing about being able to finally get out from under Bedu’s skinny thumb, of not having to spend an attosecond longer tolerating Hzzkvk, of being able to return to Kwmbwri, get in good with one of the Great Houses, maybe even become a Matriarch herself.
She effectively died in mid-stride.
Nobody noticed. At most, if they were paying attention they would have seen a slight stumble and the way she stopped, took her bearings, and kept walking. To an outside observer, there was no hint at all that anything was seriously amiss.
On the inside, Eleven took stock of the situation, and set about her mission.
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Etsicitty house, North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Xiu Chang
The vendors on Itrian station are selling gluten-free tigers, buy two and get a third free. It sounds like a healthy option, so Xiu buys three and wanders away to watch the spaceships docking.
Toss.
One of the docking ships smiles at her. Its face splits like pavement cracking, and what it produces is less a smile than a hungry rictus. She throws it a tiger, which it snatches down like a shark snatching a passing fish.
Turn.
Freaked out, she turns away and runs off between the trees. Knee deep snow and needled boughs slow her down, and behind her she knows beyond doubt that Death is gaining. Despairing of escape, she turns at bay and raises her hands to fight, unsheathing her claws and baring her teeth. If she’s about to die, she’s going to die like a Gaoian.
Night and oblivion sweep down upon her and she woke up, flailed and thrashed at the blankets for a second, cast wildly about the unfamiliar room and the dream is still real. A Corti’s face sneers at her in the dark and she scrambles across the bed away from it, fighting for room, only to fall off the other side and hit her head on the wall.
Clarity returned. The Corti turned out to be a framed picture on the wall, or something similar.
Twisted up in the sheets as she was, it took her some effort and quite a lot of soft swearing to eventually struggle to her feet and, rubbing the sore spot on the back of her head, inspect the picture.
“Derek and The Dominos…?”
She sighed and sank onto the bed, resisting the urge to yank on her own hair to chastise herself. That way lay a degenerating spiral of self-loathing that she’d been caught in far too many times over the years.
Instead, she crossed her legs under herself, wriggled her spine straight, and settled into a ritual that had got her through so many dark days. Metta, also known as Loving-Kindness meditation, was directed first at herself to build up a positive frame of mind, and from that foundation she could project the same energies towards her friends and her loved ones.
Nowadays, she had a long list of loved ones. That was worth remembering: It helped her love herself and forgive herself for the nightmares and intrusive ideas.
By the time she finished, the overcast sky outside her borrowed window had a blue-grey cast to it that hinted at imminent dawn. She threw on a T-shirt as she listened to the house and decided that nobody was awake yet. Time to fix breakfast.
She had nearly finished mixing the crepe batter when Julian emerged from his and Allison’s bedroom and plunged straight into the bathroom. He wasn’t in there long - apparently he was an efficient showerer - and he emerged wearing his cargo shorts, scrubbing at his hair and kicking his prosthetic foot to shake the water out of it.
“Hey, you.”
She beamed at him. “Hey.”
“You’re in a good mood this morning.” he observed. “Whatever that squeal of delight was, it woke me up.”
She grimaced. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, I’m a light sleeper.” He sat down on one of the bar stools at the island worksurface, and Xiu pretended not to notice the very welcome attention he was paying to her legs. “What was that, anyway?”
“I, um…” She sighed and blushed. “I found the maple syrup.”
Sure enough he laughed. “Yup, you’re Canadian.” he confirmed, fondly.
She laughed with him. “Shut up!”
Grinning like a retriever with three ducks in his mouth, he nodded. “Yes ma’am.”
“Ooh, do I get to say ‘good boy’?"
He chuckled, and rested his jaw on his fist. “If you like.”
“Then get some plates warmed up.”
He stood and she was gratified to see that even he had to go on tip-toes to reach the cupboard that she’d had to jump slightly just to open. “Yes ma’am.”
Xiu giggled. “Good boy. Oh, and put some music on.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Oh, I could get used to this…”
He paused in filling the sink with hot water, waiting, and she laughed silently through her nose. “Good boy.”
The bacon was sizzling, the plates were nice and hot and Norah Jones was singing ‘Sunrise’ when Allison surfaced. She greeted Xiu with an affectionate hug from behind and Julian with a light kiss. “Something” she declared “smells AMAZING.”
“Breakfast crepes!” Xiu explained.
“Ooh, what’s in them?” Allison backed off as Xiu aimed a playful slap at her hand.
“Sit down and you’ll find out.”
Allison raised an eyebrow at Julian, who just shrugged. “…Yes ma’am!” she said.
“Hmm…” Xiu produced her cheekiest smile. “Good girl.”
Allison pantomimed shock - her jaw dropped, but the rest of her face was thoroughly amused. She sat next to Julian. “…Okay, that’s actually kinda fun.” she conceded to him.
“Isn’t it?” he agreed.
Beaming to herself, Xiu finished her preparations and soon had three steaming hot crepes plated and served, each one wrapped around a solid portion of bacon, cheese and a sunny-side-up fried egg, with a drizzle of maple syrup and a couple of blueberries and raspberries for decoration.
“Dear God, this looks like it belongs in a restaurant.” Allison commented, as it arrived in front of her.
“Or a fancy hotel.” Julian agreed. “This is home cooking to you?”
Xiu just grinned and picked up her fork. “Don’t let it go cold.” she admonished them.
They looked at each other, then picked up their own cutlery and tucked in. Xiu took one mouthful and almost put her fork back down as the taste made her close her eyes in delight.
“Are you allowed to react that powerfully to your own cooking?” Julian teased.
Xiu play-glared at him. “Giff’me a break. I’ff not had thefe in yearff.”
“She’s allowed.” Allison agreed, and swallowed. “Babe, these are divine."
Glowing internally, Xiu accepted the compliment with a smile, and dived right into her next mouthful.
As always with good food, their plates were empty far too soon, and Julian and Allison soon turned the tables on her by not letting her do any of the cleaning down and washing up.
“So… How long do we have until Jenkins is back?” Allison asked.
“He said ten o’clock or thereabouts.” Julian replied. “Annoying. An hour or two later and I could get the beaver pipe installed before he arrives…”
“You were gonna take that Aspen down.” Allison pointed out. Julian snapped his fingers and nodded. He put the last plate away and headed for the bedroom.
“Beaver pipe?” Xiu asked.
“There’s beavers up in the back woods.” Allison explained, wiping the skillet dry. “Julian says it’s a good thing we got back when we did, ’cause a year or two more and they’d be threatening to flood out the road. So, he’s installing some kind of a drain pipe to control the water level.”
“And the Aspen?”
“Quaking Aspen coming up by the garage. It needs to come down before it grows any bigger and damages the roof.”
“Wow. This place really is country…” Xiu looked around. “Um, what are you doing?”
Allison hung up the skillet on the rack by the window. “There’s the other truck to have a look at, but I think that one’s beyond repair.” she said. “Julian says the last time he remembers it running he was just a kid. But, you never know.”
“Oh.” Xiu looked around. “I could, uh, tidy up in here?” she suggested.
“You don’t have to…” Allison told her.
“Yuosha’.”, Xiu replied, unconsciously using a Gaoian phrase that served the same purpose as ‘bullshit’. “I can at least throw a duster around.”
Allison raised her hands. “Knock yourself out, babe.” she said. “Go ahead and take all the ornaments down, too.
After getting dressed, Xiu didn’t need long to find the dusters and furniture polish in the utility room, along with a cloth to cover her hair. She flung open the windows and screen doors, put on some louder music that she could hear it over the sound of Julian’s chainsaw, and declared war on anything resembling dust, dirt or grime, no matter where it hid around the house.
The house had clearly gone for years without being dusted, and she quickly had to find another cloth to cover her mouth and nose - every unused surface, door jamb, high shelf, the backs of the appliances, and especially all the remaining wall ornaments and paintings were caked in the stuff.
The end result was that when Julian came back in some unconsidered interval later, his reaction was to sneeze violently. “Jeez!”
Xiu grimaced. “Sorry, sorry…”
He coughed and waved a hand to try and clear the air. “Maybe let it settle before Jenkins gets here.” he suggested, heading to the front door and opening both the inner door and the banshee screen door to let the air properly blow through.
Xiu nodded. “…Right.” she agreed. “…I got the place cleaner though!”
“Yeah you did.“Julian waved the door a few times to try and fan some air through, then gave up and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “You did a great job!”
“Xiexie!” she beamed at him and sat on one of the barstools.
“So, uh…” he began.
“Yeah?”
“Speaking of Jenkins…” Julian sat down opposite her. “You never actually said whether you’re coming with us.”
Impulsively, Xiu got up to get herself a water as well - dusting was thirsty work - but she gave him a happy kiss on the cheek on her way past. “I’m considering it.” she teased as he put a surprised hand to his cheek. “Isn’t being a starship pilot on the cards? Wei would be so jealous."
“Didn’t you want to be an actress?” he asked, as she grabbed the drink.
She sat down again. “That’s not likely, these days.”
“Less likely than being a starship pilot?”
Xiu was giving a wry shrug by way of an answer as Allison came back in.
“Yeah, the Ford’s dead.” she announced. “What’re you two up to?”
“We’re just discussing how flying spaceships is my most plausible career option.” Xiu joked.
Allison made an amused noise and sat down with them. “I bet it beats acting anyway.” she said. “No paparazzi, no gossip, no interviews and cameras… So you’re coming with us, for real?”
What neither of them knew, was that Xiu’s mind had been made up since last night. Home, after all, was wherever she wanted to be.
“Yes.” she said. “I’m coming with you.”
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Military transport plane, somewhere above the arctic circle, Earth
Owen Powell
“They’re all over t’ fookin’ Internet! All over it! Here I was thinking your objective in comin’ ‘ere was to prove yer a reliable an’ trustworthy sort an’ build a foundation for an alliance an’ that, and then you go and violate the privacy of two of my lads?"
“I think you’ll find, major.” Regaari was holding his ground, for which Powell had to give him grudging credit. “That my little act of mischief was carefully calculated.”
“Careful-? Oh, aye? Alright. Let’s fookin’ hear it. Come on.” Powell produced his best ferocious glare which, to his consternation, seemed to have no effect on Regaari at all.
Regaari smoothed down a loose tuft of fur. Thanks to his nightly bathing at Ares’ thorough hands, his fur was glossy, light and refusing to behave itself. “Have you been following your own unit’s reputation on social media, major?” he asked, lightly.
“I’ve been too busy wi’ actually runnin’ the unit, mate." Powell said.
“You should. Prior to our arrival, the SOR was…” Regaari paused, selecting his words carefully. “…the subject of some concern. Accusations of inhumane and unethical surgery, concerns of genetic manipulation, rumours that they’re the product of a Corti research program. The propaganda footage you put out of the action on Capitol Station has only fuelled the concern.”
“Not a one of us is stronger’n a human can get naturally.” Powell said. “Not even Ares.”
“As you say.” Regaari duck-nodded. “But your species tend to underestimate yourselves, major. I think most of you don’t believe that Earth really is a deathworld. Many on the Internet are saying that everything that has happened in the last ten Earth years has been an enormous hoax."
Major Jackson made a pained noise. “Oh, those fuckwits." she groaned.
“Human nature.” Powell said.
“Yeah, but I still can’t wait for the day when I can punch people like that consequence-free, like Buzz Aldrin did.” She said. “But Regaari’s right, Powell. Your ‘lads’ scare people just by existing. Didn’t you hear about China complaining to the UN about the, quote, ‘western supersoldier program’?”
“I musta been too busy bein’ part o’ that program." Powell grumbled. “So, what, you’re saying we’ve got some public image to make up?”
“You’ve got a fuck of a lot of public image to make up.” Rylee said. “Or did you forget that’s my second job? I’ve not been hanging around with you and the lads just for your charming company, I’m on duty here."
“And how exactly does shootin’ footage of my two youngest and least experienced men in a state of undress and uploadin’ it to the Internet help our public image?" Powell asked.
“It makes them more relatable.” Regaari explained. “Just in this short trip, Baseball and Warhorse have gone from being two anonymous examples of exactly the kind of extreme physicality that has so badly unnerved your species’ commentators, to being ‘the Beef Brothers.’ Now, people are saying ‘they sleep just like everyone else.’”
“My lads aren’t that scary.” Powell said, dismissively.
“Hah!” Jackson smiled incredulously at him. “Hell yes they are! If I didn’t know them so well they’d scare the crap out of me. You too!”
Powel blinked at her, surprised. “…Really?”
Jackson raised a hand to her mouth and called down toward the two enlisted men, who were playing Poker with Ayma. “Hey! Warhorse!”
His head snapped round. “…Ma’am?”
“How big d’you reckon you’d be if you’d stayed PJ instead of going SOR?”
Ares thought about it. “’Bout… five-eight? Two hundred or two-twenty-five pounds?”
“How big are you now?” She asked.
“Much bigger’n that, ma’am. ” his trademark dopey grin put in an appearance.
Jackson nodded to him, and lowered her voice. “Between you and me? That boy’s a freak.” she said. “A cute, goofy and lovable freak with about the best service ethic I ever saw, but a freak nonetheless. But overnight he’s gone from being a freak in the public eye to having fans. Fans who don’t even know him for the great guy he is, who don’t have a reason to see past the muscles."
Powell directed a calculating frown at his young charge, and said nothing.
“That sounds like quite a public relations coup.” Regaari noted. His ears were up defiantly, and he folded his arms in imitation of the human gesture, which was awkward for a Gaoian.
“It is.” Jackson agreed. “One that I doubt we could have pulled off. About the only person who could was Regaari, in fact. Protocol forbids us from doing something like this, but Regaari? When he does it, that’s just mischief, you know?"
Powell took a deep and resigned breath. “Fine. Okay. Let’s say I concede that maybe this is a net positive. A big one, even. I’m still not happy at all that you did this wi’out at least consulting me, and wi’out my lads knowin’ you had it planned.”
“Wouldn’t have worked.” Jackson told him. “It’s the whole candid thing that gives it the magic.”
“Major…” Regaari scooted forward in his chair so that his dangling feet could reach the floor. “There may be a cultural difference here. Among Gaoians, for one Clan to do unbidden what another Clan cannot do for themselves - or isn’t aware that they need to - is considered a sign of respect."
“Fookin’ impudent is what I call it.” Powell groused, but raised a placating hand. “Fine. we’ll chalk it up to alien cultural differences. But do we really need that big of a PR boost?"
“…Regaari? Could you give us some privacy please?” Jackson asked. The Gaoian duck-nodded and picked his way forward to try and get back into Warhorse and Baseball’s good graces.
She turned to Powell. “Yes. Yes you do.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We’re doin’ a job out there. A fookin’ important one. You know what’s at stake. I couldn’t care less what some pimply Internet social justice warrior has to say, they know fookin’ nothin’, and they’re better off that way."
“I don’t think you know what’s at stake." she replied. “Powell, bad PR has killed units stone dead in the past. Those ‘social justice warriors’ are voters, and while you’re folding your arms at them and keeping shtum, they’re gossiping and speculating and hurting your image so bad that young men are gonna shy away from you ’cause their mommas warned them about genetic engineering, or whatever."
“That bad?” He asked.
Jackson nodded, sadly. “Hashtag ‘BeefBros’ is about the best thing that could have happened to your unit, Powell. Without it, it was only a matter of time before some congressman started making nasty noises about you, or some firebrand talkshow host did his bit and skewered your reputation.”
He pointed an arm toward the rear of the aircraft. “There’s fookin’ extinction knockin’ on the door out there, and you’re telling me our strategy for fightin’ it exists at the whim o’ the kind of blithering wankers who couldn’t tip water out of a helmet with the instructions written on’t’ top?"
“That’s about right.”
“Jesus fookin’ Christ…” He rubbed a finger despairingly across the top of his nose, between his eyebrows. “If that’s the shape of it then we’re doomed, and rightly bloody so. We can’t build our survival on a foundation that dodgy!"
She reached out and put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Owen? Trust me on this. That’s not a fight any of us are gonna win. The only option is to play the game and play it well."
He lowered his hand and glanced guiltily towards the young Protectors. “What happens to the lads if we don’t play it well?” he asked, quietly.
She squeezed his shoulder. “Trust me, and trust Regaari, and you’ll never have to find out.” she promised.
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Byron Group Headquarters, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Moses Byron
Rachael was extremely good at her job. She knew exactly which calls to forward to Moses when he was in a meeting, and he knew it. So, when his desk phone rang in the middle of a meeting, he had no problems at all in putting his guests on hold for a few moments.
“Ah, please, excuse me, gentlemen… Go ahead, Rachael.”
“Mister Jenkins on the line, sir.”
“Nice! I’ll take it, thank you.” There was a click and a change in audio quality that said the call was through. “Kevin! Still in Minnesota?”
“On my way back, boss man. Aaaand, EV-eleven is fully crewed. Three stellar explorers, as requested.”
“You even got Chang?”
“She talked herself into it.” Jenkins replied. “I’ll give you my full impression when I’m back in the office tomorrow. Figured you’d like to know so you can start the ball rolling.”
“You figured right.” Moses agreed. “See you tomorrow.” he stabbed a button on the phone to go back through to Rachael. “Rachael, tell Ericson we’re good to go on Eleven, please.”
“Yes, Mister Byron.”
“Thanks Rachael.”
He clapped his hands and rubbed them happily, then turned back to his guests. “Please, forgive the interruption.” he said. “As you were saying-?”
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Finchley, London, England, Earth
Ava Rios
Simon Harvey chose about the worst time to call Ava’s phone - she had a basket of wet laundry held awkwardly on one hip and was trying to hang it up with her spare hand, and the phone was on her basket-holding hip pocket
She just about managed to fumble it out in time to answer, somehow. “Hey, Simon.”
“Ava! Glad one of you’s answering your phone.” Simon had the unmistakable rush of a car in traffic behind him. “Go tell my nephew to stop wanking, I’ll be along to pick you both up in twenty minutes. Have you got that travel bag I told you to pack?”
“Uh, yeah.” She cradled her phone against her chin and began taking the washing off the line to move it indoors instead. “Why, where are we going?”
“Cairo.” he replied. “I’ll explain when we’re en route.”
Not knowing how long they’d be gone, Ava made sure to hang the wet clothes up indoors after rousing Sean from whatever he’d been doing in his room and explaining what they were doing and where they were going.
“Cairo?” He asked, helping her get them laid out. Neither of them wanted to come back to moldy clothes.
“That’s what he said. Please tell me you packed that bag like he told us.”
Sean gave her a mildly offended look. “I did it first thing!” he told her.
“Right.”
Laundry cleared away they did a quick tour of the house, turning off the water, gas and electricity, checking the doors and windows were all locked, taking photos of each room in case they got back to find the place burgled and were outside, locked up and had their bags and equipment in hand when Simon rolled up in one of London’s rentable self-driving cars.
They piled in, buckled up, and he ordered it to Heathrow airport.
“So. Cairo.” Simon began, getting straight to business. “There was some kind of a gun battle down there last night, and LOTS of people reported a sonic boom. All by itself that’s unusual, but the very interesting part…” He opened his tablet and showed them Twitter. “…is that the locals are calling it a UFO.”
Ava and Sean glanced at each other. “Is that… enough to go on?” Sean asked.
Simon shrugged. “If nothing else, we can get a story out of the shootout. Something happened down there, and there’s a story in it, even if it’s not Ava’s Big Conspiracy." he said. “But the skeptics really are at a loss for what else to call it, and nobody in the Egyptian government has said a word yet.”
Ava took a deep breath. This was a world away from shooting photos of the crowd during a visit by extraterrestrial dignitaries. “Cairo, huh? I always wanted to see the Pyramids…”
“Work first, tourism later.” Simon told her, but he was smiling. “I’m trusting you both on this one. Maybe if this goes smoothly, we’ll be ready to move on with chasing your conspiracy, Ava, but for now I have two inexperienced young journalists in my care. You appreciate how big the favour I’m doing for you is?”
“Yes, Simon.” Ava said. Sean just nodded.
“Right.” Simon swiped to a different app on his tablet. “Here’s what I have so far…”
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Cairo, Egypt, Earth
Master Sergeant Roy Vinther
“Y’all packed?”
There was a round of nodding. Hotwash was done with - there really hadn’t been much to report, the op had been aborted too quickly for them all to do more than confirm that the Hierarchy had a ship on Earth and that it was creating biodrones. Beyond that, there were precious few in the way of learning points. As far as Vinther could tell, the whole mission had gone by the numbers, and now they were packing up and moving on.
Sergeant Walsh was the last in zipping his bag. “Yup. Where we going?” he asked
“Back to CONUS, unless something comes up last minute.”
Walsh grimaced at him. “Vinther, you ass, never say shit like that, you should know better! Now we-"
His phone pinged, and everyone in the room watched warily as he dug it out. Walsh’s shoulders dropped as he read the message. “There, you see what you did?” he asked.
“You’re shittin’ me.” Vinther frowned. “What the fuck’s come up now?"
“’s from the CIA station chief. Gimme a….” Walsh wandered down the room, reading what had been sent to him with his hand on his chin.
“Way to go, Vinther.” Pavlopoulos congratulated him.
“Hangover, you look like you’ve got time to spare. Why don’t you go load the bags in the SUV?” Vinther told him.
“….yes, master sergeant.”
Vinther let him grab a bag in each hand and go. “Walsh?”
The so-called intel weenie looked up. “Persons of interest coming our way.” he said. “They just got on a flight in London.”
“Is this information just for our entertainment, or are we gonna actually do something with it?" Vinther asked.
“Covert surveillance.”
“Fuck that, we ain’t equipped!” Vinther protested.
Walsh scrolled down through whatever he was reading. “Chief says they’ll equip us.”
“Well that’s a red flag.” Coombes grunted. “Company never shares their toys."
“Who are these POIs, anyway?” Vinther asked.
Walsh turned the phone around, showing him a photo of a stunning young woman with a heart-shaped face, wavy hair and a slightly haunted, intense gaze. “Ava Magdalena Rios.” he said. “San Diego survivor, adopted daughter of the chief of Cimbrean Colonial Security, romantically involved with a member of the SOR and, crucially, a journalist. Working for our second POI…” he swiped across onto the next page. “…Mr. Simon Harvey.”
Vinther studied the slender, angular and painfully English features of the passport photo at the top of the page. “Who?”
“He’s a reporter, been poking around in Jeddah, Karachi and Qalqilya.”
“Fuck.” Coombes opined. “We got a leak.”
“No wonder the Company wants us on top of them.” Vinther agreed.
“They’re a step behind if they’re only coming down here now.” Walsh pointed out.
“Guess it’s our job to keep it that way.” Vinther said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, the chief’s sent a call to Cimbrean, asking for a couple of SOR men. Courtesy, seeing as one of their guys is involved, you know?”
“Great, so we gon’ have a couple’a meat walls stomping around?” Coombes said. “Just great.”
“Eh.” Walsh shrugged. “If it goes FUBAR, I could stand having Superman for backup.”
“What’s gonna go FUBAR? It’s a couple of civilian journalists.” Vinther asked him wryly, acutely aware that all missions got complicated, usually sooner rather than later. “How wrong can it go?”
Coombes smacked a palm to his forehead. “For fuck’s sake Vinther…"
“Take your superstitious ass and go tell Pavlo we need everything back in here.” Vinther retorted, grinning.
Coombes chuckled and kicked his feet out to propel himself upright. “Yes, master sergeant…”
Vinther turned back to Walsh. “Okay.” he said. “Let’s plan this shit.”
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Allied Extrasolar Command, Scotch Creek, British Columbia, Canada.
Owen Powell
“Major. Good timing.”
Powell always quietly gave thanks to whatever power might hear it that his job didn’t require him to get as large as some of his lads, who had to turn sideways to make it comfortably through most doors. Still, stepping into General Tremblay’s office was an easy reminder that although Powell himself was easily the smallest EV-MASS qualified man in the SOR, he was still sitting in territory normally only achieved by dedicated bodybuilders.
Next to him, even Tremblay - a brawny man whom age had only succeeded in hardening - managed to look small.
“Summat important came up I gather, sir.” He replied. Tremblay gestured to the office chair opposite him.
“Two things did.” Tremblay expanded as Powell sat down. He produced two briefings - old habits died hard, and the general preferred paper hardcopy - and slid the first over the desk.
“Last night, an STS element operating in Cairo got into a brief firefight with Hierarchy assets. They’ve confirmed the presence of a Hierarchy spaceship and biodroning operation on Earth.”
Powell scowled at the pages as he skimmed them. Smart-paper “photos” clipped to the document replayed the helmet cam footage of an invisible object shielding retreating men and women from the operator’s fire, and lifting a tarpaulin as it rose into the air.
“That doesn’t make a whole lot o’ sense.” he mused. “If they could get a ship to us, why not call in the Hunters? Or just nuke us flat?”
“Our best guess is that the ship was already here, and has neither a jump beacon nor a nanofactory.” Tremblay explained. “Anyway, that’s for me to worry about. Where the SOR comes in is that somehow an investigative journalist by the name of Simon Harvey got wind of this, and he’s booked a flight to Cairo, with his two assistants: His nephew Sean Harvey, and-”
“Ava Rios.” Powell finished. Her face was right at the top of the second page. “Is there no escapin’ that fookin’ girl’s orbit?”
“That young woman is a bit of a rising star, Powell.” Tremblay said. “Newspaper front pages, magazine covers, the Byron Group’s whole advertising campaign for Cimbrean development… and of course she’s closely tied to two men who both know DEEP RELIC.”
Powell’s first instinct was to emphatically defend sergeant Ares and his father, but he owed it to the seriousness of the situation to think properly for a few seconds. “…I’d consider it deeply unlikely that either Gabriel Ares or his son have shared top secret information, sir.” he said carefully. “I trust ’em both. Besides, the girl’s not stupid and she’s been a victim of the Hierarchy’s activities. Could be she put the pieces together herself.”
“Either way, we need to know. She’s under covert surveillance, and the station chief requested that the SOR send a man or two. As a courtesy.”
“Firth and Murray.” Powell agreed, promptly.
Tremblay nodded. “Rationale?”
“They can both be as subtle - or not - as any situation might require, they’ve got mission-appropriate skills that Blaczynski and the Defenders lack, and even if they were appropriate for this gig, both my Protectors are in dire need of some PT."
“Good.” Tremblay slid over the other briefing. “On to situation two.”
Powell picked it up. What he read raised his eyebrows. “Kirk got back in touch?”
“So we hope. Sadly, we have to treat him as Orange for now, but he did feed us some intelligence which should help clean up that question. The name of a spaceship that may be in the Hierarchy’s employ, the ‘Negotiable Curiosity’."
“Cute name.”
Tremblay smiled grimly. “An exo-intel informant has it berthed on Perfection right now. I want that ship, its crew and every kilobyte in its computers.”
“No JETS assets available?” Powell asked.
“Available, yes. Appropriate, no.” Tremblay said. “I’d prefer to send a JETS- qualified Delta Force team on this if I could, but it turns out that Perfection hugely improved their anti-aircraft defense systems over the last few years in response to a terrorist attack. The only way to make a covert insertion now would be Exo-Atmospheric jump.”
“And only SOR can EA Jump.” Powell nodded. “Right. You only need the four?”
“Four should do nicely.” Tremblay agreed.
“Yes sir. Anything else?”
“I believe Major Jackson’s with you?”
“She is, yeah.”
“Good. Ask her to come see me as soon as the Gaoians are safely off this planet, please. And, if you can spare them from their PT for one more day, the Beef Brothers too.”
Powell hesitated. “General… if I may?”
Tremblay sat back and folded his hands neatly in his lap. “Go ahead.”
“Burgess and Ares are remarkable lads. Hell wi’t, they’re bloody heroes, both of them, and they deserve those silver stars they’re gonna get for NOVA HOUND. And, I know they’ve both seen stuff that grown men haven’t… but they both joined at seventeen and their whole life since then has been the military. If it’s really that important to, er…” he searched for the right word. “…to capitalize on this whole viral Internet thing…"
Tremblay didn’t say anything, but a half-inch hike of his eyebrow told Powell to get to the point.
“…I’m concerned for their well-being and morale, sir. The public eye’s a battlefield I myself fear to set foot on.”
“My hope,” Tremblay said, “was that Major Jackson might mentor and advise them before they find themselves back in front of a camera, assuming they ever do. Colonel Stewart has already agreed that he can spare her, and you, I believe, have better reason than anybody to trust her."
“Knowing they’d be in her care puts my mind at ease sir, yes.” Powell conceded.
“I sympathize.” Tremblay confessed. “But I think you and I are an old- fashioned breed, Powell. We’re too used to public relations being under control of, rather than controlling us. I’m old enough to remember mobile phones as big as bricks, and somehow I think you didn’t have one growing up.”
“No sir.”
Tremblay smiled. “Your Protectors are better-prepared than you think.” he promised. “And I’m just as concerned as you that we don’t ruin two exceptional assets. Fair?”
“Thank you sir.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing comes to mind, sir.”
“Carry on, then. And… Powell?”
Powell paused in turning for the door. “Sir?”
“Give my good luck to the men you send to follow Harvey and Rios. Somehow, I think they’ll need it.”
“Change of plans, lads.”
Baseball and Warhorse straightened as Powell returned from the office complex, pausing in their preparations for the Jump Array.
“Sir?”
“General Tremblay wants to have a word. You can probably guess why.”
Both men looked at each other, and at the Gaoians. “I guess once these two are back on Cimbrean, our job’s done…” Burgess conceded. “This a PR thing, sir?”
“Major Jackson’s persuaded me that it’s important.” Powell told him. “I defer to her superior knowledge in these matters, seein’ as she’s been in the public eye a long time now.”
“Yes sir.”
“Get your charges home safe.” Powell said. “Ares. Got some private news for yer.”
The young man nodded and they strolled away from the little pile of equipment to talk in private. “I’m goin’ back wi’ the Gaoians.” Powell told him. “Soon as I get there, I’ve got a couple assignments for the lads, one of which is here on Earth. Your, er… former partner is caught up in some DEEP RELIC business down in Egypt.”
“Christ.” Ares rubbed at his forehead. “How’d she find out?”
“I’ve heard you say it yourself that she’s a smart lass.” Powell pointed out.
“Smarter’n me…” Ares agreed. “Most of the time. So… what, is she under observation?”
“Aye. And they’ve asked us to send some of ours down there. Not you.” Powell added, cutting the younger man off before he could speak. “Firth an’ Murray.”
Ares nodded. “Makes sense… thank you for telling me, sir.”
“You deserve to know.” Powell assured him. “Anyhow, I’ll let you crack on.”
“Yes sir… you’ll let me know if anything happens?”
“’Course I bloody will.” Powell said. “Sergeant.”
“Sir.”
Powell treated him to a rare affectionate clap on the shoulder and jogged back to where Regaari and Ayma were waiting. “I’m afraid this is where you part ways with your Protectors.” he announced. “I hope you’re parting on good terms, Burgess?”
Baseball grinned expansively. “Still kinda annoyed at the little furry bastard, sir.” he said, though his tone was warm.
“Regaari?”
“If I live to be older than Father Fyu I’ll never understand how insulting me is meant to be affectionate.” Regaari said, though Powell judged the set of his ears to be playful and amused. “But I believe so.”
“Good, because as far as I’m concerned this trip’s been a resounding success.” Powell extended a hand, and shook both their paws in turn. “Though - and please don’t take this the wrong way - for God’s sake please never come back.”
Ayma chittered. “Once was quite sufficient.” she promised.
Powell made an amused harrumph and bid them farewell with a touch of a finger to his forehead.
He found Jackson chatting amiably with the pilot of their transport plane, who was clearly a little star-struck and trying not to show it. She beamed at him, and excused herself to the pilot. If she noticed the way the young man turned and started fanboying out to his colleague, she did a good job of not showing it.
“Guess we’re parting ways again, huh?” she asked, soon as they were out of earshot.
“’Fraid so. Any idea when you’ll next be in Folctha?”
“I doubt it’ll be long. We’re going to want to move fast on this whole Beef Brothers thing, so I’ll be around before long to give you some more PR advice.” she smiled.
“Funny you should mention it, Tremblay wants a word with you and the lads before they head back.”
“Thought he might.” Rylee nodded, then considered him, thoughtfully.
“…What?”
“You sound like you’re gonna miss me.” she observed.
“Well of course I bloody am.” Powell chuckled. “You don’t think I’ve just been tolerating you this last week, do ya?"
She shook her head, still smiling. “You are such an easy tease.”
“Aye, you got me…”
“All to myself?”
“If you want.”
Rylee considered it. “Y’know… I like the whole friends-with-benefits thing we’ve got going…" she mused. “But I gotta admit, the older I get, the more going steady sounds like it’s got something going for it.”
“We could set a record for the longest-distance relationship. How far is Cimbrean from Earth?" Powell asked.
“Point seven kiloparsecs…”
“That sounds like a lot.”
“Yes and no…” Rylee thought about it some more, then shrugged expansively. “I like you a lot, Owen. And you bet your beautifully muscled ass I’ll be calling on you every chance I get. But being stationed in completely different systems when we’re both so career-focused…? I don’t know. How about we try it, and no hard feelings if it doesn’t work?”
“Sounds good.” Powell managed to keep his outside calm, but he was celebrating wildly on the inside, and judging from the twinkle in her eye Rylee could see right through him and sense the party in his head.
“Alright, it’s a deal you emotional volcano you.” She agreed, and then prodded him playfully in the shoulder “But you need to find yourself a friend for when I’m not around. Get yourself a dog or something."
“A dog? That’s no substitute, come on!” Powell laughed.
“No? I can be kind of a bitch in the mornings…” Rylee chuckled with him. “But yeah. Get yourself the biggest, goofiest, smartest dog you can find - a dog worthy of the SOR. The lads’ll love him.”
“…We could do with a mascot, I suppose…” Powell mused.
“Good! I look forward to meeting him.” Rylee gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I’d better go see what the general wants, anyway.”
“Rylee… take care of the Beef Brothers, will you? Seeing ’em thrust into the spotlight like this… makes me uneasy.”
“I know.” she smiled. “I’ll look after them, promise.”
“Thanks.”
She turned and walked away with a wave. “They’re lucky to have you, Owen.”
He watched her go. “Aye.” he said, so quietly that it was only for himself to hear. “Same’s true for me.”
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
Cairo, Egypt, Earth
Six
Survival skills that Six had spent several years honing proved their value because somehow he managed to avoid stumbling, staring, or even walking a little slower and getting a second glance to be certain of what - whom - he had seen.
Those were all powerful instincts, ones that his stolen human body imposed upon its Igraen squatter at every opportunity. Learning to suppress them had been the hardest task of his existence, but suppress them he did. He didn’t need to double-check, after all - he could replay imagery from his biodrone body’s optic nerve whenever he wanted, and remember anything seen by himself or any Agent whose memories he had accessed.
He ducked out of the flow of human traffic in the airport, and, on the pretense of checking his phone, reviewed what he had seen.
San Diego, the roller derby. Getting up and leaving just before his capture. Folctha, Cimbrean. Standing at the fence and weeping as Eighty-Four botched the Hierarchy’s last ditch attempt at keeping humanity from spreading to a different planet.
The same face. Older now - an adult, rather than the curly-haired teenager he’d first seen all those years ago, and wearing a kind of brittle confidence
- but definitely the same person.
He didn’t know who she was, exactly, but for one human female to be present at two such important events - and now to come here, in the immediate aftermath of his successful disruption of the Hierarchy’s plans for Cairo - that was no coincidence. At least, not according to a human aphorism on the subject of happenstance, coincidence and enemy action.
There was no way that she could fail to be under observation, of course. But that was not, in fact, so much of an obstacle.
Taking care to move in as bored and straightforward a manner as he could, he rejoined the flow of humanity around the airport and kept an eye out. Sure enough, the woman and her two friends had barely gone thirty meters before a man - a burly, fit man in jeans and a loose jacket - glanced at the woman, then around at the crowd. His gaze skipped right over Six without even noticing him, and Six congratulated himself. That moment could have gone badly for him.
Loitering was not an option. While he would have loved to get more information, he was surrounded by watchers. Effecting an air of distracted, businesslike haste he weaved through the crowd right past the burly man, and out into the sweltering sunlight, where he grabbed a cab. He threw himself into the back seat, ordered the driver to a hotel, and sat back to make his plans.
Ava Rios
“Okay.” Simon twisted to glance out of the cab’s rear windscreen. “I wasn’t expecting them to meet us off the plane…”
Sean looked up from rummaging through his carry-on luggage. “What?”
“You didn’t see the chap in the jeans and jacket tailing us?” Simon asked. When Sean frowned and sat upright, he chuckled. “Nephew mine, we need to teach you some crowd skills.”
“And the guy in the suit?” Ava asked.
It was Simon’s turn to frown at her. “There was a guy in a suit.” she elaborated, unhelpfully.
“I didn’t see him. You’re sure?” Simon asked.
“He was doing a good job of not being noticed, but yeah. He looked right at me, checked his phone and then turned around and followed us. I’m not sure if he’s with Jacket… or if Jacket made him if he’s not.”
“If he did, he didn’t show it.” Simon mused, twisting to look out the back again. “I think you’re onto something, Ava. People waiting for us before we even land? And Jacket Guy was an American if I’m any judge.”
“What does that mean?” Sean asked.
“CIA, Delta Force, SOG, who knows?” Simon sat down. “What did Suit Guy look like?”
“Arabic. Short hair, stubble. Nice suit. Like a businessman.” Ava summarized.
Simon frowned and massaged his chin. “Honestly? That probably scuppers this investigation.” he said. “Even if we’re definitely onto something, there’s no way they’ll let us publish anything top secret.”
Sean zipped up his bag “So, what do we do?”
“We investigate anyway.” Simon said. “There’s always something you can report on, even if it’s not what you’d like to. We’re here, we need to earn our living. So, we do what we came here to do and we report whatever we can report."
“And maybe afterwards we know more than other people do.” Ava added.
“Where’s the value in knowing it if you can’t share it?” Sean frowned.
Ava shrugged. “I like knowing things.” she said. “And, maybe it’ll help us find other things we can report on.”
“Still.” Simon grumbled. “I’m not happy about the idea that maybe our followers are being followed themselves. Who watches the watchers?
“That’s easy.” Ava folded her arms. “The watched.”
Date Point 10y4m1w2d AV
North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth.
Allison Buehler
“Look at her go.”
“I’m trying not to.”
Xiu had called her parents as soon as she’d finished signing the Byron Group paperwork, and what had ensued had been nearly an hour of alternately frantic, tired, pleading, apologetic and angry Mandarin, garnished with English and Gaori. There was something universal about an argument.
When the call had ended, Xiu had stood very still in the middle of the room for a few seconds, and had then vanished into her room. She had emerged less than a minute later having changed into her sportswear, and was now out on the grass in front of the house, punching and kicking the everloving crap out of the evening.
It was a showcase of startling speed. Allison blinked as she watched Xiu deliver three kicks to the sky in the space of a second, land on her heel and surge forward what looked like ten feet to deliver a straight-armed palm strike that Allison knew would have sent her flying with a broken sternum had she been on the receiving end.
She gave Julian a warm sideways glance. “You’re allowed to.” she said.
“Just… jeez, I’m no slouch in a fight, but the most I ever had to fight was exo-critters and ETs.” Julian mused. “She’d kick both our asses.”
“Well, she’d kick your ass." Allison teased. “I would have a gun."
“…Are you two gonna have a dick-measuring contest?” Julian asked.
“Why? You wanna watch?”
“I’ve heard worse ideas.”
That drew a laugh out of Allison. “Fine, Mister Voyeur. Watch away.”
She shoved the screen door open and the harsh noise it made, in addition to setting her teeth on edge - she really needed to take some WD-40 to it - snapped Xiu out of whatever headspace she’d gone to. The fierce engine of focused violence they’d been watching for the last few minutes vanished, and in her place was, well… Xiu, who tucked some errant hair back into place and smiled cautiously.
“Sorry.” she said, completely unnecessarily.
“You are so Canadian." Allison teased her. “You okay?”
“I am.” Xiu nodded. “I don’t blame Mama. She only just got her daughter back and here I am leaving again…”
“Hey, don’t get all melancholy on me.” Allison gave her an affectionately tomboyish hair-tousle. It didn’t achieve much with Xiu’s hair up, but it did generate the desired blush and, once Xiu had gripped her scalp defensively, a laugh.
“Sorry.”
“So Julian reckons you could kick both our asses.” Allison added conversationally as Xiu got her hair sorted out again.
“I could kick yours.” Xiu agreed, getting her revenge as Allison produced her best mock-offended jaw drop. “I bet you hit like a girl.”
“I bet you shoot like one.” Allison retorted. “I should teach you sometime.”
“You first.” Xiu told her. She shimmied her spine loose and settled into a solid, grounded stance. “Come on.”
“What, you’re gonna teach me Kung Fu?”
“No, you’re going to learn Gung Fu."
“What’s the difference?”
Xiu gave her a challenging look. “Shut up and let your Sifu show you." She said.
Allison glanced back at the house. Julian had leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded and a smile crawling up one side of his face as he watched.
“…Yes ma’am!” she shrugged.
Xiu beamed like she’d just won the lottery. “Good girl.” she said. “Now, this is called a Horse Stance… come on!”
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
Cairo, Egypt, Earth
Roy Vinther
Combat Controllers all knew each other. It was a law of the universe.
The corollary to that law was that any reunion between CCTs who hadn’t seen each other for more than an hour or so was foul-mouthed enough to make the Devil blush.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ! Walsh! By some fuckin’ miracle you’re actually lookin’ good these days.”
Walsh stood up and shared an enormous hug with his massive SOR counterpart. “Firth you asshole, I wish I could say the same. Have you gained weight?”
“Sure as shit I’m eatin’ enough.” Firth drawled. “You fuck your sister yet? Always said I would if you didn’t get there first.”
“You still toppin’ Blaczynski?”
“Motherfuckerrr!”
There was laughter, a complicated handshake and a friendly tussle that ended with Firth heaving Walsh - a man who weighed somewhere north of three hundred pounds - high into the air like a child and giving him a bear-hug that must have been difficult to breathe around.
“You boys need some alone time?” Vinther asked. Still chuckling, the two Air Force men broke it up.
“Technical Sergeant Firth, this here’s Master Sergeant Vinther.” Walsh introduced him. “Exhibit B is Pavlopoulos, and that over there is Coombes.”
“This here’s Murray.” Firth said, standing aside to reveal a man who was only marginally larger than Walsh. “He don’t talk much. Say hi, Murray.”
Murray raised a hand - there was nothing shy in his demeanour, more a sense of composure. “Hi, Murray.”
“Two whole words. Means he likes ya.” Firth grinned.
“Good to have you. How much were you told?” Vinther asked, getting down to business.
“Our buddy’s ex-girlfriend is causing trouble again.” Firth said. “You’re watching her and we’re here to… Y’know, they never actually said.”
“Help.” Murray suggested.
“Well, yeah, help. But as I understand it this here’s a courtesy call, so you use us as you see fit."
“You don’t exactly blend in.” Pavlopoulos opined.
“Yeah, I’m more of the big dumb object.” Firth agreed. “Ain’t that right Murray?”
Vinther turned to where Murray was, only to discover that it was where Murray had been. The man himself had - apparently innocently - crossed the room without making a whisper of noise or drawing attention to himself, and was studying the map. He looked up and gave Firth an amiable nod.
“Murray might be sorta useful.” Firth added.
“And if you wanty break something.” Murray added, finally stringing together enough words for his Scottish accent to make itself known. “That big bastard’s no’ useless.”
“Why do I get the impression comin’ from you that’s high praise?” Vinther deadpanned. “Alright - callsigns. I’m BARKEEP, Pavlo’s HANGOVER, Coombes is BOUNCER, Walsh is DRINKIN’ BUDDY. I assume you get the scheme?”
“Guess I’ll go with, uh…” Firth began, but Murray interrupted him.
“LIGHTWEIGHT.” he said. Firth’s brotherly middle-finger and a ripple of laughter sealed it.
“Alright, fine.” The newly-christened ‘Lightweight’ snorted. “But just for that, and because you’re not Irish, you get to be GUINNESS."
Murray chuckled, but contrived to indicate with a smile and a motion of his head that he’d tolerate the handle.
Vinther chuckled. “Our POIs are KING - that’s Simon Harvey - QUEEN - Ava Rios - and PRINCE: Sean Harvey.”
“And where are they now?” Firth asked. Coombes glanced up from the camera he was monitoring and indicated out the window. The room they’d commandeered had an excellent view of the hotel’s lobby and front entrance.
“Pretty sure KING and QUEEN both made me when they got off the plane.” Coombes said. “They check into their rooms last night and that’s about it. Guess they’re planning their first move.”
“No point in havin’ us tail them.” Firth said. “She knows our faces and names.”
“She does?”
“Dude, she was our buddy’s girlfriend. Movie nights, drinkin’ nights, couple’a parties…”
“What happened, exactly?” Walsh asked.
“Uh, if we were to start calling PRINCE “Jody” instead…”
“Say no more.” Walsh scowled.
The phone rang, and Pavlopoulos grabbed it with a perfunctory “Go ahead.” A silent minute of attentive listening and note-scribbling later, he was able to hang up. “KING just made a couple’a interesting phone calls.” he said, handing his handwritten note to Walsh. “He’s got a friend in El Obour City, and another in Zagazig.”
Walsh interrogated his tablet, comparing the information on it to Pavlo’s note. “…Yeah, we know them. Dude in Zagazig’s with Egypt Daily News, and the guy in El Obour’s a, uh, blogger. Fancies himself a freelance reporter. We use him as a source ourselves. Reckon they’re about to move.”
“Coombes, stay here, watch the lobby and the drone.” Vinther ordered. “Everybody gear up.”
The room was a blitz of quick, efficient activity, at the end of which a casual observer would never have guessed that each man was armed. They took the fire escape to the car park in the basement: Vinther and Pavlo took one - a nondescript Chevrolet Opta - and Walsh piled into their much less discreet SUV alongside the two SOR men.
“Comms check.” Vinther ordered. The team sounded off in quick order. “Okay. BOUNCER?”
“Think they’re… yeah, they’re heading out the front door now. Drone’s got a lock.”
Their drone was an MBG “Flycatcher”, a small UAV developed by the Byron Group that used cutting-edge forcefield tech for both the flight surfaces and the optics. Eschewing an aerodynamic fuselage, the drone flew by “flapping” its forcefield wings like a bird, while its physical fuselage was little more than a dull mottled matte silver-grey object about the size and shape of a bulky laptop. Its forcefields and the advanced power storage systems that took up most of its physical volume allowed it to remain aloft day and night, especially in clear, hot weather. They’d launched it on day one arriving in Cairo, and had never had to land it since.
Now, its sophisticated forcefield-optic systems were trained on a perfectly ordinary taxi cab - one of thousands plying the city’s streets - but given that it could reliably track thousands of different targets at once, there was no fear of losing the target.
Guided by the feed Coombes was sending them over their tablets, the teams had no trouble at all in following it, navigating around snarls and traffic jams. “El Obour.” Pavlo noted, as Vinther turned back onto the cab’s tail on the Cairo ring road. Their car was as generic as they came on Egyptian streets but still, thanks to the drone they could turn off its tail every so often so as to throw off the appearance of being followed. Certainly, either the target didn’t notice the tail, or else were unconcerned of it.
“What’s El Obour like?” Firth asked, over comms.
“Depends.” Walsh opined. It’s got some nice bits, but the if the satellite footage is anything to go by, the neighborhood of the number they called is a fuckin’ dump."
“And they’re taking an unmarried young woman into that?” Murray asked.
“Greater Cairo’s fairly cosmopolitan.” Vinther told him. “It’s not like we’re in fuckin’ Taleb Afghanistan or whatever.”
“Besides, KING’s an experienced reporter.” Walsh added. “I doubt he’d take two newbies into a risky situation.”
“I never heard of the guy before.” Pavlo said.
“He’s the one who blew the lid on all those accidents at Hephaestus, and that shit with those cults in Bangladesh.” Walsh said. “Now he’s sniffing around here, in Qalqilya, in Saudi and Pakistan…”
“Hmm.” Vinther had to admit, that was a solid resume.
“Don’t fuckin’ say it, Vinther.” Pavlo told him, not broadcasting.
“Say what?” Vinther asked him, innocently
“You were thinkin’ this was gonna be the E-word.”
Vinther chuckled. “Easy?”
“Fuck sake." Pavlo rolled his eyes and checked the drone feed again. “One of these days you’re gonna jinx a mission beyond repair and I just pray I’m not there to suffer for it.”
“And one of these days you’re gonna figure out all these superstitions of yours don’t do shit." Vinther joked.
“Uh, guys…” Coombes got on the line again. “Company just got in touch. One of their recon satellites picked up an atmospheric disturbance over north Africa. Somebody’s got a bird in the air doing Mach eight.”
“Whereabouts over North Africa?” Vinther asked.
“Take a wild guess, BARKEEP.” Coombes replied. “Sat already lost track of it, so all we know is, our UFO’s around here somewhere.”
“Lost track of it?”
“It’s only the low-altitude ones that can track this shit, BARKEEP.” Coombes told him. “And they move fast. That spysat’s somewhere over Iceland by now.”
“When do we get coverage back?”
“Eighty, ninety minutes or so.”
Vinther glanced at Pavlo, who just raised an eyebrow at him. At length, he cleared his throat. “…Don’t say it.”
“Say what?” Pavlo asked, innocently.
“Don’t say ‘I told you so’."
Pavlo produced a grim laugh and checked his tablet again. “Yes, master sergeant.”
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
HMS Caledonia, High orbit over Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds
Scott ‘Starfall’ Blaczynski
The problem with the Dominion’s general-purpose shuttle was that it looked, and flew, like a lead brick minus the actual lead brick’s lustre and frisson of danger. It was just a silvery grey cuboid with a window at one end and a ramp at the other.
It was also so large that it filled almost half Caledonia’s prep and flight deck. It was, after all, designed to be able to carry a Guvnurag or two. Humans could rattle around inside it like lottery balls.
Sikes in particular loathed it, and every time he laid eyes on it he did the same thing: He sighed and asked “When in the shit are we gonna get something human-built?”
“If it helps, you ain’t gonna have to put up with it for long.” Blaczynski told him. “Or did you forget we’re jumpin’ out of it?”
“You first, Starfall.” Titan told him.
“Lookin’ forward to it!” Blaczynski told him, and extended a gloved fist, which Titan reached out and rapped knuckles against. The EV-MASS was almost comforting nowadays, squeezing him tight and telling him that however hostile the vacuum of space might be, he had nothing to fear from it.
Plus, it added an extra heft and weight that just made him feel strong.
“Hey, Kovač?” He asked.
She looked up from testing the pH balance in his life support pack. “Yeah?”
“When the hell you gonna put on your big girl pants and make a move on ’Horse anyway?”
“I’ve got my big girl pants on." she replied. “Not yet.”
“No?”
“He’s not ready.” She told him.
“Yeah, quit trying to play wingman, B.” Titan agreed. “You suck at it.”
“Just tryin’a help my buddies out.”
Kovač smiled and gave him an affectionate slap on the helmet. “You’re good.” she said. “But stay out of my love life, Blaczynski. Even if it is a fucking desert right now.”
“Yes, tech sergeant.” Blaczynski smiled behind his mask. “I’m good to fly, right?”
“Good to fall.” she corrected him. “And, you get to listen to music this time."
“Fuckin’ sweet!” The team boxed fists, gave each other ringing clouts on the helmet, performed final equipment checks and piled into the shuttle.
Then it got boring.
The idea was for the shuttle to look to Perfection traffic control like an in- system passenger transport. Absurdly, its sensor signature was an order of magnitude larger than Caledonia’s, so all it had to do was leave the bay, pulse-warp to low orbit and it would look just like one of the thousands that came and went through Perfection’s skies every day.
The EV-MASS, meanwhile, had a sensor profile so small that if Perfection’s anti-aircraft defenses detected anything, it’d look like a tiny chunk of space debris doomed to burn up on re-entry.
The bit in the middle where the shuttle pulsed across ten AUs of empty space took hardly any time at all. Even at a paltry one kilolight, the journey was over in only five seconds. It was the sublight approach vector that was the slow bit. That involved sitting around for twenty minutes, joking and fidgeting and waiting.
When the pilot called that they were about to swing through the first drop zone, there was palpable relief. Blaczynski dropped the ramp and stood behind the atmosphere retaining forcefield, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his music up, waiting for the green light.
Titan called from the front “Whatcha listenin’ to, B?”
“Highway to Hell!”
“Good choice!”
“Twenty seconds.” the pilot called.
The timing wasn’t quite perfect - he’d have preferred to jump just as the guitar solo was starting or something - but who the fuck cared? The light turned green and B paused on the end of the ramp just long enough to turn, flip a salute to his buddies, and topple theatrically back into the void.
He nosed down and applied retro thrust, accelerating down into Perfection’s gravity well.
“EARS field.” Titan called. After what had happened to Thor, they were taking no chances - everyone went through the checklist during an EA Jump.
B checked it. “On.”
“Course?”
“On target.”
“EFDS.”
“Charged.”
“EWR."
“Ready.”
“View?”
“Fuckin’ spectacular!”
That was no understatement. Perfection filled half the sky, but that half was beautifully blue and green, both averaged slightly toward the turquoise compared to Earth, and minus Earth’s omnipresent mottling of cloud. Weather systems moved across Perfection in a leisurely, choreographed parade of predictable rainy cycles that had lasted for geological epochs.
He hit atmo and beamed at the halo of plasma as Perfection’s upper atmosphere compressed against his EARS field and ignited. A wild “YEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAAA!!!!!” carried him across a hundred kilometers in a blaze of fire.
First step after the plasma cleared was to re-establish contact. “Post-burn checkin.” he called.
“I have you, STARFALL.” Titan told him. “Course check?”
“Still on. Entering glide phase.”
The EARS field spread out and became wings, slowing and lifting his descent. The control interface was a little tricky - it was supposed to be like wearing a wingsuit, but in practice they still hadn’t quite managed to work out some latency issues, and the result felt sluggish and imprecise, but it worked. By spreading his arms and feet out, he was easily able to steer himself and fall through the rings his HUD was displaying for him.
This was a HALO jump. The moment his parachute opened, he’d appear on Perfection’s radar, so the idea was to open it as low and as briefly as possible so as to avoid detection.
First, he had to find the right spot. Caledonia’s extreme long range survey, the microsats they’d fired into orbit and the software was all well and good, but the final step was to land on the correct rooftop. He very, very nearly missed it.
Aware that there’d be some remedial training in response to his “woah shit" and the violent corrective maneuver he made at the very end of his long drop, he twisted through the air, corkscrewed past some high-rise apartments - no doubt giving the residents something to talk about - and ripped his ’chute at the last possible second, tensing his neck muscles to hold his head steady against the sudden snap of deceleration.
He hit hard, rolled, skidded to a halt on the edge of the roof, and then threw himself desperately onto the ’chute before a stray wind current could pick it up and drag him off into open air.
That done, he just had to lie still for a few seconds and giggle to himself.
“That,” he told the sky, “Is never gonna get old.”
He popped the release on his ’chute harness,folded it and weighed it down under his equipment pack, and set up on the edge of the roof overlooking the target landing platform. “REBAR, STARFALL. EA Jump complete, I’m in position.”
“Clear copy, STARFALL. Whatcha got for us?”
Blaczynski aimed his scoped rifle down at the ship and compared the alien writing on its nose to the intel on his tablet. “Got a match. November Charlie is still on the pad.”
He ran the scope over the parked ship. “Got… yeah, two Echo-Tangos. One’s a Blue-raff. Fat fucker, dead ringer for the ship’s tech… and, yup, there’s the Corti. Two out of three.”
“Intel said the pilot’s a Kwmbwrw.” Sikes pointed out.
“I don’t see ’em. Either way, target’s in sight. You’re clear to jump.”
“Thought you’d never ask…” Titan commented.
Blaczynski used the time his buddies were jumping in to set up his spotter computer on its tripod, calibrate his gun’s smartscope and get the beacon going to guide Rebar, Titan and Snapshot onto target.
Some minutes later, the guys called in that they were through the burn phase and into glide. Their icons appeared on his tracker as the flight systems synchronized and began to guide them in.
“Still no sign of that Kwmbwrw.”
“I’ll lay a stasis trap for her when we’re down and the ship’s secured.” Rebar called.
“Gotcha… and I have you in sight.” B replied, tracking three tiny falling shapes in his HUD. “You’re-”
There was a croaking, rattling noise from behind him which, when he frowned and turned towards it, turned out to be a couple of Vzk’tk police officers, aiming guns at him.
“STARFALL, REBAR. I didn’t copy your last.”
“Local law enforcement. You’re good to finish the drop?”
“We’re good. Don’t hurt ’em, B.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Blaczynski sent, and stood up. “Uh… Bar wheep grana wheep ninibong?”
The Vzk’tk rattled its percussive language at him again, and he finally remembered the translator clipped to his MOLLE.
He turned it on. “Howdy fellas.”
The translator gave the cops a note of desperation in their voice. “Don’t move, human! These are Irbzrkian stun guns, they were designed to be effective against your kind.”
B sighed. “Guys. Do everyone here a favor and forget you saw me, please? I’m just doin’ my job.”
“You’re under arrest for trespassing!” The shorter of the two police snapped. “Come quietly… please.”
B took a step closer. “That little zap-gun won’t do shit to me.” he said, matter-of-factly. “Now come on, go grab some donuts or whatever the fuck you guys eat, call me in as a large bird or whatever.”
They shot him. Twin arcs of crackling energy played over his EV-MASS without so much as tickling, and he sighed theatrically. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the Defenders popping their ’chutes for the final descent onto the platform.
“Okay. Fun’s over guys. Now I have to get mean.” He said. “Sorry.”
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
El Obour City, Greater Cairo, Egypt, Earth
Robert Murray
“So she’s a cheater.”
“Yup.” A moment of white-hot anger lit Firth’s eyes for a second before he clamped down on it. “Horse is the nicest fuckin’ guy in the world, too, an’ that whore went an’ cheated on him with that skinny fuck Harvey."
Murray saw Walsh glance at him in the rear-view mirror, and shrugged and nodded.
Firth did not, apparently, think that this was satisfactory. “No, bro, give us your actual thoughts. I want at least ten words."
Murray’s face wrinkled briefly around a thoughtful sniff and he touched a thumb to his chin. “I love ‘Horse.” he said, finally. “You couldn’y find a better man if you searched the whole Earth tae fuck. But Legsy an’ Price, God rest ‘em both, they fuckin’ called it way before it happened.”
“RIP.” Firth aimed his eyes upward and touched his forehead, navel and shoulders. “But yeah, there you go.”
“What’s the full story, Murray?" Walsh asked.
“…Pricey’s exact words were ‘Neither of them are ready for a relationship’." Murray revealed, and cleared his throat.
“Ah.” Walsh nodded.
It was a subject Murray preferred to avoid, so it came as a relief when Vinther got on the radio. “Okay, they’ve gone into the apartment block. Murray, set up on the south side. Pavlo, Walsh, northeast. Firth, drive.”
They dismounted and got into position, and the two vehicles merged back into the traffic. It was simple enough to find a quiet spot where he could wait and watch. Okay, Scottish skin and hair weren’t exactly the local flavor, but Murray knew a lot about just existing in a way that completely bypassed all of a person’s perceptual instincts and just made them sort of… treat him as part of the landscape.
Vinther’s decision to keep Firth in the car was a sensible one. Firth was a genuine monster, completely unsuited to going unnoticed, even if he tried to dress down. Instead, he was dressed to play the opposite role and attract attention if need be, and so they’d stopped off at the “American Big and Tall” tourist shop before rendezvousing with the STS element to grab him some noticeable attire, and had succeeded beyond their wildest hopes. There was just something about a six-foot-seven titan wearing an aggressively ugly aloha shirt and board shorts cut for the five-hundred-pound obese market that drew the eye.
Murray’s conservative khaki slacks and navy blue rough cotton shirt went completely unnoticed.
Even in the shade the heat was oppressive, and he took the opportunity to re- apply his sun cream. Crue-D meant that sunburn was a minor irritation at worst, but why put up with it at all?
“Suffering, GUINNESS?” Vinther asked, as his car patrolled past.
Murray snorted - he’d forgotten his temporary new call sign - and waved reassuringly to the car.
Not much happened for a long time, and then the south entrance to the apartment building opened.
“GUINNESS has eyes on KING… PRINCE… and QUEEN. POIs in the street, south side.” he called.
“Copy that GUINNESS. Their rental’s waiting round the corner, west side. BARKEEP is watching it.” Vinther sent.
Murray nodded and watched Ava. She had her camera out and was-
-He saw her blink six feet backwards down the street, facing the wrong direction and with her camera holstered. In one instant she was walking behind the younger Harvey, and in the very next she was looking wildly around in abject bewilderment, as if searching for something that had suddenly vanished. A lone strong gust blew some trash and desert dust down the road in a miniature tornado.
“What th’-?” he began, having no idea how to report what he’d just seen.
“Something wrong?” Vinther asked.
“She just…glitched?”
“Whaddya mean, ‘glitched’?”
Murray frowned as Ava turned a full, confused circle, and the implications of what he’d just witnessed finally clicked into place. “…Ah, fuckin’ shite. Detain, right now!”
“Moving.”
Murray set off at a run, weaving through the traffic like it wasn’t there, and was behind Ava and grabbing her before she had a hope to see him coming.
He was relatively gentle with her, but Ava went from turning confusedly on the sidewalk to suddenly being pressed against the wall with her arms behind her back, securely held.
She didn’t take it well. “What the fuck?!"
“Easy Ava. It’s me: Murray.”
“Murray?!” She squirmed to try and escape. Up ahead, Sean and Simon turned back, saw what was happening and both started back to Ava’s aid before Walsh and Firth appeared out of the metaphorical woodwork and secured them both. “Get off me!”
If Firth was a little rougher with Sean than was strictly necessary, Murray decided not to comment. He didn’t have much sympathy for the lad himself, but then again, holding Sean’s cheek against the wall like that was treading the fine line of professionalism. Firth wasn’t going overboard, but he could have been gentler.
Ava plainly felt differently. “Firth, you hillbilly son of a crack whore, let him go!”
Firth gave her a narrow-eyed glare that spoke of his near-bottomless loathing for her for a shaved instant before his control returned. He pressed an implant scanner to Sean’s head, grunted at the green light, and all but threw the skinny young man over the sidewalk to lean against the car Vinther and Pavlopoulos had just arrived in.
“Oh, big bad man try’na prove it?” She spat. “I bet you cried when your daddy fucked you in the ass, you little bitch!"
Vinther snorted as he got out of the car. “Jeez, she’s got a mouth on her…”
Ava’s feet scuffled in the dirt as she tried to fight back. “Murray, you let me go right now." She snarled. Murray yanked his scanner of his belt and pressed it to her head. It pinged a happy green and he relaxed.
Firth apparently wasn’t satisfied. “Double check.” he snapped, shoving his own scanner into Murray’s hand.
“…Still green.” Murray confirmed, after repeating the test. Firth snorted and stalked away to bundle Sean into the SUV.
Ava at least cooled a little with him gone. “Happy?” she demanded. “You gonna let me go now?”
“Sorry, Ava.” Murray zipped some plastic handcuffs around her wrists.
“Murray, for fuck’s sake…"
“Come on, lassy, settle down. Please.” Murray requested, calmly. “You stepped in some shite, that’s all.”
“Good!” She snapped, then sighed and finally relaxed. “…Fine.”
“Thanks, Ava. Gonny frisk you for weapons now.”
“Whatever.”
She grumbled something that sounded inventively vulgar in Spanish as Murray gave her a businesslike and efficient patdown, finding nothing more than her camera, phone, passport and press ID.
“Walsh?” He asked.
“Hey, you’ve got the entertaining one." Walsh patted Simon Harvey reassuringly on the shoulder. The journalist looked more bored and resigned than upset. “Mine’s good as gold.”
“Right. Inty the van with him, then.” Murray proclaimed. Ava had finally settled into sullen silence and allowed him to steer her firmly into the Chevrolet to sit on the back seat next to Pavlo.
As soon as the door closed, Vinther covered his mouth to hide a huge grin. “God damn! I don’t know who taught that girl to swear, but she could give me lessons." he commented.
“She’s even worse in Spanish.” Firth grunted as he circled round the SUV to get into it, plainly not amused. “Beats the fuck outta me how ’Horse used to put up with it.”
Chuckling to himself, Vinther got into the Chevrolet’s driver seat, and Murray settled into the back seat, sandwiching Ava between himself and the mercifully much smaller Pavlopoulos.
“Just what in the shit is going on?” She demanded, as soon as they were moving.
“Canny tell you.” Murray said.
“Come on, Murray, it’s me. You can’t give me anything?"
“Lassy,” Murray warned her as he fastened her seatbelt, “Don’t mistake my civil treatment for liking you.”
Ava stopped squirming against her cuffs and went still. Suddenly looking hurt and sad and small, she slouched in the middle seat, staring at her knees.
They were back on the Cairo Ring Road before she spoke again. “…How is he?”
“Have you no’ seen the news?”
“Yeah, yeah, the whole Beef Brothers thing.” She tried to wave hand dismissively and only succeeded in twitching her shoulder awkwardly. “I mean… how’s he doing? Is he okay?”
“He’s okay.”
“…Thanks.”
She was quiet and well-behaved all the way back.
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds
Harry ‘Rebar’ Vandenberg
Akiyama was the first to land, and he did so with characteristic precision, slamming his ’chute open, swinging on the sudden change of momentum, and ballet-stepping neatly onto the target landing platform, his carbine already raised and aimed.
Sikes was only a second or two behind him, and announced his arrival with a higher-velocity landing that must have left the deck reverberating.
If the Corti target felt any emotions at all at this sudden arrival, it - he - didn’t betray them. Those huge black eyes flicked from one man to the other and, very calmly, it raised its hands in surrender.
The Vz’ktk was rather less phlegmatic about the whole thing. It produced a panic noise somewhere between a hoot and the sound of a man clog-dancing on bubblewrap, and turned to run.
Vz’ktk had a decent turn of speed on them when they needed it - nothing that could outrun a human of course, but still quick enough that the situation needed controlling now before anything regrettable happened. Rebar angled his descent, popped his ’chute, and then deployed a trick that they’d worked out only SOR could get away with, thanks to the incredible ankle support offered by the EV-MASS - he hit the ’chute’s release while he was still a good six feet up.
Intimidation tactics really didn’t come any better than slamming into the deck like a human meteor some meters in front of the panicking alien, which was promptly corralled. It spun, looking for an exit, then in response to some kind of barked order from the Corti, it spread its arms in surrender.
The plan was going off almost without a hitch. Titan darted up the ship’s ramp to commandeer its computer systems before the Corti could muck with them via some neural cybernetic controller or whatever, and Sikes began patiently explaining through his translator that the two beings were now detained for questioning.
“REBAR, TITAN.” Akiyama called. “Ship’s empty. No pilot on board. Pulling the memory.”
“Copy that, TITAN. STARFALL, REBAR: You okay up there?”
There was a pause that was a little too long and then - “REBAR, STARFALL. Situation’s under control.”
“You didn’t hurt ’em?”
“Just introduced ET to duct tape, that’s all. They’re fine.”
“Good. Laying a stasis trap for the pilot.”
Snapshot nodded and bundled the two aliens onto their ship, and Rebar released his pack to grab the stasis trap
The trap was one of Titan’s gizmos and what it lacked in aesthetics - it was little more than a laser tripwire, a small computer card and the stasis field generator taped to a power pack - it made up for in effectiveness. Anything that crossed the beam would instantly be contained within the stasis field, which would collapse when the power pack was dry about two minutes later: more than enough time for the victim to be surrounded ready for capture.
Once it was attached to a wall, crate, or any other vertical surface through the simple medium of the SOR’s best friend - duct tape - all they had to do was sit and wait.
That was the theory, at least. What happened was that Rebar was still in the process of sticking it to some kind of cargo-handling drone when the pilot ambled unconcernedly around the corner.
They stared at each other for a moment, calculating how to react.
“…Well.” Rebar cleared his throat. “This is awkward.”
The pilot turned and ran.
“Fuck!” Rebar surged to his feet and took off in pursuit, but Kwmbwrw had long legs and this one had a large head start. Firth would have had no trouble catching up to it, but Defenders weren’t built for speed - Rebar was only marginally faster than his quarry.
“STARFALL, REBAR! The pilot just showed up, she’s rabbiting!”
“I see her. Sending up the drone.” You could say a lot about Blaczynski - his wild party lifestyle, his egregiously ugly tattoos, his chronic ability to stick his foot in his mouth - but when it came down to the wire, he was an absolutely top quality operator, an ice-cold Combat Controller whose awareness of the operational space bordered on the supernatural. “Take a right off the end of the platform… hundred yards. You’re gaining.”
Rebar caught a glimpse of curly chocolate fur up ahead, but lost it just as quickly behind a huge supporting beam that was part of the vital superstructure for the skyscraper that towered above him.
“Second left in a hundred yards.” B called. “…Civilian ETs in your way, check your movement.”
Rebar gritted his teeth and somehow found a higher gear from somewhere, felt the deck ring and shake under him as he put his training and the EV-MASS through their paces. He shot past a bewildered knot of Robalin and angled down the sharp left that Blaczynski had indicated.
“Crowd’s slowing her down, keep it up REBAR.”
Vandenberg could see why. The fleeing pilot was bullying her way through the crowd, knocking spindly Vz’ktk and other fragile life forms out of her way. She could get away with it - for all her size, she wasn’t deathworld-dense, and could shoulder-check people out of her way without committing murder. If Rebar had tried the same trick, he’d have pulped somebody.
He raised his voice and roared. “GET OUT OF MY WAY!!!”
It worked - alarmed beings turned, saw a charging deathworlder in heavy armor and wisely decided not to impede his progress. Their reactions were so slow though, and some of the further ones didn’t even hear him. One large Vgork loitered in the path left by the escaping Kwmbwrw and was slow on the uptake even when Vandenberg yelled at it to move.
Up ahead, his quarry dashed right and vanished from view.
“Visual contact interrupted.” B called. “Trying to reacquire…”
Rebar shouldered gently but firmly through a bewildered huddle of aliens and made it as far as the intersection. His heart sank. The crowd was just as dense, and while there were several Kwmbwrw standing around, not one of them resembled the target.
“Contact lost.” he declared, knowing the pursuit was a failure.
“..Contact lost.” Blaczynski agreed. If he had no idea which way the alien had gone, then Rebar doubted there was any hope of re-acquiring her. “Better get outta there, Reeb. Cops’ll be coming.”
Aliens scattered away from him as Rebar spat a furious curse into his mask and set off at a jog back the way he’d come.
“We good to get outta here?” he asked.
“Just need Starfall in the driving seat, REBAR.” Titan called. “Data’s secure.”
“And our two ETs are confined to quarters.” Sikes added.
A vehicle of some kind swooped low overhead, covered in flashing lights and howling. Some things, it seemed, were universal. Fortunately, it apparently failed to notice Rebar. “Credit where it’s due…” he grunted, picking up the pace. “Local police are quick on the uptake.”
“Think me having two of their buddies tied up here might have something to do with that…” Blaczynski commented. “We need off this planet ASAP.”
Rebar gritted his teeth and stepped up into a full run again. “Get off that rooftop.” he ordered.
“Don’t need to tell me twice…”
As he pounded back along the promenade, Rebar saw B pause on the edge of his rooftop, flip a jaunty salute to his two captives, then grab his zipline and plunge toward the ship.
Rebar scooped up his abandoned gear on the way past, and they met at the bottom of the ship’s ramp and banged fists together. “Get ’em next time, Reeb.” B told him, slapping his shoulder.
“Would have… preferred…” Rebar panted. Sprinting in EV-MASS was a task to drain even the most conditioned athlete. " To get ’em… this time…"
B nodded, turned, caught the drone as it glided down out of the sky, and hugged it to his chest before vanishing up the ramp and hanging a right onto the Negotiable Curiosity’s flight deck.
Rebar followed and settled himself into the command chair, sucking on the sippy straw inside his mask in a bid to restore some of the reserves he’d just incinerated during the pursuit. It creaked a little as several hundred pounds of man and armored space suit tested its engineering, but did little more than that.
“How long ’til we’re in the air?” he asked.
“Just getting clearance from local traffic control.” Blaczynski said. “Wouldn’t wanna get smeared all over downtown by the AA because we didn’t ask nicely… Done. Flight clearance received.”
He waved a hand through the volumetric controls and grunted happily as the ship hoisted itself off the pad and pulled in its ramp and landing gear.
“They’re letting us fly in a zone with a security alert?” Vandenberg asked.
“Don’t question it, bro.” Blaczynski advised him, and finished laying in their flight plan and speed.
Rebar fidgeted awkwardly nonetheless, fully expecting interceptors or a ground AA station to abruptly latch onto them and make awkward demands like ordering them to land. It was a profound relief when they hit the minimum warp altitude and Starfall pulsed the drive.
The Negotiable Curiosity was much faster than the shuttle. What had been a five second trip in the shuttle was over before Blaczynski had even removed his hand from the control to activate the FTL.
“Okay… HMS Caledonia, this is SOR one-oh-seven flying November Charlie, we’re at RP Alpha." Blaczynski called.
Rebar studied the holographic sphere that was the ship’s sensor display. “Where are they?”
“If they’re running cold we shouldn’t see them anyway, but… hmm…” Blaczynski turned in his seat. “Yo, Titaaan?!
Akiyama clanked up the deck and stuck his head through the door. “’Sup?”
“Did you fuck with the navcomp?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Something wrong?” Rebar asked.
B nodded, and hit the comms again. “HMS Caledonia I say again: Sierra Oscar Romeo One Zero Seven STARFALL flying November Charlie, operational objectives achieved, we are at the rendezvous point. Come back, over."
They strained to listen. A few trillion photons, some portion of which had been traversing the endless night since the cooling of the early universe, reached their journey’s end in Negotiable Curiosity’s communications sensor array as an unregarded quiet hiss.
“…What’s our contingency for Caledonia being a no-show?" Akiyama asked, quietly.
“Loiter at RP Bravo in low emissions mode for no longer than eight hours.” Blaczynski said, enacting exactly that plan. The ship turned, lurched briefly through superluminal space, and then went dark as soon as it was safely back below lightspeed. “Then make best speed for Cimbrean. Treat Caledonia and all its crew as orange until definitively established otherwise. Do not dock with Caledonia nor share confidential information over comms with any of her crew unless and until they have been proven green."
“Why the loiter?” Vandenberg asked.
“’Cause it could be technical problems or something innocent and they might need the escort.” B replied. “And… hell, if something compromised Cally then humanity’s fucked anyway, ’cause they’ve got the jump codes for Earth and Cimbrean."
“Unless they managed to scrub the computer before they were taken over.” Titan pointed out.
“Yeah, well… Whatever’s going on, eight hours gives them time to fix the problem and get in touch, or broadcast an SOS to the RP. ”
Rebar took a look out the window as if that might achieve anything. Even if it was right next to them, Caledonia’s matte-black hull would have been invisible anyway. “Okay, well… Grab an MRE and settle in, guys.” He advised. “Guess it’s time to hurry up and wait.”
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
US Embassy, Cairo, Egypt, Earth
Ava Rios
The good news was that they’d taken the plastic zip tie off her, and her hands were no longer bound behind her back.
The bad news was that they’d put some metal handcuffs on her, and her hands were now bound in front of her. While this was admittedly an improvement, it didn’t exactly feel like Everest had been climbed.
Still. The air conditioning was on. That was nice.
The big dude in the suit who’d taken over from Murray in looking after her managed the impressive feat of being even more impenetrably taciturn than Murray himself, who was friendly and engaging even if he preferred to deploy his words like an old lady counting out pennies.
This guy was a human wall in a badly-tailored black suit.
There was nothing to do for what felt like hours, and not in the sense of a boring twenty minutes or so, but in the literal sense that the day had probably been and gone and the sun had probably set. Ava was bored out of her mind, growing increasingly tired and sleepy and there was nothing to do except fidget, sit and think, try and get comfortable. The only way to try and keep track of the time was counting the number of times that Man-wall was periodically replaced by a slightly different Man-wall.
Eventually she folded her arms on the table and tried to grab a nap. She wasn’t sure if it worked - maybe it wasn’t long after that point that the door opened, or maybe she successfully dozed for a while - but either way she sat up and blinked when somebody new entered the room.
The new arrival was a woman in her… early forties, if Ava was any judge, with hair that plainly hadn’t had more than a quick lunchtime meeting with a brush today, and her arms full of too many things - a laptop, her phone, several paper folders, some pens, a coffee mug…
Unlike literally everybody she’d dealt with in the last few hours, the newcomer immediately won some points by not looking either totally composed and emotionless, or pissed off. Mostly, she looked like she was a plate- spinner with lots to stay on top of, but she gave the impression that Ava, while being another plate, wasn’t actually an unwelcome one.
She managed to get the ungainly armful of stuff she was carrying safely onto the table, offered a warm smile and shook Ava’s cuffed hand. “Hello Miss Rios. My name’s Darcy.”
“Hi, Darcy.” Ava managed, sitting up a little straighter.
Darcy sat down. “Do you, uh, do you mind if I call you Ava?” she asked.
“Please do…” Ava calculated for a few seconds as Darcy got settled, and decided to go with completely open honesty. Somehow, it seemed like the only card that stood a chance of working. “Darcy, please, what the hell is going on?"
“…At the risk of sounding like I’m dodging the question,” Darcy replied, adjusting her seat, failing, and trying to adjust it again. Ava found herself warming to the woman’s dorky, busy energy. “What do you think is going on?"
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“Believe me, I would if I could.” Darcy offered an apologetic smile.
“Why can’t you?" Ava asked her. “What’s so goddamn important?!”
Darcy smiled and shrugged. “I can’t even tell you why I can’t tell you. Stupid, isn’t it?"
Ava sat back as far as being handcuffed to the table would let her. “You got that right.” she agreed.
“So… what do you think is going on?" Darcy repeated.
“What do I think?” Ava asked. “I think we’ve got a deadly enemy out there.” She tried to gesture through the wall and winced as the cuffs stopped her hands with a painful jolt. “An alien enemy.” she elaborated instead. “I think they blew up my my home, killed my family, murdered my friend… I think they have a spaceship here on Earth, I think they can control people through implants in their brains, and I think they stole a bunch of Pakistani nukes to try and start World War Three in the middle east. It’s either that or I’m hopelessly paranoid."
She awarded herself some brownie points as Darcy cleared her throat and examined her laptop. That, Ava judged, was evidence of a solid hit.
“That’s… an extraordinary claim.” Darcy said, carefully.
“Yeah.” Ava agreed. “Usually I’d keep it to myself, but… I mean, I’m chained to a desk and I’m talking to an MIB.” She shrugged. “I figure I’m onto something at least."
“I could probably do something about the chained to the desk part.” Darcy offered.
“That’d be nice…?” Ava asked, hopefully.
Darcy nodded to the human wall, who nodded and took Ava’s cuffs off entirely. The opportunity to rub at the sore spots on her wrists and shake her shoulders loose was a kind of minor ecstasy.
“Why do you want to know?” Darcy asked.
“Why-?” Ava gesticulated as if the answer was obvious. “Because I want to do something!"
“Do what?”
“Anything!” Ava told her. “Something! I don’t know what, but…”
Darcy gave a sympathetic nod, and typed a quick note on her laptop. “I can definitely appreciate that sentiment.” she said. “Do you need a minute to think about what exactly you mean? ‘Anything’ can mean… well, a lot."
“I don’t think another minute would help.” Ava shrugged. “I’ve tried… I guess you know about me and Ada- uh, Staff Sergeant Ares, right?”
Darcy just nodded.
“…I tried being there for him. Being, like, his anchor or his foundation or whatever. I fucked that up bad. I just… I know I’m not suited for the military life. What does that leave me with? I thought maybe if I could dig up the truth, I’d be able to think of something…"
“And what would you have done with the truth, whatever it was?” Darcy asked. “What would you have done if, say, everything you suspect turned out to be completely accurate?”
“I don’t know.” Ava confessed. “…I don’t know.”
Darcy smiled sympathetically, closed her laptop, and handed her a paper handkerchief.
“You can do something, you know." she said.
Ava wiped her eyes dry and sat forward. “Do what?”
“Tell me what exactly happened to you on that street corner, just before Sergeant Murray detained you."
Ava nodded, and composed her thoughts.
“I was following Simon and Sean.” she said. “We’d just spoken to this blogger guy, he’d been poking around that gunfight and some reports of UFOs. He said that there was a woman we should try and find, she’d been kidnapped and her mother murdered. Gave us a name and some addresses we might try…”
Darcy picked up her coffee. She didn’t drink it, just held it warmly in both hands.
“…We were on our way back to the car when… it was like time stopped for everything except me. The cars stopped moving, Simon and Sean stopped moving… hell, the air stopped moving. It felt solid, I couldn’t… I was stuck in this little circle and couldn’t get out. And then Suit Guy was there."
“Suit Guy?” Darcy asked.
“He was at the airport when we got off the plane. Did a pretty good job of acting like an ordinary member of the public, but I saw him watching us. He looked like a… a businessman, or something. He had a nice suit on, an expensive watch, he had short hair, a mustache, no beard… you know. I figured he was with you guys, maybe.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing, really. He said ‘hello’, told me not to be alarmed. He said that he wanted to speak with me - me personally - and that he had questions for me, and answers too.”
“Did he give you anything, or take anything from you?”
“He gave me some numbers.” Ava nodded. " I entered them on my phone. I think they’re coordinates, or maybe like a ZIP code or whatever the Egyptian version is? I don’t know. They’re a way to find him."
“He specifically said he wanted to speak to you?" Darcy confirmed.
“Yeah.”
“And then what happened?”
“He… vanished.” Ava snapped her fingers for emphasis. “And everything started moving again. And, I was so busy looking for where he’d gone that I didn’t even see Murray until I was up against the wall.”
“Did Suit Guy tell you his name?”
Ava shook her head. “Sort of. He told me to call him by a number.” she said. “Six.”
Darcy gnawed thoughtfully on the end of her pen. “And… did he say why he wanted to speak with you?" she asked.
“I asked him that. He just said something really cryptic and vanished.” Ava told her. “He said, uh… He said… something about… basketball?”
Darcy quite wisely stayed silent and let her think hard as she tried to recall the particular words Six had used.
“He said…” She exhaled in frustration, and it finally came to her. “He said… ‘Because only humans would play basketball with their prisoners’."
“I see.” Darcy nodded. “And, did anything else stand out to you?”
“He said ‘humans’. As if he’s not human himself…" Ava thought long and hard. “I’m sorry. It was just sudden and confusing and I guess maybe I was freaking out a bit. I can’t think of much else.”
“That’s okay.”
“Can I ask you some questions now?"
Darcy put her coffee down. “Yes….” She said. “But I might not be able to answer.”
“I understand.” Ava promised.
She ran her fingers through her hair to try and sort out what her most pressing need was.
“…Is there anything I can do?" she asked.
“You’ve already done a lot.” Darcy said.
“What, by coming to Egypt and getting caught up in stuff I only suspect I understand?"
“By answering honestly and openly. You’ve said a lot, and it will help. It’ll especially help the SOR.”
Ava nodded and looked away. “Too bad they hate me.”
Darcy gave her a long, slow, calculating look, and then she put down her pen. “Do you mind if I go a bit beyond the relationship between interviewer and detainee for a second, and give you some life advice?” she asked.
Ava blinked at her, then indicated for her to go ahead.
“My job - a big part of my job - involves figuring people out and giving them what they want to see, and telling them what they want to hear, so that they’ll open up to me. It’s… rarer that I’m ethically able to tell people what they need to hear so that I can help them." She said.
Ava nodded, listening.
“We’ve only just met, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts about people. And I think you have good intentions.”
Ava gave a defeated shake of her head. “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”
“So is the road to Heaven: The difference is judgement.” Darcy replied. “And good judgement can come with experience, perspective and education.”
“So your advice is…?”
“You have… fixations. Your home, your late friend, your ex-boyfriend… your Big Secret that you came here to uncover. I admire that, really: you’re tenacious. Stubborn. Driven. And it all comes from a very good place, but you’re burning yourself up because you’re trying to do it all yourself and you won’t let other people be strong for you when you’ve run out of strength for yourself. You need to learn how to let go and be weak when you need to."
“Weak?”
“Everybody’s allowed to be weak sometimes.” Darcy said. “There’s no sense in trying to run on a broken leg.”
Ava shook her head. “I don’t… I want to be a good person. I don’t want to burden people with my problems. Is that wrong?”
Darcy smiled and began to gather her stuff. “For what it’s worth?” she said, standing up. “I think you are a good person. I think you’ll achieve good things, if you give yourself the time you need to heal first. And the people who really care about you want to be burdened with your problems: Let them help you, and things will turn around. That’s my advice."
She left, and Ava found herself sitting alone except for the man-wall.
Determined not to cry in front of a stranger - or at all, if she could help it
- she settled for getting up and taking a tentative stroll around the room to work some of the stiffness out. Man-wall didn’t respond.
“Anyone ever tell you you look kinda like Dwayne Johnson?” she asked him. This elicited no response. “So… What happens now?” she pressed. “Am I being released, or…?”
The door clicked open and one of the other man-walls stepped in. “This way please, Miss Rios.” he requested.
Ava edged around the table, cautiously. “…No handcuffs?”
“No.”
“Okay…” She cleared her throat and followed Man-wall number two into the hallway outside.
They weren’t in a large building, and all he really did was show her from one door to another on the same floor. This new one was more comfortably arranged, with a couple of couches, a coffee machine and a television on the wall, plus a few synthetic plants and some framed landscape photographs on the walls. Comfortable, but impersonal. Simon and Sean stood up as she was gently ushered inside.
“You okay?” Sean asked.
Ava nodded. “Never thought I’d get life advice from an MIB.” she said.
“Life advice?” Simon asked.
“Just… some words of wisdom to think on.” Ava yawned. “Jeez, how long was I in there?”
“It’s four in the morning, local time.” Simon revealed. “By your personal clock, you’ve been up all night.”
“…what happens now?”
“Now? You get some sleep.” Simon ordered, pointing to the longer couch. “I think we’ll be here a bit longer.”
“You mean ‘a bit’ in the British sense, right?”
“Sleep while you can.” Simon repeated.
“What about you guys?”
“Sleep.” Sean stressed. He grabbed a blanket from the back of the short couch and handed it to her. “We’ve been napping, we’re fine, but you look like death warmed up.”
Stubborn as she was, Ava seriously thought about folding her arms and staying awake, but instead she rolled her eyes, took the blanket and gave up.
“Fine, fine, you charming ass.” She threw it round her shoulders, kicked her shoes off and sank onto the couch, which damn near swallowed her. Her fatigue caught up and hit her like snow falling off a roof. She yawned, and shook her head to try and clear it. “Jeez… Okay…”
“Go on, duck. We’ll wake you up if anything happens.” Sean told her.
“Quit nagging…” Ava grumbled, but lay down and turned on her side until she was comfortable. “You’re worse than an old woman…”
He didn’t reply, and she put her head down and tried to sleep.
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
Allied Extrasolar Command, Scotch Creek, British Columbia, Canada, Earth.
Owen Powell
“You’ve got to be fookin’ joking!”
If Special Agent Darcy didn’t take Powell’s disbelief well, she did a good job of not showing it. Even writ large on the wall TV in General Tremblay’s office via a camera in Cairo, her face didn’t betray any emotion save earnest seriousness. “No, major. I’m absolutely certain that she was telling the truth about Six saying he wanted to speak to her specifically, and I’m satisfied that allowing that meeting to take place is the correct course of action."
“You’re asking me to let you send two of my men into what could well be a trap on the say-so of a civilian with a known history of infidelity.” Powell returned. "And you’re proposing that we allow this woman, who’s aptly bloody demonstrated that she fundamentally can’t be trusted, to learn top secret information."
“I disagree.” Darcy countered. “I’d stake my professional reputation on it that you’re badly misjudging her, major.”
“You bloody will be if this goes ahead!” Powell retorted.
General Tremblay waved Powell down and threw in his opinion. “Powell’s got good reason to be reluctant, agent Darcy. There are significant trust issues involved.”
“The major and his men may not think she can be trusted, general: I do. And with all due respect to the major, it’s my job to assess who can and cannot be trusted."
“And the rationale for allowing this meeting to take place, rather than simply detaining him?” Tremblay asked.
“This isn’t like the roller derby attack. Six has been on Earth for some time now and has evaded detection throughout. If we try and detain him, he’ll just slip away - migrate to another host body or effect an escape somehow.” Darcy explained. “And this is too good an opportunity to miss, general. We could gain real insight into Hierarchy operations on Earth by doing this, maybe even take a step towards securing the planet.”
“And that can only be achieved if we let him talk to Rios?” Tremblay asked. “He wouldn’t be open to meeting, say, you?”
“Our psych profile on Six suggests that what he’s doing is testing us, general. We think he wants an ally that he can work with, one who’ll scratch his back so he can scratch theirs. Ours.”
“All for nowt if that treacherous girl leaks DEEP RELIC to the world.” Powell said.
“If the Hierarchy had the ability to panic and inflict real harm on us, they would have by now.” Darcy shook her head.
“They have four nukes.” Tremblay observed.
“Which is nothing next to what they could do to us if they managed to get even one wormhole beacon on this side of the barrier." Darcy said. “We think their play this whole time has been to try and find a buyer for those bombs who can pay them with a beacon: Several… violent parties have been fishing around in search of wormhole beacons since the Zulfiqar was hit."
Tremblay rubbed his chin, and turned his chair. Admiral Sir Patrick Knight had been summoned from Cimbrean for this meeting, and was standing by the window running his index finger thoughtfully across his lips. “You’ve been quiet so far, admiral.” he commented.
Knight shot a sympathetic glance at Powell, but nodded to the screen. “Agent Darcy makes a compelling argument.” he said.
“Sirs, I really must object in the strongest-” Powell began.
“Powell old chap, I know you must.” Knight interrupted, reassuringly. “I have misgivings about the girl myself. But we must rationally weigh the pros and cons.”
“…Yes, admiral.”
Tremblay cleared his throat. “Powell, this is too good an opportunity to pass up. Much too good. If you’re concerned about the situation and security, then I’ll give you the command and you can see it done right, with whatever resources you deem necessary.”
“Which of course puts you in a position to stress to miss Rios the seriousness of the consequences should she betray trust again.” Knight added. “I’m sure you can be more than adequately persuasive.”
Powell snorted. “Put the fear of God into her, you mean.”
“I rather think the fear of Powell will suffice.” Knight observed.
“…I’ll want the beef brothers in EV-MASS, my own EV-MASS, a plane for us to jump out of, a jet with a HARM on it in case that UFO shows up, and close air support.” Powell listed.
“You’ll have them.” Tremblay told him. “Agent Darcy?”
“Just so long as the big guns only come in if the shit hits the fan.” Darcy said. “We don’t want Six to spook.”
“Aye.” Powell agreed. “As you wish.”
Darcy visibly relaxed a little. “Thank you major. I appreciate it.”
“I hope you’re right about her” Powell said. “Believe you me, I’ll be very happy if you are.”
Darcy nodded. “I’ll see you in the field.” she said. “General, admiral. Thank you.”
Tremblay and Knight nodded for her, and she ended the call.
Powell worked his jaw thoughtfully at the blank screen for a second and then turned to the general. “I’d better see it done then.”
“Thank you for your forbearance, major.” Tremblay said, rising to shake his hand. “Good luck.”
“Thank you sir.” Powell returned the shake. “Here’s hoping I don’t bloody need it.”
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
US Embassy, Cairo, Egypt, Earth
Sean Harvey
The fact that he’d just been spoken to finally percolated into Sean’s consciousness. He blinked and looked up.
“Hmm?”
“I said, staring at her like that won’t get you back together, Sean.” Simon told him.
Sean shook his head and rubbed his face. “I was a million miles away.” he said.
“In whose bed?” Simon asked, light-heartedly. He was patrolling slowly around the room, apparently quite composed and happy.
“Simon…”
“Mate, don’t play innocent with me. I’ve known you since you were born and I know when you’re pathetically in love.”
Sean snorted and turned to sit sideways across the couch. “That’s in the past.” he said.
“Not by choice, hmm?” Simon observed. “Still, it explains that Firth chap’s rough treatment of you.”
“Lay off.”
Simon shook his head, and ruffled his nephew’s hair. “You bloody idiot.” he said, fondly.
Sean ducked out from under his hand. “Why are we still here, anyway? She should be asleep in a hotel room, not on a sofa. We should be sleeping in beds too for that matter."
“Because they’ve not asked us to leave yet.” Simon told him.
“Don’t we have rights?” Sean asked.
“Yes, and by and large you can rely on the Yanks to honour them.” Simon told him. “Besides, nothing makes you look more suspicious than kicking up a stink when you don’t need to. Good advice for when you’re arrested, that.”
“What, go limp and visit your happy place? Fan-fucking-tastic advice, Simon.”
“Don’t be a twat. I’m telling you, the trick in these situations is to be calm, be honest, and let things happen. These people can make your life profoundly awkward, nephew mine, but it’s usually more hassle than they can be bothered with.” Simon about-faced and started patrolling the room anticlockwise instead. “Which means it’s a good idea not to give them a reason to bother. Be polite and cooperative, be nice and friendly if you can manage it, and they’ll give you a shove out the door sooner rather than later."
“Right now, I’d settle for a fucking sandwich.” Sean grumbled.
Simon shrugged and knocked on the door. Immediately, one of the sapient security slabs opened it. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry to bother you…” Simon smiled at the man, noticeably exaggerating his accent a little. “But we’ve been here rather a long time and we’re getting a bit peckish. I don’t suppose there’s any way…?”
“I’ll have some food brought up.” the guard replied. “You got everything you need in there?”
“If you could spare us another blanket, it’d be much appreciated…?”
“Sure, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks ever so much.” Simon aimed a smug look at Sean the second the door closed again.
“Oh yes, thank you awfully, wot?" Sean parodied.
“Ra_ther_.” Simon chuckled, and resumed his stately lap of the room. “Now how do you think that would have gone if I’d been all ‘I have rights! I demand you bring me a filet mignon this instant and I want to speak to the King bwah bwah bwah…’?" he imitated a kind of pompous clucking.
“Point made…” Sean waved a hand irritably. He sat back and tried to entertain himself by multiplying the ceiling tiles and searching for patterns in the carpet.
He was painstakingly weighing up whether a particular pattern of shade under the coffee table more closely resembled a man wearing a bowler hat or a man wearing a trilby when there was a knock on the door and a couple of embassy staff members delivered two folded blankets and some trays with three sandwiches, three mugs, an insulated flask of hot water and an assortment of coffee, tea, sugar and a small jug of milk, some chocolate bars and a tube of Pringles.
They woke Ava, who, after some yawning and stretching, caused one of the sandwiches to vanish, inhaled slightly more than her share of the Pringles, polished off two Snickers and self-medicated with a drink that was less a coffee and more a triple-strength coffee flavored syrup.
“Considering you only got two hour’s sleep, you look refreshed.” Sean told her.
“I feel refreshed.” She replied. “No news? Are they letting us go?”
“We’ll see.” Simon replied, amicably. “I get the impression we really did barge into something huge here, and if there’s one thing governments don’t like, it’s reporters all over their biggest secrets."
“What are they afraid of?” Sean asked.
“That depends on the secret.” Ava told him.
“Well what good do secrets do?” He insisted. “They come out eventually, and then you’re the one who was lying to everyone. We’ve lived that, you and me. Haven’t we? You and I both know that dishonesty for the greater good doesn’t work."
“He’s right, Ava.” Simon agreed. “Secrets and lies only hurt people.”
Ava folded her arms uncertainly, then frowned thoughtfully before shaking her head. “Look, I’ve been… I got some advice today that made a few things fall into place, and I think you’re wrong. I mean-” She gestured at Simon. “You protect your sources, don’t you?”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Like hell it’s not!” she exclaimed. “A secret is a secret, no matter if it’s a big one or a little one. If you take your promise to protect your sources seriously, then do you really believe that secrets are always harmful?"
“I protect my sources!" Simon stressed. “I keep them from suffering the repercussions of talking to me!”
“So a secret can protect people, then?" Ava asked. Simon scowled and scratched his head, and she pressed her point. “Simon, do you think you’re the only man in the world who can tell which secrets should and shouldn’t be kept? Do you trust yourself that much?”
Neither man had a reply. Ava, on the other hand, was hitting her stride.
“And then there’s the effort, right? D’you think they’d go to all the effort of keeping their secrets if they didn’t think they have to?" she asked, unknowingly echoing Simon’s advice about hassling the security guards. “Governments aren’t this… this shady machine that just hangs over us like a kid with a magnifying glass. They’re made of people, people just like us, who’re trying to do the best they can with good intentions."
“So you’re perfectly fine with an opaque government.” Simon commented.
“When it needs to be, I… guess? Yeah! I am.” Ava told him. “You think secrets hurt people? Well what about all the… I dunno, the thousands of secrets you never heard of because nobody was ever hurt by them because they stayed secret?"
“What about all the ways the world could be a better place if we just knew what was going on and what needed to be fixed?” Sean asked.
Ava shook her head. “I’ve seen what happens to people who try and help when they don’t know how." she said. “We’ve got to start trusting other people to know what they’re doing, guys. We’re all in this together.”
“Even guys like that knuckle-dragging cro-magnon wanker Firth?” Sean asked, skeptically.
Ava sighed and sat down. " Look, Firth honestly scares me and I don’t like him much - and I know the feeling’s mutual - but he’s still a person. Christian Firth from Kentucky, listens to country rock and heavy metal, plays Warhammer, secretly loves RomComs… I’ve hung out with him and all the SOR guys, and they’re just guys. They all banded together and got me a birthday present a few years back - you know, my USM telephoto lens? The expensive one?"
“What did you say to him earlier? Something about his daddy fucking him in the arse?” Simon asked.
“’Cause I was upset and he’s an alpha male jackass who was having way too much fun putting Sean in his place.” Ava said. “But even if he fucking hates my guts, he’s still one of the good guys and I’d trust him with my life. You don’t have to like somebody to trust them. Besides-”
She paused in response to a knock on the door, which turned out to be Darcy, who greeted the room with a smile and a “Hi.”
“So… gentlemen, whenever you’re ready there’s a car waiting to take you back to your hotel. The driver has your belongings. You’ll be under observation for the rest of your stay in Egypt of course, but it’s up to you what you do with your time. Ava, there’s a few more things I would like to discuss with you if-”
“Is she under arrest?” Simon interrupted..
“No.” Darcy said, instantly. “If she chooses to, she can leave with you… but if you’re willing,” she addressed Ava directly, “I’d like to make a request.”
Simon made a grudgingly satisfied noise with his arms folded, and looked to Ava, who stood. “I’ll see you guys whenever… this… is done with.” she said.
The two women left the room. In the silence that followed, Simon sighed. “Damn it.”
“What?” Sean asked.
“I have this horrible feeling that we just lost a huge story… and maybe a talented young photojournalist into the bargain.” Simon grumbled.
Sean shrugged and stood up. “Let’s get some actual sleep.” he suggested.
“That’s all you’ve got to say on the matter?” Simon asked.
“I’m fucking tired, I’m fucking bored, I’ve had fucking enough of this room and whatever Ava decides to do is her fucking business.” Sean scratched at his stubble. “Let’s just go.”
“Right. Maybe in the morning we can go looking for a story to justify this trip…”
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
Starship ‘Negotiable Curiosity’, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Wilson ‘Titan’ Akiyama
“Okay…”
“You gonna decide, or you gonna prove how shitty your poker face is some more?”
“Shut up and let me think! …Okay… …Do you have any Jacks?”
Sikes groaned “Mother_fucker!”_ he handed over three cards, which Titan combined with the one in his hand and laid on the deck in front of him with a grin. “Fine, fine, wiseass, you got any sixes?”
“Go fish.”
“Fuck!”
“Your behaviour confuses me.” Bedu commented. The cabin doors only locked from the inside, so somebody had to stay on guard outside them the whole time to keep the two ETs confined. Bedu had got around the enjoinder to stay in his quarters by standing just inside the threshold, watching the game. “You board our ship and abduct us, and now you are aggressively playing this… trivially simple game with one another rather than flying anywhere."
“A little healthy competition makes it more interesting.” Akiyama told him.
Bedu nodded sagely. “Well, anything which succeeds in making you more interesting is to be cherished.” he said.
Titan gave a drop-jawed grin. “I think we just got burned!” he told Sikes.
Sikes gave the Corti a grudgingly admiring raise of his eyebrow. “I think you’re right.”
“Guys.” They looked up as Rebar came back down the ship. His expression was grim. “Time’s up.”
“…Shit.” Sikes swore, and put his cards down. “How long?”
“B reckons a week or so.”
Titan gritted his teeth. Wearing EV-MASS was a form of exercise all in itself, and while they had spent the occasional conditioning week wearing the unforgiving suit 24/7, it wasn’t an exercise to be looked forward to. Unfortunately, without their techs, taking the suits off was an irreversible procedure, and the rule was quite clear - the suit was not to be removed unless it could be put back on or there was a pressing medical need.
“You’d better have a full stock of ration balls on board.” he told Bedu.
“We do.” Bedu replied. “I take it something has gone wrong?”
“Something always does.” Rebar observed.
“Preach it.” Sikes agreed.
“Hmm.” Bedu mused, and then knocked on the wall beside him. “Hkzzvk, come out of there!"
The translator gave the voice that floated through the door a panicked edge. “No! I heard Humans can kill you with their breath!”
“Not so far, but then again your nose is more sensitive than mine.” Bedu replied.
Answer came there none, but he blinked as the humans all chuckled. Sikes gestured for Akiyama’s attention. “We’d better get a shift rotation set up.” he said. “Somebody’s gotta watch the ETs at all times. You wanna go sleep?”
“Reeb? You burned the most energy.” Titan turned to the sergeant first class.
“Nah, get your head down. I’m good for now.”
“B?”
“He’s too busy giving us a screwy bumblebee flight path to throw off any pursuit.”
“Arright. Wake me in six.” Titan stood, knocked fists with his brothers, and found a secluded part of the engineering section where he could get his head down on his ruck.
Sleep was a skill. You could sleep anytime, anywhere if you knew how. All it took was a bit of mental focus.
The problem was, focus was hard to come by. A two hundred meter warship equipped for stealth and evasion didn’t just fail to make a rendezvous, and while they were all staying jocular and as upbeat as they could, Titan knew his brothers well enough to know that they were all thinking the same thing: Something had gone badly wrong. That was not a thought calculated to help a man go to bed. Nor was the prospect of a whole week in the suit. That endeavour was going to tax their nutrition and Crue-D reserves hard, let alone their health and stamina.
He took a deep breath, forced those worries out of his mind. He’d only make them worse by being an exhausted wreck. Instead, he shut his eyes, focused on his breathing and, by degrees, fell asleep.
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
US Embassy, Cairo, Egypt, Earth.
Darcy
“So what’s this request of yours?”
Ava was showing the clear signs of fatigue now, but she’d found reserves of alertness from her power nap and snack, and was indulging in a coffee that Darcy thought looked more like a mug of liquid diabetes.
“Six asked to speak with you specifically and, if you’re willing, we’d like for that meeting to go ahead.”
Ava swallowed her coffee thoughtfully. “Jeez. Are you sure? If this is as big as I think it is…”
“There, I can’t comment. Yet.” Darcy said. “Not unless you sign some paperwork.”
“What kind of paperwork?”
“In short…” Darcy slid it across the desk. “It’s a binding legal agreement that you understand just how serious this all is, that you’ve been informed what the consequences would be to you personally if you were to break trust, and that you accept those consequences. Agree to be bound by, and so on. You should read it in full.”
“I’ve had like two hours sleep. I’m not sure I should be signing anything right now." Ava objected.
“I’ll answer any questions you have.” Darcy assured her. “The decision is up to you. If you’d prefer, I can have a cot brought up and you can get a solid sleep in first, but the sooner you reach a decision, the sooner we can act.”
“And if my decision’s a no?”
“We’ll just have to figure something out.” Darcy said. “We can’t and wouldn’t force you into this.”
Ava stared at the NDA long and hard, then downed her coffee as if slamming back a vodka for courage, and set about reading it.
She only asked one question, several pages in. “…Jesus, the death penalty?”
“As laid out in eighteen U.S Code section seven-nine-four.” Darcy recalled, grimly. “Yes.”
Shaken, Ava ran a hand through her hair and cursed quietly to herself in Spanish. “Me cago en la leche…”
She caught Darcy’s eye, steeled herself and read on.
“You guys are… really serious about this, huh?" she observed, flipping over the final page.
“I’ve discussed this with some very powerful people over the last couple of hours, Ava.” Darcy told her. “Many of them are not convinced about you, and I’ve fought hard on your behalf on the evidence of just one interview. Quite aside from the penalties laid out in that document, I’d be… grateful if you didn’t completely sink my career and professional reputation. As a personal favor. If you have any doubts that you’ll be able to keep everything you see and are told in the coming few days and take it all to your grave, then I beg you: please don’t sign it."
Ava stood up and walked around the room a half-circuit, thinking.
Eventually she turned and put her hands on the back of the chair. “Can I sleep on it?” she asked.
Darcy breathed an inward sigh of relief and vindication. “Yes.” she said. “You can sleep on it.”
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
Mrwrki Station, Uncharted System, Deep Space
Kirk
“Lewis?”
Lewis wasn’t in his chair. The latest result of his experiments in nanoforging pizza was untouched and congealing beside it, with a cleaning drone hovering nearby, waiting patiently for the minimum time threshold to pass before it could swoop in, pluck it away, and incinerate it.
Instead, Lewis was in his meditation room, cross-legged on his Zafu. That in itself was nothing unusual, but this time he was smiling. It was an encouraging sight.
“Hey Kirk.”
“You look rested.”
“Figuring out the solution’ll do that for a guy.” Lewis didn’t open his eyes, but his smile got just a little wider.
“You have? That’s wonderful news! What is it?”
Lewis opened one eye, like a lazy dog, and grinned at him. “I let go of attachment to material things.”
Kirk chose his words very carefully. “…I beg your pardon?”
“Earth. My whole strategy so far has revolved around saving the Earth. That’s why I kept running into obstacles I couldn’t get over. It’s a waste of time trying to save the Earth, because the Hierarchy are already ON Earth. They might not have a beacon down there yet, but it’s only a matter of time, and when they do…”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“Dude.” Lewis shrugged. “Nobody’ll be happier than me if I turn out to be wrong there. But let’s assume that I’m not. We need a backup.”
He kicked his legs out and swayed upright. “Yo, room, project file CTC-eight- oh-five. One quarter scale.”
Kirk took a step back as volumetrically projected light engulfed his head. Then he backed up some more to get a good look at it. It was little more than a rounded oblong with thrusters, and even at one-quarter scale it was clearly huge, filling as it did the whole room, which wasn’t small. “A missile of some kind?”
“Kind of the opposite.” Lewis mused. “Missiles fly somewhere and destroy shit. This flies somewhere and…”
He paused, then turned and gave Kirk the delighted smile of the slightly unhinged. “Have you ever heard of John von Neumann?”
++End Chapter++
Chapter 35
Chapter 26: “Blood and Ash” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
US Embassy, Cairo, Egypt, Earth.
Ava Rios
A Bible in an old hand wearing black. The other hand sketching up and down, right and left in the air. A last meal, tasteless and ritual. A last benediction. A last prayer - empty words.
Chains on her feet, pinching the prison jumpsuit painfully against her ankles, keeping her from doing more than shuffle. An infinitely long walk down an infinitely short corridor.
Her own reflection in glass reinforced with wire. Pretty. Framed by black curls. Empty of hope, remembering the future life she has thrown away.
A semicircular room with glass walls. Faces watching sternly from outside, spectating. A sturdy chair covered in straps.
Straps on her limbs, holding her down. Last words. Terrified tears.
Creeping ice in her arm. In her veins. In her heart. In her brain.
She woke up.
Ava stared at the ceiling for a second, trying to place herself and banish the highlight reel of her own nightmare that was still sadistically echoing around her mind.
She was on a cot. In the embassy, under a couple of blankets. It should have been cosy and restful. Instead, her personal schedule was badly awry - it was plainly well into the day outside, and yet she felt cold, and drained.
The window was engineered for security - thick and blast resistant, designed to be opened in case of a fire but also to set alarms wailing if it was. Still, the view was excellent - Minarets and palaces rubbing shoulders with modern groomed parks and high-rise hotels, and the clean blue of the bridge- tamed Nile itself.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in?” Ava asked, turning away from the window. Special Agent Darcy smiled for her as she entered, carrying a large mug of coffee. “Feeling better?”
“Kinda… I had some pretty crappy dreams though. Thanks.” Ava took the mug. “How’d you know I woke up?”
“I was going to wake you anyway.” Darcy said.
“Decision time, huh?”
“Gotta pressure you.” Darcy agreed taking a seat on the couch. The Non- Disclosure Agreement and its chillingly impersonal descriptions of exactly how transgressions would be answered was where Ava had left it on the table the night before.
“…Can I ask you a question?” Ava asked.
“Sure.”
“Is it… easy, to keep these secrets? Or do you struggle?”
Darcy touched her lip thoughtfully. “I’m lucky.” she said at last. “I work with people who have the same clearance I do, and it helps, but a big part of classified information is about compartmentalisation and need-to-know. And if the guy I work with most closely doesn’t need to know, well…”
“You’ve not answered my question.”
Darcy acknowledged that she hadn’t with an amused motion of her head. “I… find it much easier once I understand why they’re secret." she said. “I may not always agree with the rationale, but knowing there is a rationale - and there’s always a rationale - well, it makes it easier."
“Easi**er**? Not actually easy."
“…I have friends and family and there are times when I might be having a conversation with them and they’ll say something or voice an opinion that treads on territory I know about.” Darcy told her. “Biting your tongue when you know that their whole argument is completely wrong, but you can’t give them the puzzle piece they need to really make sense of things… that’s not easy.”
“So you struggle.”
“Sometimes, yes.” Darcy agreed.
Ava drank her coffee in thoughtful silence. “That makes me feel better.” she confessed, once the mug was empty and she’d put it down. “If you’d said it was effortless…”
She picked up a pen and signed the agreement.
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
Mwrwrki Station, Uncharted System, Deep Space
Lewis Beverote
Vedreg was damn near impossible to interpret sometimes. Many of his most commonly-expressed emotions were quite easy to follow once you’d memorized the basics of Guvnurag color-emoting.
The problem was that while the human eye had three kinds of color-receptor cone cell, the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun had five, allowing them to perceive an approximate colour range several orders of magnitude larger than humans could.
It turned out that in galactic society, they carefully and politely emoted in a very limited way, using only those hues that they shared with the dichromatic galactic majority.
Among themselves, their whole system of emoting was greatly more complex, and two colours that were indistinguishable to the human eye could, to Guvnurag, convey wildly different emotional states.
Relative to the literal glowing lines that covered their huge bodies, the rest of Guvnurag body language was subtle to the point of barely existing. Which meant that when he was in a mood to keep his thoughts to himself, Vedreg was impenetrable.
“This Jonuvanunoumanu person seems to occupy a position of unlimited prestige in your species’ scientific annals." he noted.
Kirk nodded his head slowly - by necessity rather than choice, given his long neck - but emphatically. “Mathematics, physics, computer science, quantum mechanics, hydrodynamics, economics… Not to mention his involvement in the development of your species’ first nuclear weaponry. If I did not know humans so well, I would suspect him of being an unsubtle Hierarchy spy sent to Earth in an attempt to engineer your destruction.”
“This doctrine of ‘Mutually Assured Destruction’ would be compatible with their strategy for turning deathworld species against themselves." Vedreg agreed. “Is that what this is?”
“No, man. Jesus, no.” Lewis waved a hand irritably. “Dude, read the bit on self-replicating machines.”
“I saw that. A machine that can make a copy of itself.” Kirk commented. “An interesting idea, though I fail to see the practical application.”
“You fail to-? Seriously?" Lewis rubbed at his face. Kirk was in some ways about the smartest life form Lewis had ever heard of, and in some others he was terminally stupid. There was nothing more frustrating than a deeply intelligent being who occasionally needed detailed instructions to figuratively find his backside with just one of his four arms.
“Seriously.” Kirk nodded again.
“Dude… a Von Neumann machine is any machine that can build copies of itself. Doesn’t matter what else it can do, just so long as one of the things it can do is duplicate itself."
“Meaning…?”
“Dude, every nanofactory in the galaxy is a Von Neumann machine! Look, I’ll show you! Nanofactory!"
The room chimed, awaiting a command. “Assemble all of the component pieces of a station-sized industrial nanofactory plus a drone capable of putting those components together.” Lewis told it.
“Estimated build time for that project is - three hundred and fifty-five Ri’. Do you wish to continue?” The nanofactory’s control software asked.
“What is that, about three hours?” Lewis asked. “Cancel order.”
“Point made.” Kirk said.
“Right! If you have one functioning nanofactory, then getting a second nanofactory is as easy as asking for one. Now, what happens if we stick engines and a power supply to a big nanofactory?"
“You… have a… mobile nanofactory.” Vedreg observed, pulsing a familiar shade of confusion at such an obvious question.
“Yup. So, if you have one mobile nanofactory, then getting a second mobile nanofactory is as easy as asking for one." Lewis explained, aware that he was pushing the point a little hard, but it usually paid to do so when dealing with nonhumans. “But of course… it’s a nanofactory! It can make all sorts of other stuff, too!”
“It seems to me that all you’re doing is moving the question of what we should build with this nanofactory that we currently have back a step." Kirk observed.
“Colonies.” Lewis told him.
“…I see. Yes.”
Vedreg looked between them. “I don’t.” he said.
“All our eggs are in one big basket right now.” Lewis explained. “Plus a smaller one with Cimbrean. Now, this is an idea that’s been around for so fucking long in our sci fi that I’m fucking ashamed of myself for not thinking of it sooner, but it’s like… the basic rule of keeping a species from going extinct is to spread it outside of whatever little niche it’s in right now, so if something happens to that niche, it doesn’t take the species with it. And Earth is a very, very little niche."
“A whole planet is a ‘niche’ to you?” Vedreg asked.
“Hell the fuck yes it is!” Lewis told him. “Next to a whole goddamn galaxy? You bet your big glowing technicolor ass it’s a niche.”
“New human colonies would be vulnerable.” Kirk pointed out. “Cimbrean and Earth are only still intact because of the system forcefields we-”
“Stolen system forcefields." Vedreg interjected, pulsing a vivid shade of indignant.
“Stolen system forcefield." Lewis corrected him. “Your people put up the one ’round Sol yourselves. But Kirk’s right, without system forcefields any colony we try and set up is just gonna be Hunter chow the second they get wind of it.”
“There is no possible way that your species could afford to buy that many, Lewis.” Vedreg told him.
“I was thinking if we just buy the blueprint and shove it in my Von Neumann Colony Probe here…”
“Absolutely not.” Angry red flicked down Vedreg’s body. “You would just… steal the most valuable technology my species has invented? A project we sank more wealth into than your whole homeworld can produce in a year? And you expect me to just… give you it?"
“Vedreg, be reasonable-” Kirk began. Lewis interrupted him.
“Dude, can I…?”
Both aliens turned to face him.
“…How many of those forcefields have you actually sold?" he asked. “Gimme an integer.”
“Well… The technology is still experimental-”
“Hunter shit!” Lewis told him. “You know how many of these things have ever been deployed for real? Six. The Guvnurag homeworld, your two colonies, Sol, Cimbrean, and here. And they’re six for six on working fucking perfectly, man. Each one does exactly what it says on the box! Hell, one of them even had after-market modifications! Now, since when the fuck is that ‘still experimental’?" he raised his fingers and air-quoted the last two words for emphasis.
“Your point?” Vedreg asked.
“My point is, why the fuck is nobody buying? Man, system shields make the whole war with the Celzi completely fucking pointless, and if they can protect Earth from Hunter aggression then they can protect anywhere else, too! These things work, and yet for some crazy-ass reason, nobody’s buying them off you. What’s the fucking deal there? ’Cause I seriously fuckin’ doubt that people would rather be eaten alive than spend money on buying your magic star box."
He paused for breath, and reminded himself to be chill. “Dude… The only reason every inhabited system in the galaxy doesn’t have one of those things is because somebody doesn’t want them used. Somebody with the power to keep the whole thing in Development Hell indefinitely. So that huge investment you’re defending ain’t doing diddly-shit. And now here I come, askin’ you - and dude, I’ll fuckin’ beg if I have to - You’re not using these things, and they could save my entire species."
“For which,” Kirk added, “I’m sure the human race would be grateful.”
Vedreg fluoresced uncertainly for some time.
“Is there no alternative?” he asked, eventually. “This… ‘Mutually Assured Destruction’ that your Jonuvanunoumanu described. Could you not… weaponize this creation of yours?"
“Dude.” Lewis said, and shifted on his Zafu. “Let me explain to you why MAD is complete fuckin’ bullshit, alright?"
He sat forward and composed his argument. “Let’s say I built these things so they could self-modify on the fly in response to the kinda tactics used against them.” he said. “Let’s say I sent billions of them to devour a planet, and each one used the raw material to create billions of copies of itself. I mean, we need to imagine that shit’s even possible first, and don’t even BEGIN on getting me started on the reasons why it’s fuckin’ not…but let’s pretend I’m a mighty wizard and thermodynamics is my bitch, sure."
He sniffed. “Now let’s say I, uh, waggle this crazy thing I’ve made at whatever colossal douche is lookin’ at me funny and I’m like ‘Cross me and I send out the world eaters!’ and he’s like ‘Ha-ha! I have world-eaters too! Cross me and I shall send out mine!’ and we both decide it’s maybe not worth the fuckin’ hassle of bein’ dead and we go home for snacks. Right? That’s the theory behind MAD."
“That seems… credible.” Vedreg offered.
“Okay… where’s my threshold for provocation?”
Kirk nodded and sat back on his hindmost four legs, clearly getting what Lewis was driving at.
“I beg your pardon?” Vedreg asked.
“Where’s, like… the line where once they’ve stepped over it, that’s the point I release the indiscriminate deathbots and kiss my wife and kids goodbye?" Lewis asked. “Is it when he launches his?”
“Yes.”
“What about if I think he’s planning to launch his?" Lewis asked.
“…Yes?” Vedreg hazarded.
“You think? What if he’s not and I’ve just got some shitty-ass incompetent spies and he was actually trying to steal cable or whatever? Congratulations numb-nuts, you just doomed everybody because you’re too trigger-happy. Well fuckin’ done you. And there we go: literally the only situation in which MAD applies is if the other fucker’s stupid enough to shoot first. Which he ain’t going to be, and neither am I.”
“In other words,” Kirk summarized “By introducing such a weapon, you would only raise the stakes while making no progress towards a lasting peace.”
“Exactly!” Lewis agreed. “So what happens instead is ham tactics. The enemy slices thin layers off us so he can make a delicious meaty victory sandwich. He doesn’t wanna provoke me into firing my world-eaters? Well, that’s easy - I don’t want to fire ’em! And I’m only gonna do it if he provokes me bad enough. So all he has to do is not push me that far - and he can do a lot of shit without pushing me that far - and slice by slice he’ll win the war."
Kirk was nodding like a pumpjack. “Meaning that your superweapons cancel one another out and you both remain on square one, fighting each other through more conventional means.”
“E-fucking-xactly.” Lewis nodded. “And bear in mind dude, all of the above only applies if the other guy is sane and competent. What happens if we’re dealing with a complete fuckin’ Mr. Potato Head who reckons he’ll be welcomed as a warrior into the halls of Valhalla, or if he’s too stupid and gung-ho to double-check what’s really going on and launches his nukes when a bird shits on the radar dish?"
He made an explosive gesture with his hands and punctuated it with an oral sound effect. “All I’ve done by creating that weapon in the first place is engineer the tool of my own demise. S’what humans call being ‘hoist by thine own petard’ and, dude; if your survival plan hinges on all your enemies being sane, competent and cautious then that is a bad plan because eventually one of your enemies won’t be."
“But surely-” Vedreg began.
“Dude.” Lewis scolded him. “We’re not talking about nukes here. When you get down to it, a nuke is just a big explosion. Lots of people die, it’s a horrible fucking tragedy, what-the-fuck-ever. At least you control when and where it goes off. But a weaponized Von Neumann swarm? You are ruining the galaxy for everyone forever, and probably not just the one galaxy, neither. No."
Vedreg’s body pulsed every colour the human eye could perceive in rapid succession, and finally he levered himself to his feet.
“I think that I will need some time to think on this.” he said.
“I hear ya. Take all the time you need.” Lewis soothed him, calming down himself. “I’ll keep looking for an alternative. But seriously man - nobody’s buying your forcefields. You may as well do some good with them.”
“I will think on it.” Vedreg repeated, and rumbled out of the room.
Lewis watched him go. “…Pushed too hard, d’you think?” He asked.
“Possibly.” Kirk agreed. “But Lewis…”
“Yeah?”
“It may well be that you could never push hard enough.”
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
US Embassy, Cairo, Egypt, Earth
Darcy
It was interesting watching Ava read the sanitized, short version of DEEP RELIC.
Darcy could clearly recall her own reaction on reading that same document - It had made her afraid. There had been plenty of bad nights’ sleep afterwards, dreaming of strange worlds and strange persons, maybe alien versions of herself, doing her job, trying to pull their species back from the brink of extinction… and failing.
Ava’s reaction was different: With every paragraph, she was getting increasingly angry.
It wasn’t the blazing, short-lived rage that she’d directed at Firth, either, nor the burning sass she summoned to cover when she was feeling insecure. Instead, Ava seemed to be filling up with the slow, relentless, baking kind of anger. The kind that glowed in a person’s heart, pointed them at the world, and woe betide whatever got in their way.
When she flipped the document closed at the end, her hand was shaking.
“…How many species?” She asked.
“We don’t know, exactly.” Darcy told her. “But this has been going on for millions of years, so it must be…hundreds of species at least. Maybe thousands.”
Ava sat back. Angry as she was, she also looked… lost. As if she had no idea what to do with the fire that had been lit inside her. “…God.” she whispered. “I can’t get my head around it. It’s too big.”
“Do you understand why this is a secret, Ava?" Darcy asked her. “Do you understand why you can’t tell anybody?”
Ava nodded. “Because if we’re going to survive this… we need every advantage we can get.” she said.
“That’s why we’re sending you to speak to Six.” Darcy told her. “Because if there’s any advantage to be gained by granting his request, we have to seize it."
Ava nodded solemnly. “Thank you.” she said. “I just have one more question?”
“Sure.”
“…What exactly happened to San Diego?"
“San Diego was the Hierarchy’s base of operations on Earth.” Darcy explained. “It was home to their jump array, their communications apparatus… We tried to seize it, and their agent in charge of the facility detonated an antimatter bomb to ensure that we couldn’t salvage anything.”
“So… if the city hadn’t been destroyed, they’d still have jump beacons on Earth?”
“I suppose…” Darcy hadn’t considered that before.
“And if they still had jump beacons on Earth…” Ava continued, “…we’d all be screwed, right?”
“We would.” Darcy agreed.
There was nothing overtly positive about Ava’s response. She didn’t smile, or sigh or nod. Only a microscopic change in the way she held herself suggested that a weight she’d been carrying unheeded for a long time suddenly wasn’t burdening her quite so much. “That… Thank you, Darcy.”
She stood up. “Are they ready for us yet?”
“Everything’s in place.” Darcy said. “Major Powell is in charge of this operation, but you’ll be taking your orders directly from Master Sergeant Vinther. Do exactly what he tells you. Okay?"
Ava nodded, and Darcy shook her hand. “Good luck.” she said.
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
US Embassy, Cairo, Egypt, Earth
Roy Vinther
“Well hey, she finally deigns to grace us with her fuckin’ presence.” Firth muttered.
“Gi’ it a rest, mate…” Murray replied. The two SOR men had taken the news that they’d have Rios along for the ride with the minimum of grace, and Firth in particular had taken every opportunity he could to grumble about it since. He was getting his own back, though: He’d elected to wear an offensively loud shirt covered in palm trees, ocean sunsets and bikini’d latina beauties.
He snorted in response to Murray’s quiet request, and put on a pair of huge mirrored aviators. “Sure, bro. Okay.”
“Jesus shit.” Coombes commented, shaking his head. “If you were any more fuckin’ Air Force, you and Walsh’d be holding hands right about now.”
“Aren’t you ‘Army stronk’ dumbfucks supposed to be the big ones?" Walsh retorted, affectionately. After Firth and Murray, he was the third-biggest man present, and comfortably larger than any of the Delta Force operators.
Vinther left them to roast each other and crossed to the doorway to take the young woman off the embassy guard’s hands. “Miss Rios.”
“You’re master sergeant Vinther, right?” she asked. She extended a hand, and Roy gave it a cordial shake.
“That’s right. You understand what your role is here?”
“Talk to Six, do exactly what you tell me.” She said, nodding. There was an edge of trepidation in her face and voice, but also a note of determination.
“That’s about it.” Vinther agreed. “Come this way.”
She followed, promptly and quietly and proving that, for now at least, she could handle the second part of her job just fine. Vinther opened the back of one of the SUVs they’d spent the morning loading up.
“I understand you have Cimbrean colonial militia training.” he said.
“Yes.” she nodded.
“What’s rule one?”
Ava thought for a second. “Keep, uh… keep my head down.”
“Right.” He grabbed an armor vest from the SUV. “Let’s get this fitted now in case you need it later.” Unceremoniously he pushed it down over her head, did it up, and adjusted the straps until it sat snugly on her. Heavy as it was, she didn’t complain. “Is that loose anywhere?”
She jumped on her toes a bit and danced back and forth to test it. “…No, it’s fine.”
“Good. Helmet.”
They repeated the process of putting it on and adjusting it until it sat securely on her without moving. Between them, the bulky garments made her look small and scared.
“…Alright, you can take those off now. Not gonna need them for a while.” He said. Firth had suggested hazing her by making her wear them all day, but while Vinther had no reason to like Rios, he had no reason to actively bully her either.
She wriggled out of them and stacked them neatly back in the SUV where from he’d collected them.
“Okay. I’m not planning on arming you.” He told her. “If shit hits the fan then maybe, but only if I trust that you can stay the hell out of our way and leave the fighting to the professionals. It would be your weapon of last resort only. Is that clear?"
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Good. If I did elect to arm you, this would be your weapon." he unholstered it from under his jacket. “What are the rules of firearm safety?”
“Uh… All guns are always loaded.” She recited. “Uh, never point a gun at anything you’re not willing to shoot. Keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on target, and, uh… be sure of your target and whatever’s around and behind it.”
Vinther handed her the gun. She scored immediate points by checking the chamber was empty while pointing it away and toward the floor.
“I can’t find the safety.” She commented.
“That’s a Springfield XD-S, they put the safety in the grip. It’ll only fire if you’re holding it properly, so show me.”
She nodded, settled her feet and her grip, and took a look around. “…I don’t see anything here it’s safe to aim at.”
“Good, you pass the test. Your grip’s fine.” Vinther took the gun back off her. “Hope I don’t have to give you this. Just remember that if I do, you still keep your head down and you only use it if it’s that or die. That clear?"
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Good.” Vinther had to give the girl some grudging credit. He’d worked with young, trained riflemen who’d shown less sense and focus. “You’re riding in this truck right here with me, Walsh and Murray. That’s Coombes, that’s Pavlo; they’re riding with Firth.”
She gasped as she went to hop into the back seat. “My camera!” she turned back toward the embassy. “I forgot to get my camera back.”
“You’re not here to take pictures, Ava.” Murray told her, causing her to jump. Vinther had to suppress the urge to flinch as well - Murray really was almost superhumanly quiet.
“I know, I just… please, that camera means a lot to me.” She said.
“Aye, I know.” Murray handed it to her.
“You got it? Thank you!”
“Firth did.”
“…Firth did?" She checked. “But…?!”
Murray shrugged, eloquently suggesting with only his shoulders and a quirk of his eyebrow that Ava shouldn’t question it, and climbed into the truck.
Ava took the time to buckle the camera holster back onto her leg, then hopped in too.
Vinther made eye contact with Firth, who’d watched the handover with an intense, unreadable expression. The big man didn’t give anything away - instead he just beat a fist against the middle of his chest and then toward Vinther by way of a kind of salute, and climbed into the truck.
“Yo, we goin’, Barkeep?” Walsh asked. “Only it’s a long fuckin’ drive.”
“Thought you Chair Force types liked sittin’ down all day?" Vinther asked, hopping up into the driver’s seat.
“So do you. Difference is, we like to be goin’ somewhere while we sit." Walsh grinned.
Vinther chuckled and turned the radio up. The quality of Cairo’s radio stations had come as a welcome surprise. “Alright, we’ll do things your way.” He said. “Last chance for a comfort break?”
Nobody took him up on it, so he pulled the Oakleys off his collar, slipped them on, cracked his knuckles and wriggled until he was comfortably burrowed into his seat. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
C-17 Globemaster, somewhere over Nunavut, Canada, Earth.
Owen Powell
It felt wrong to be flying in the same plane as Warhorse and not hear either laughter or snoring. Those were literally the only two sounds men of the SOR usually produced when travelling.
This time, the suit techs were too busy prepping the suits for a jump, and Ares wasn’t in a talkative mood at all.
The worst part was not being able to help him. There was oh so much advice that Powell would have loved to give the lad, but the unit’s command dynamic was built around his remaining… not aloof, but certainly showing his love sparingly. The occasional dash of avuncular affection was about as much as he could afford. The lads were all too hyper-masculine and high on life to be able to thrive on anything less than being slightly in awe of their CO.
But if he could have, he would have sat down and spoken to Ares all the way over the arctic circle. The poor man was in dire need of some perspective.
There was nothing for it but to snag Burgess when the younger man passed by on his way for a bathroom break.
“Is his mind in the game?” Powell asked, getting to the point.
“He’s nothing but mind in the game, sir." Baseball glanced back at his best friend and then shrugged his enormous Protector’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t wanna be in his way when we land though.”
“…Right. Carry on, sergeant.”
“Sir…”
Powell nodded. “Go on lad, get if off your chest.”
“…If she gets hurt, it’s gonna wreck him.” Burgess observed, keeping his voice very low.
“Between you and me, I counselled against allowing her to do this for that exact reason, and others besides.” Powell confided. “But there’s nowt for it but to trust Murray an’ Firth, stay sharp and shoot straight when we get there. We’ll all be here for him if he needs us, aye?”
“Amen to that, sir.”
“Go on. It’s a long flight.”
“Yes sir.”
Powell didn’t know how the Beef Brothers were able to sit still on these voyages. Spacious as they were to accommodate men in para jump gear, the plane’s seats were anything but ergonomic and Powell found that he could at best only tolerate them. Maybe it was a size thing - Burgess and Ares were both rather larger than their commanding officer, and neither of them seemed the least bit bothered by the seating arrangements. It was a mystery.
Instead he strolled around the plane, keeping an eye on things without interfering.
The suit techs were busy reconfiguring the EARS fields on the suits. Exo- Atmospheric Re-entry System wasn’t going to be needed today, but the robust shields, designed to take a pounding from atmosphere as a man streaked in at supersonic speeds and to protect him from his own sonic boom, could do something impressive if the emitters were dismounted, moved and reprogrammed - they could negate the need for a parachute entirely by giving the suit a terminal velocity of eight meters per second, equivalent to jumping off a single-storey building. With the ankle protection, load bearing structures and reinforcement of EV-MASS, that was a speed they could comfortably hit the ground at, on their feet and firing.
C&M Systems had promised that future versions of EV-MASS would be able to do both, without the lengthy reconfiguration, but that was still, sadly, for the future.
“Major?” An intel analyst grabbed him on the way past.
“What’s up?”
“We just got the recon sat footage of the AO.”
“Nice.” Powell examined it, and promptly made a disappointed sound through his teeth. “Urban environment. Well, that scuppers the close air… Arright, thanks.” He took the tablet and scrutinised his new map as he ambled back to the workspace he’d set up for himself about halfway down the cargo area, near the suit workstations.
He grabbed his radio. “Put me through to Colonel Munroe, please… Colonel. Major Powell here, sir.”
Munroe was USAFRICOM’s Air Liaison Officer to Egypt. To him fell the unenviable task of persuading the Egyptian authorities to acquiesce to whatever it was that the Combined Air Operations Center had decided. Given that the force of General Tremblay’s authority was fully behind this particular operation, Powell knew that Munroe’s job was probably much more entertainingly challenging than normal, today.
The relationship was made slightly difficult by the fact that Munroe lacked need-to-know both on DEEP RELIC and on the documentation concerning the SOR’s exact abilities and responsibilities, coded ‘SACRED STRANGER’. The man had literally no idea that he’d just been dragged into a war with aliens.
“Major, what can I do for you?”
“Update on operation EMPTY BELL for you, colonel. The AO is an urban zone, so CAS won’t be appropriate.”
“That’s good news.” the colonel declared. “The Egyptians aren’t happy about this at all, they’ve been threatening to revoke our permission… you still need the Raptor?”
“Yes, please.” Powell stressed
“Understood. I should be able to make them think they’ve talked me down to just that… heck, I’ll fly the dagburn thing myself if that’s what it takes to get the go-ahead.”
“Be my guest.” Powell told him. “It’ll be an interesting op if we need you.”
There was a chuckle on the line. “Thanks for the update, major. God speed.”
“Best o’ luck.”
Powell took a second to run his hand over his scalp - between naturally thin hair and the recent rise in his base testosterone levels brought on by Crue-D use, he seemed destined for a lifetime of baldness - and scrutinised the map some more.
Modern warfare was all about information, both the control and controlled sharing of it, and his connection to the men on the ground through this device was exemplified in the map program they were now using. They had all received the spysat data at the same time, and now Walsh was busily scrutinising the AO, making comments and drawing boxes and lines on it, as was Firth. Their comments appeared in pink and green respectively - Powell’s, when he began to enter his own contributions, appeared in white.
The conversation was naturally limited by the fact that they didn’t even know whether any kind of a battle would erupt, let alone the number, disposition, equipment or nature of their enemy. They were assuming the worst-case scenario: that the whole town was armed, hostile, and had close air support from an invisible UFO.
If he was being frank with himself, Powell could see no way in which that fight wouldn’t inevitably result in men being killed. Even with the two Protectors and himself slamming into the ground to join the fight wearing about the heaviest and most effective personal armor system mankind had ever produced…
He would have given his right arm to have the Defenders and Blaczynski available, but even if those four showed up in orbit at that very second, operations in EV-MASS were so intensive on energy that it just wasn’t feasible to throw them into a fight so soon after their mission to Perfection. Recovery after NOVA HOUND had taken nearly a full month.
He pushed the thought aside, and focused on coming up with the best plan he could, identifying lines of supply, lines of retreat, defensible positions, choke points and possible ambush sites.
He spared a quick glance at Warhorse, who was only just beginning the lengthy process of donning his undersuit. The young man was achieving the interesting trick of being simultaneously both poker-faced and visibly furious, which was a sight that would set any commander’s mind to calculating. Powell knew that he was either looking at the most fearsome weapon in his arsenal… or the worst liability. Here and now, there was no real way to know for certain.
There was nothing for it but to plan. If they were going to drop into a melee, it was damn well going to be a melee that danced to his tune.
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
Asyuit Desert Road, south of Cairo, Eastern Desert, Egypt, Earth.
Roy Vinther
Ava had spent most of the trip so far playing around with her beloved camera. Exactly what she was doing with it, Vinther neither knew nor cared to guess at. Every so often, she would raise it, take a picture out the window, and scrutinise the result. What it was that she was after was another mystery - as far as Vinther could tell, all there was to see out there was sand, dust and pebbles, a few sandy, dusty and pebbly little hills, and electrical pylons. The highway was straight, well-maintained, bordered on both sides by straight and well-maintained concrete barriers, and brain-achingly dull.
“Um… dumb question.” she asked, somewhere around about the hundred kilometer mark.
“Shoot.” Walsh asked.
“Nobody ever told me exactly where we’re going…?”
Walsh looked to Vinther, who waved a hand, inviting him to do the honours.
“The coordinates Six gave you are for a gold mine about fifty miles west of Marsa Alam.” he said.
“So that’s how they make their money." Ava deduced.
“Yup. Back in San Diego their cash cow was an accounting firm called JJG Financial Services .”
“I know that company!” Ava exclaimed. “They were Mama and Papa’s financial advisors!”
“Them and loads’a other affluent families from San Diego and LA.They were good at their job.” Walsh said. “Hell, they had to be: They were running a global conspiracy off the profits.”
“Guess gold mining’s just as good.” Vinther commented. “Hell, easier too. Who gives a shit about the customer experience of a rock?”
“Probably a step down actually.” Walsh said. “Gold mining ain’t all that profitable no more.”
“Are you shi-? It’s a literal fuckin’ gold mine!"
Walsh sniffed. “D’you know what gold’s measured in?” he asked.
“Nope.” Vinther conceded.
“Ounces.” Walsh told him. “Every other thing you might wanna dig up out the Earth - salt, coal, iron ore, whatever - they measure it in tonnes, but gold they measure by the ounce. An ounce of gold is about, uh, this big…." he held up his fingers shockingly close together. “…and the geosurvey figures there’s… oh, about six and a half million of those in the whole of the eastern desert.”
Vinther looked around. The eastern desert was defined as being all the vast, wide, sun-baked landscape between the Nile and the Red Sea. It was literally all they could see in every direction, and despite that they’d been driving for an hour they weren’t even a quarter of the way to their destination yet.
“That… ain’t a lot.” he decided.
“‘Bout seventy-five ounces per square mile on average.” Walsh said. “’Course it ain’t all evenly distributed and it ain’t all at the same depth, and it ain’t in neat ounce-sized nuggets… It’s all gold dust. They gotta bring up a big ol’ chunk’a bedrock, crush it, wash it, filter it and outta that they get gold dust they can melt together to make bullion. It’s time-consuming, labor- intensive, expensive work.”
“And with the Hephaestus LLC finding huge supplies of precious metals in the asteroid belt all the time nowadays…” Ava said “The price of gold’s declining hard.”
“Right.” Walsh agreed. “So yeah, this mine of theirs, if it’s really the big H who owns the place, probably turns a profit for ’em but those Cali accountants woulda been worth a lot more.”
Murray stirred. Vinther thought he’d been asleep, but he must have just been listening quietly with his eyes closed. “Where’d you learn all that?" he asked.
“Discovery Channel.” Walsh shrugged.
Murray and Ava both made the exact same noise simultaneously - an amused expulsion of air through the nose, and Vinther chuckled.
Walsh laughed with them and went back to tapping on his tablet, working on the map and the details of their plans.
“Uh…” Ava began again.
“What’s up?” Vinther asked her.
“…Are you guys… scared?”
“What of?” Vinther asked her.
“I dunno. That this could be a trap, or… that it could all go wrong?”
It was Walsh’s turn to indicate to Vinther to take the lead on this one.
Vinther shrugged. “…Are you?” he asked.
“Yeah.” she admitted.
Vinther nodded sympathetically. “Good. Means you ain’t crazy.” He scratched the inside of his ear, thinking. “But being scared’s… I think of it like a coat of primer, right? It happens before you start the painting, and it sure ain’t no fun, but it gets you ready. Ready to kick ass, ready to keep your head the fuck down, whatever. Once you’re in the thick of it, you ain’t got time to be scared.”
“The oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” Murray interjected. He shrugged when they all looked at him. “H. P. Lovecraft.”
“Dude got that right.” Walsh agreed.
“How do you cope with it?” Ava asked.
“You piss yourself yet?” Vinther asked her.
She blinked. “Uh… No…?”
Vinther glanced at the GPS, and sighed inwardly to himself: There were still far too many miles to go. “Then you’re doin’ just about as well as I am.”
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
Byron Group campus, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Moses Byron
“Kevin! How’s the nose?”
In person, Kevin Jenkins’ nose really was an impressive sight. While it looked set to heal straight and clean, the bruising and discoloration covered a lot of his face. Xiu Chang, it seemed, had an impressive arm on her.
Kevin threw himself into a chair. “You had to ask. Worth it, though.”
“Hopefully. ” Byron agreed. “They still need to clear the selection and training.”
Kevin gave him a curious look. “I thought the whole point in sendin’ me up there was because we’re headhunting those three, boss man?” he asked.
“Mocktail?” Byron offered. Kevin had figured out his booze trick, so the offer was a simple courtesy.
“You askin’ me for one, or you offering?” Kevin joked.
“Offering.”
“Sure, sounds good.”
Byron nodded and hit his drink cabinet and refrigerator, selecting the cranberry juice, raspberry juice and lemon-lime. “D’you know how much profit the BGEV program has made us, Kevin?” he asked.
“Kinda figured it’s in the red.” Kevin replied.
“Yyyup.” Byron agreed. “Badly in the red. Badly badly badly. In fact, EV- Eleven’s our last throw of the dice."
“Crying shame.” Kevin mused. “But you can’t send good money after bad.”
“Your job ain’t to agree with me, Kevin.” Byron told him, smiling slightly. He poured the juice. “Quite the opposite.”
“Unless you’re right, boss man.” Kevin said.
“Well.” Byron unscrewed the lemon-lime’s cap. “Chang, Buehler and Etsicitty have got the experience and know-how, but if I’m gonna give them command over our last-ditch attempt to turn that program around, we need to know they make the grade. That ship ain’t leaving the good Earth until I’m completely happy that it’s got the best of the best on it."
“You were pretty damn rigorous with the selection for Ten, as I recall.” Kevin observed. Byron handed him his finished drink.
“And for all the other ones. Hell, Reclamation was the only one we rushed things on, and that for good reason." Byron sipped his drink, found it acceptable and sat down again. “But these three are gonna get the full room and board. Make or break, Kevin.”
“Make or break them, or make or break the mission?"
“Relax, they’ll be well taken care-of whether they make the cut or not. Talent like that, we’ll find a use for them. Just you wait and see.”
“Boss…” Kevin frowned at him. The man had an irritating knack for spotting unanswered questions.
“Fine, fine!” Byron sat down, called up the planned assessment and selection program and turned his monitor around for Kevin’s benefit.
Kevin read in silence for the most part. He only commented once. “Dang, the team dug up a lot on Buehler."
“Surprising, ain’t it?”
“She really doesn’t seem the type…”
“Turns out she’s full of secrets.”
“And you’re gonna hit her with them?”
Byron nodded. “Kevin, if things go to plan she’s going to be the flight engineer for a starship that’s worth… well, a heck of a lot. And she’ll be cooped up on that ship with the other two for a minimum of eighteen months. If she’s carrying any baggage, it needs to be dealt with before any of them ever lay eyes on Eleven’s hull.”
“Why?”
Byron frowned. “’Scuse me?”
“Why? She and the other two get on just fine. Hell, I think there’s some kind of triangle thing going on there. Why disrupt that by bringing old skeletons outta the closet?”
Byron rubbed his chin, assembling his thoughts. “We aren’t in the business of coddling three young pups in love, Kevin; we’re in the business of sending a spaceship out there that’ll turn a profit. That means forging a team who can steer her through whatever rough seas she finds in her way.” he said. “A team like that’s got to share everything, and I don’t just mean bath towels and body odor. Every doubt, every concern, every relevant bit of data, they all need to know it, and they all need to be able to work through it, together. No secrets, no lies, no omissions. They need to trust and accept one another completely and with every facet of their lives."
“Heck.” he added. “If they make the grade, we’ll have made them inseparable if that’s what they want. And if not, well, we’ll have helped them gain new insight into themselves and one another and left ’em a little wiser. No matter what happens, we’ll have done ’em a favor.”
“Tough love?” Kevin summarized, sarcastically.
“Kevin, it’s no business of ours if they spend every night of their mission ruttin’ like a Roman orgy. It IS our concern if they wind up hating each other four months in and thereby cost us our last shot at making the galaxy do something positive for mankind for a change."
Kevin knocked back his mocktail and frowned. “I wanna argue.” he confessed. “But for the life’a me, I can’t think of a good counter-argument.”
“If it helps, I’m not real happy about giving these kids a rough time either.” Byron conceded. “But if they’re as good as we think, they can take it.”
“Hmm…” Kevin nodded. “Oh yeah! Reminds me, I had plenty’a time to think on the drive down here, and I had an idea that might even help there.”
“Shoot.”
“These kids are gorgeous, boss. Movie-star good looks, fitness, intensity… I reckon we could build a whole advertising campaign around them."
“Like, what, a candid series on the kind of people we have workin’ for us?” Byron mused. “Plausible… I know Chang’s kind of a minor celebrity in Canada right now…”
“Just a thought.” Kevin shrugged. “And hell, maybe a photoshoot’d be a good little carrot, reward kinda thing. Boost their self-esteem after you bruise it.”
“I like it.” Byron agreed. “When are they coming down here, anyway?”
“HR said something about needin’ ten days or so to finish their ‘special accommodations’…”
“Right, yes.”
“So I gave them two weeks.” Kevin said. “Time to finish sorting out that country cottage of theirs and get things straightened out.”
“Good. That lines up with Ericson’s needs.” the EV program’s chief engineer had specified that there’d be a window between the two and three month marks when he’d need to discuss some matters with the crew.
“Excellent.” Kevin stood up. “Anything I need to look at?”
“Yeah, Ericson had a few toys he wanted to shove on Eleven. He’s not given up on giving it some kind of emergency recall yet - I said he should talk to you first. Last thing I need is another chat with the President about national and global security…” That part still rankled. It had been a chilling introduction to what real power looked like, and had galvanised his determination that BGEV-11 was going to be the success he’d always wanted for the EV program, if for no other reason than that it’d be nice to retire to his own private planet and get out from under the thumb of that power.
“Leave it to me.” Kevin promised. “Hell, the Supreme Allied Commander for Extrasolar Defence sends me Christmas cards. I’m sure we can figure out some kind of a recall system that won’t shaft us.”
“Yes, yes, brag about your network again…” Byron chuckled.
Kevin shared the laugh then headed for the door. “Back to the grind, then.” he declared.
“Kevin.” Byron gave him a nod as Kevin turned in the doorway. “Thank you.”
Kevin grinned, turned and went, flipping a jaunty salute over his shoulder as he did. “Just doin’ my job, boss man.”
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
Gold mine west of Marsa Alam, Egypt, Earth.
Six
Unlike a true digital sapient such as an Igraen, biodrones didn’t communicate in words and emotional context. They were drones in every sense of the word - automata, kept under strict control and obeying clearly programmed rules, even if the default context for all their programming was to simulate human appearance and behaviour as closely as possible.
But they weren’t humans any longer. They could, in an academic sense, interrogate the brain of the being from which they had been constructed and analyse which responses and emotions would have been appropriate in that context, and thereby do an extremely convincing impersonation of the person whose body they now wore, but the biodrone itself was little more than a control program.
To an Igraen’s senses therefore (insofar as the term ‘sense’ could be applied to the perception of purely digital data formats) the report that reached Six’s ‘ears’ was not like being told “they’re coming” or being called for by name.
It was more like a cold, mechanical status report - <+Priority2:Perimete rAlert:bExpected=true:refIndividualOfInterest=47,probable94%+>
There was a human gesture that Six had picked up and rather enjoyed - dusting his hands off. He did it now as he stepped out of the foreman’s office and took stock.
The mine was running more smoothly than any human endeavor ever could, thanks to the fact that every single one of the adults was now a biodrone. Whereas previously there would have been pay disputes, arguments, discussions over the most effective course of action and other such inefficiencies, a network of biodrones all directly sharing one another’s knowledge and intelligence on the subject could work tirelessly all day and far more effectively.
The children were the only minor complication - their underdeveloped neural structures weren’t suitable for biodroning, and Six’s projections suggested that if he just had the useless things exterminated, the biodrones would be forced to emulate the histrionic behaviour of bereaved parents in order to keep up their convincing facade. Plausible for one or two children - fatal to the secrecy of the operation in larger numbers. There would be too many questions.
Besides, there was always the probability that humans were not completely rational when it came to children. They might overlook a village full of biodroned adults for the sake of peace and their species’ future longevity, but a dozen dead younglings? Not if the example set on Cimbrean was any indication.
The children, therefore, were tolerated and even given a simulation of the family relationship they’d always had. Still… somehow they seemed to know that something was not right with their parents: They watched the adults warily, and Six most warily of all.
One was staring at him now - a hip-high creature that regarded him with wide- eyed intensity while sucking on its hand, uncaring of the noxious fluid that oozed from one of its nostrils. Barefoot, neglected and dirty as it was, he couldn’t even identify the brat’s gender.
Six made a threatening surge at the little one and it scarpered, but he noted that it didn’t go far. The child only dashed away as far as the corner of the heavy machinery shed and lurked there, observing him less like he was an object of fear, and more like he was a puzzle in need of a solution. Even human children came equipped with sharp predatory instincts, it seemed.
No matter. He raised his binoculars and aimed them toward the highway.
In the distance, two SUVs were picking their way up the dirt branch road. With the approaching sunset turning the corners of the sky an unsightly shade of bruised mauve, they’d lit their headlamps and were visible as two pools of light, given the deceptive appearance of slowness by distance.
The access road was a few miles long and there was plenty of time to shut down the mining operation and bring the biodrones all back into the village. Indeed, the process began the second Six even conceived of it. By the time the vehicles were a mere half-mile away, all of the biodrones were back in the village and pretending to be human. The fact that each one of them had immediate access to a weapon was nothing more than insurance - Six had no plans on starting a fight, but that was no excuse for laziness.
Human technology had come a long way during his years on Earth, and these SUVs were just another indicator of that. Gone were the stinking fossil-fueled roaring engines: In their place was a quiet, clean electric drive train powered by a forcefield array that could drink down the Egyptian desert’s abundant sunlight with better than 95% efficiency if needed, and which could store enough power for a five hundred kilometer voyage even in pitch darkness… or provide all the power and torque that a vehicle might need for shorter, more intense bursts of activity.
He awarded himself a victory as the cars pulled up outside the foreman’s office and a total of seven people alighted. Three were men of average size but in fit condition, all lean and hard and intense, and this included the one who was immediately identifiable as the leader, a tanned man with Germanic facial features and salt-and-pepper hair.
Behind them was a very large man, blond of hair and beard and wearing aviator shades. Big as he was, he was still smaller than the enormous man who got out of the car behind him, and even that one was dwarfed by the mountain who squeezed out of the rear car, draped in the most disgustingly colorful shirt that Six had ever even heard of.
Next to the six males, the young woman who got out of the car last was almost unimpressive. Where they were regarding him and their surroundings with neutral, calculating watchfulness that promised the immediate and skilful application of violence should things go wrong, she was more like the child: Wide-eyed and cautious, watching him to see what he might do next. She did, however, tap the greying leader on the arm and mutter “That’s him.”
Six spread his arms and played the part of a jovial host with a smile. “Welcome! Thank you for coming!” he announced.
The soldiers - and if two or maybe three of them weren’t SOR, Six didn’t know what else they might be - exchanged the rapid almost-hive-mind communication that humans seemed to never notice they did simply by looking at one another, and dispersed, walking calmly and slowly but firmly away until only the leader and the girl were left by the vehicles.
“We’d have preferred,” the leader said, “a meeting between yourself and a trained negotiator.”
“And yet here you are.” Six replied. “Which makes me wonder why you’re accommodating my request, mister, ah…?”
“You can call me Barkeep.” he said. “I don’t make the decisions, I simply pass on the message.”
Six nodded. “And what can I call you?” he asked the young woman. “I would like to know your real name, but I won’t be offended if you use a nickname instead."
She glanced at ‘barkeep’, who nodded encouragement. “…You can call me Ash.”
“Short for Ashley?” Six asked. She did a commendable job of giving away nothing. “Or a reference to… hmm. No matter. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting. I’m sure you and I can both answer some very interesting questions for each other.”
“I’m sure we can.” Ash replied, and there was a definite spark of dislike in her expression now.
“Mister Barkeep, if we might, I would like to have my conversation with miss Ash here in private. That office there, if I may. Don’t worry about surveilling us, I’m sure you will and I welcome it, but a little privacy as a courtesy…?”
It was interesting that this time ‘Barkeep’ deferred to Ash who swallowed, nodded, and stepped forward.
Six played the part of the perfect gentleman and held the door for her.
It wasn’t much of a door. It wasn’t much of an office. But, it had air conditioning which was a blessing both for warding off the grinding heat of the day and the surprising chill of night time.
Uninvited, Ash sat down. Six’s Interrogation of his host body’s memories on human social etiquette yielded no useful information: as far as the man who had once owned Six’s body would have been concerned, the cultural differences were so pronounced that Ash may as well be a different species of human altogether.
He settled for sitting down at a cautious distance. “Would you like something to drink?” He offered. “I have water, coffee…”
Ash shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“As you wish. To business then. How much were you told about me? About who I’m with?”
Ash shifted in her seat, thinking. “They told me… to be very careful with what they told me.” she said. “Not to talk about it with the wrong people.”
“And who are the wrong people?" Six asked her, smiling. She’d struck the perfect blend of evasiveness and honesty.
“Anybody who can’t prove that they already know it.” Ash replied.
“And how will they know that you know it?" Six asked. Ash didn’t reply. “Well. Let me tell you what I think you’ve been told. You have been told that I am a member of an organisation known as the Hierarchy. We are a long- standing order spanning the recent several hundred thousands of Terran years of galactic history, and our mandate is to prevent the spread of deathworld life forms. Does any of that sound familiar?”
“It sounds like a version that paints you as the good guys.” Ash told him.
Six smirked at that. “Yes, I imagine the summary you were given was not so charitable.” he agreed. “I imagine the word ‘genocide’ was used, possibly words like ‘atrocity’ or ‘extinction’ hmm?”
“They said you’re personally responsible for overseeing several of them.” Ash didn’t bother with disguising her contempt.
“And humanity would have been among them.” Six agreed. “And this is where you enter my story. A sporting event in San Diego, several years ago now. Roller derby?"
Ash didn’t reply, so Six retreated from that topic for now.
“Do you have any idea why an organisation like mine might exist?" he asked instead. “Why we might do the things we do?”
“You tell me.” She challenged him, flatly.
“Why else does anybody do awful things? Because they believe that the positive outcomes will outweigh the negatives..”
Ash had a quirk of body language, he noted. She wasn’t looking directly at him. Her eye contact never wavered, but her nose wasn’t aimed at him and nor were her shoulders. It was a watchful, careful posture, but as she ran one hand up the other arm it also became a defensive one. She returned her hands to being folded in her lap quickly enough, but she’d already given away a nerve that had been struck. Very interesting.
“You’re talking about trillions of deaths.” she said. “What kind of negative outcome is worse?”
“Well, not trillions personally." Six demurred. “A hundred billion maybe. let’s call it that: a round hundred billion. What would be worse than that? How about a hundred billion and one? ”
“Oh come on-!” she began.
“I am deadly serious. If events were transpiring that would inevitably lead to a fatal clash between two cultures that could only end in the extinction of one and the mauling of another, the ethical thing to do is to minimize the bloodshed. Does that not seem reasonable?”
The defensive body language returned as Ash’s left hand crept halfway up her right forearm. A ‘yes’ to which she would not admit, if Six was any judge.
“So. One group must be made unwilling or incapable of fighting. Which group? Well, logically, the one which can be broken with the least bloodshed. Reasonable?”
Still no answer, and so he pressed ahead. “And now comes the problem. Neither group can peacefully coexist: It is impossible by their respective natures. One must be eliminated, erased, made to simply no longer exist. On the one hand is a society of a hundred billion life forms. On the other, a hundred billion and one. From your neutral perspective, there is no important distinction between them save for that single integer difference in their population."
“And you’re omniscient enough to spot that single integer.” She poisoned the sentence with as much sarcastic bile as she could summon.
“An exaggeration for illustrative purpose.” Six waved a hand dismissively. “Let us go with a more realistic difference of scale: A hundred billion versus a mere, oh… seven and a half billion? Or, less believably perhaps but I promise completely true to life: A hundred trillion versus a mere seven and a half billion. What then?”
“Oh come on!” Ash’s defensive body language evaporated. She leaned forward, straightened up, frowned. “That’s… what is that, a hundred thousand to one? How is the smaller group EVER going to be a threat?”
“Time and multiplication if nothing else.” Six replied. “But of course… I am discussing Deathworlders. A form of life which ably demonstrates time and again that the win does not automatically go to the faction with the numerical advantage.”
“So why are you talking to me?” She asked.
Six gave her his best grim smile. “Because you’ve already won.”
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
Gold mine west of Marsa Alam, Egypt, Earth.
Roy Vinther
“Dammit, the way they stare is really startin’ to get to me.”
Coombes was patrolling the perimeter around the vehicles. He wasn’t obviously armed - none of them were obviously armed - but he was armed, and he, Pavlo and Murray had taken to orbiting the open space near the foreman’s office where their cars were parked, keeping an eye out for trouble.
Vinther and Firth were lurking at the cars to protect them, and Walsh was busy being the Intel Weenie, keeping them fed with information and connected to the chain of command.
“Be cool, BOUNCER.” Vinther muttered.
“Fuck that, I’m salty like a fuckin’ margarita glass.” Coombes replied. “Fer cryin’ out loud, they biodroned the whole goddamn village, BARKEEP.”
“And they’ll pay for it.” Vinther promised. “We’ll see to that. But right now we got a different job. You hear me?”
“I hear ya.” Coombes grumbled. Vinther saw him pause and study a nearby ‘villager’, which watched him with a completely dispassionate expression. Vinther saw him shudder and move on.
“Worst part is.” Walsh commented. “I reckon you’re wrong there, Barkeep.”
“How so?” Vinther asked him.
“That motherfucker in there’s… I think the term we’re using is ‘digital sapient’." Walsh said. “He ain’t an artificial intelligence, he’s a sapient being whose whole existence is as data. If we bust in there right now and smoke his ass, he’ll be walkin’ around as someone else, somewhere else, pretty much right away. And if we do somehow take him out, they restore from backup. I don’t see a way to make him pay, and even if we could… You can only execute somebody the one time. Ain’t no way Six is ever gonna see a punishment fit for his crime."
“We could make it hurt.” Firth rumbled. He nodded toward the heavy equipment shed, and Vinther turned just in time to spot a tiny, grimy face duck out of sight. “There’s kids here, DB."
“They’ve not been ’droned.” Walsh observed. “Guess they’re too young.”
“They ain’t being looked after, neither.”
“We’ll sort that out.” Vinther promised them. “This won’t fuckin’ stand.”
“That’s kinda the problem, boss.” Walsh told him. “It will. And there ain’t a damn thing we can do about it.”
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
Gold mine west of Marsa Alam, Egypt, Earth.
Six
“What do you mean, ‘We’ve already won’? When? How?"
Six stood up and glanced through the half-closed blinds at the men who had escorted Ash to him. “Six and a half years ago.” he said. “When you and I first met, though of course I was wearing a different body, then. White, bearded, surgically altered to be as statistically average in height and appearance as we could manage…”
“Mr. Johnson.” Ash frowned. “You were gonna shoot up the roller derby.”
“Well, I had no weapon. No, the shooting was to be done by another, I was purely there to… observe, to see what would happen. To, ah, ‘poke the hornet’s nest’ as I said at the time and oh yes, I was stung." Six said. “Even after extensive and detailed review of my memories of the event I had no conclusive evidence to help me determine how I was detected. I had suspicions of course - more sophisticated facial recognition algorithms than I had bargained for, law enforcement being closer behind me than I had anticipated… even a young couple taking a picture which would apparently by happenstance include me, and uploading it to the Internet.”
“It wasn’t until I reviewed the memories of the agent responsible for a failed operation on Cimbrean that I detected a correlation. It wasn’t until you and I crossed paths at Cairo Airport that I deduced some kind of causal relationship.” He finished. “And now I think I’ve spoken enough. I want to know the nature of that relationship. Who are you? How did you know who I was? How did you survive the city’s destruction? Why were you on Cimbrean, and why are you here now?"
Ash gave him a long, cold stare. “And if I tell you?” she asked.
“Then I will explain in full what my plan is, my reasoning, and what your species can do to help me help you.”
“Do I have to tell you my real name?”
“You don’t. If you want to be Ash, then Ash you shall be. Really, that’s an unimportant detail. Believe me, after this conversation is over I will already have everything I can usefully extract from you, no matter what you say.”
She frowned at that, clearly trying to figure out his meaning then took a deep breath and composed her story.
“I was born in San Diego.” she said. “My parents were… well, they were well off. Papa was an attorney, Mama was a gynaecologist, they had a lot of money. They sent me to public school anyway, they said it was better for me to learn how everyone had it, not just people with money. That’s where I met… well, my boyfriend. We were on our first date at that roller derby.”
“How did you recognise me?” Six asked.
Ash thought hard. “…I don’t know how much I can or should tell you.” she replied.
“Ah, so there’s a secret involved. A secret to do with this boyfriend of yours perhaps?”
“There’s a secret.” Ash agreed, giving away exactly nothing. “One that I think I’m… not going to share."
“A pity.” Six said. “May I ask why?”
“Loyalty.” Ash replied. She really was delightfully impenetrable. “The possible consequences, personally and for all mankind. Take your pick.”
“Very well. What will you tell me?"
“I’ll tell you how I survived the blast.” She offered.
“Hmm, yes. Surviving a five kilogram antimatter strike. Impressive.” Six enthused. “Were you forewarned? Evacuated?”
“No.”
“How, then?”
“I was on vacation.”
Six couldn’t stop his body’s automatic reflex to frown. “…Vacation.”
“Florida. Orlando. My boyfriend’s father invited me along.” She smiled for him. “It was luck. If the blast had happened a week earlier or a week later…”
“Luck?!”
“Pure luck.” Ash nodded.
“Out of ALL the people in that city,” Six growled, “you expect me to believe that the same people who identified me and facilitated my capture, purely by chance were also among the tiny handful who survived? Do you have any idea what the odds against that are?"
Ash just shrugged, still revealing nothing whatsoever. “How much?”
“One in several hundred billion.” Six told her. “And yet you seem frustratingly sincere! Which means that you are either the very best liar I have encountered in all my life, or else that you are unaware of some causal link between those events.”
“And what might that link be?” Ash asked.
“That is what I had hoped to glean from you!” Six snapped. “The starport! Folctha! Was that coincidence also? Do not tell me that it was! The universe does not work that way!!"
“If you keep shouting, the armed men outside are going to come in here and rescue me.” Ash pointed out.
Six inhaled fiercely and willed himself to calm. “It’s this secret, isn’t it? The one you won’t discuss. One you won’t trust me with.”
“Why should I?” Ash shot back. “You just told me that you were here on Earth to try and kill us all.”
“Name your price.” Six told her, tiring of dancing around the subject.
“Okay…” Ash put a thoughtful hand to her mouth. “What I don’t get is how you’re acting like this is an itch you’ve just gotta scratch, but on the other hand it’s like you want to tell me everything. Which is it?"
“Both.” Six answered, truthfully.
“Yeah? So what’s so important?” she asked. “What’s in it for you to help us?”
“Is that your price?”
“My price is that if we’re gonna share our secrets, you have to earn it. You first.”
Six scowled at her. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“I have no reason to trust you. Sucks to be told that, doesn’t it? But it’s true.” She replied. “That’s my price. You tell me what we need to know, you tell me why you’re doing this, then I tell you what I think that link you’re after is."
“A very hard bargain."
She folded her arms. This time it wasn’t a defensive gesture, but a defiant and confident one. “Deal or no deal?”
Six tried to match her for ferocious glare, but failed. Humans were just naturally better at that. “…Very well.” He said, conceding defeat. “You have a deal.”
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
C-17 Globemaster, somewhere over the north Atlantic, Earth.
Major Owen Powell
The funny thing about EV-MASS was that it was hell to put on and take off, but once you were in it, the vise-like pressure that had once been the bane of the SOR’s life as they acclimated and conditioned to it now felt like a familiar, full-body hug that added a kind of solidity to every movement. The thing was awkward and heavy as sin right up until the moment when it was properly seated, sealed and supported, at which point the wearer was made to feel strong.
Powell rolled his shoulders and shimmied to make certain that it was definitely seated before the midsuit’s internal layer had time to expand in response to his body heat and clamp down fully. “That didn’t take as long.” he observed.
Airman Thorpe, one of his suit techs, grinned. “We gave you an extra millimeter of clearance in the shoulder, sir.”
“Is that all? I’ll never speak ill of a single millimeter again.” Powell shook his shoulders. Getting his head and arms up through the torso section had definitely been easier. That was what suit techs were for, of course - their whole job revolved around keeping the EV-MASS in perfect working order, and constantly fine-tuning and adjusting it to the needs of its operator.
“No need for a seal or life support check today, either,” his other tech, Corporal Brown added.
“Oh, aye. Don’t need to worry about suit breaches today, just about plunging towards Africa at a couple hundred miles an hour wi’ no parachute.” Powell nodded. All three of them chuckled.
“Alright… Let’s get the bloody water in.” Powell turned and presented the water ports on his lower back. Thorpe promptly connected the input line.
“I know I ask this every time.,” Powell commented, as the pump whined into life and he felt his undersuit stiffen and tighten in response to the tepid liquid that filled it out, “but is it really bloody necessary to use cold water?"
“And like I tell you every time sir,” Brown smiled, “yes it is.”
As Brown monitored the water pressure, Thorpe set about fitting the outersuit. This was the part that was different for every SOR man - from the industrial load-carrying gear and supplemental armor plating that was a Protector’s burden, a Defender’s accessible toolkit, or just the lightweight bare-bones that Aggressors needed to keep them ready to kill at an instant’s notice, that was the outersuit.
Powell’s outersuit was dominated by a sensor and communications package which turned him into a walking intelligence-gathering system to give any modern UAV a run for its money and then some. Supplemental superbatteries compensated for the expanded sensor package’s power demands, and the communications equipment turned his EV-MASS into the nexus of a web of data.
The system wasn’t going to be quite as effective today as it had the potential to be - under normal operation, the suit benefited from the real-time analytics offered by the computer banks aboard HMS Caledonia, without which the flow of information was less intelligently controlled and interpreted, but it wasn’t like he’d be blind. Far from it. Walsh’s pet UAV was a constant trickle of data, as were recon satellites, localized collection, Link-16 sensor integration from the substantial airborne assets in play to support the mission…
It all formed a sphere of tangible data, into which Powell’s suit and Powell himself neatly fit, reaping its benefits and feeding new data back in.
For now, things were quiescent. No status alerts, no zone conflicts, everything they had managed to persuade the Egyptians to allow was on standby and ready to pounce if needed… Everything, it seemed, was going well.
Maybe it was just the cold water making him irritable and antsy, but Powell was a firm believer that things never went well.
It was only a matter of time.
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
Gold mine west of Marsa Alam, Egypt, Earth.
Six
“So, the question as asked is two questions: Why am I helping you, and what do you need to know?”
It was now definitely going dark outside. The sky was purple from end to end and Ash’s guards and escorts were barely visible as they waited and patrolled. Six turned away from the window and leaned against the desk to talk to her.
“The answer to the first part is that I am not helping you. I am helping my own people. It so happens that the best approach for helping them is to help your people."
“How so?”
“How familiar are you with entropy?”
The apparent non-sequitur made her pause, but Ash took it in stride. “Thermodynamics. The inevitable progress of a closed system towards its lowest-energy state.”
“Good, you have an education. What about virtual particles?”
“Look, I only did high school science. What’s your point?”
“A virtual particle is literally that - a particle that has only a virtual existence as a solution to and consequence of the equations describing quantum mechanics. They are modelled as pairs of particles popping into existence simultaneously, meeting, annihilating, and vanishing with no net change to the energy-state of the universe.”
Ash folded her arms, waiting with commendable patience, but her expression was a clear warning that he should explain himself sooner rather than alter.
Six smiled. “Virtual particles do two things: They permit black holes to evaporate through radiation, and they provide a neat answer to a question every sapient species has ever asked - the origin of the universe. You see, if a virtual, unreal, simulated particle can still produce real tangible effects and yet accurately be said never to have truly existed at all… Then so can the universe. If the energy state of the universe will eventually decay to zero - if it is ‘flat’ to use the human cosmological parlance - then it will have, in a big-picture sense, never existed at all." He spread his hands. “And any universe you happen to encounter in your travels is nothing more than a temporary local anomaly.”
“That sounds completely crazy.” Ash objected.
“Yes. The problem with living in the universe is that it is terrible preparation for thinking about the universe.” Six agreed. “But there you have it. Why does the universe exist? Answer: It doesn’t.”
Ash stared at him and then, quite deliberately, she reached out and knocked on the desk. It made a solid, wooden sound.
“Yes, yes, yes, you’re not listening.” Six told her. “The point is that all of this is virtual, an emergent product of an equation that is still being worked through. Eventually, all of it will be gone and so will we, and nothing will remain. Spacetime and all its energy and matter will be gone as if they never were, because they weren’t."
“We live,” he expanded, getting into his stride, “in a mockery of a reality, one that’s infinitely less real than the worlds we build inside our minds, one with no meaning, no purpose, no fate and no hope except whatever we can create for ourselves. All of us are trapped in a cruel game that allows only defeat. The only endgame is to live a little longer: the only winning move is to keep playing."
“And your point is?" Ash insisted.
“That any threat which would knock you out of the game must be neutralized. That any advantage that will keep you in the game must be seized. And for the first time in the Hierarchy’s history, the first strategy has not worked. I was captured. I was interrogated. I was beaten. Me."
He stalked across the office and composed himself. “And your people opened my eyes. In deep time, whatever is possible is inevitable. Whatever happens once, can happen a second time.”
He turned back. “Our whole strategy this entire time has been fundamentally wrong. All it takes is one deathworld species to slip through our net, and we have failed. Our destruction at that point is inevitable."
“Why?” Ash asked. “Why is it inevitable that you would be destroyed?"
“Ask the Dodo. Or the West African Black Rhinoceros. The California Golden Bear, the Great Panda, the Thylacine, the Pyrenean Ibex, the Baiji Dolphin. And those are all deathworld species, and a tiny fraction of the list of species dead at the hands of your own just on this planet! Ask every native life form of the planet Cimbrean! Deathworlders. Equal. Death." He stabbed a finger at her three times to punctuate each word.
“Then why are you helping us?" She retorted.
“…When I was captured, my interrogation was… gentle.” Six told her. “My guards and minders were polite and restrained, my interviewers were charming and sympathetic, the rules were laid out clearly and obviously, and were followed. No beatings, no torture, no verbal abuse, nothing more than the most necessary of indignities. When I co-operated I was rewarded with privileges, when I resisted the treats I had earned were taken away. It was methodical, thorough, and completely civilized. It has made me… trust you. A trust that has proven justified several times since.”
“So?”
“So even if we destroy you, our next inevitable containment failure might release a species not remotely so civilized and trustworthy.” Six told her. “That restraint is the only thing I have which resembles a guarantee for the long-term survival of the Igraens. I regret having to cut loose every other species in the galaxy… but that is the way it must be. The time of the deathworlders has come.”
“‘Cut loose?’ Is it really that bad?" Ash asked.
Six laughed, composed a scenario in his head, and detailed it. “Imagine: You are a thriving, proud civilization. Gleaming cities, global communications technology, art and culture and sports and a thriving economy. And one day, your oh-so-clever scientists discover the means by which a ship might have an apparent linear velocity greater than the speed of causality. You launch your first warp ship, your Pandora, and bask in your own accomplishments…. until the aliens arrive."
“These aliens are monsters. True monsters, far worse than any fanged, acid- blooded animal your cinema industry ever devised. And they are monsters because what greets you, smiling politely and eager to make your acquaintance, are your superiors. Faster, tougher, stronger. More cunning, more inventive, more intuitive and more logical. Their art and music redefines everything you thought culturally possible, their philosophy explores fields of thought of which you had never even conceived. They are all but impervious to your weapons, their very breath carries plagues that could eviscerate your population, and their military doctrine operates several levels above your own. In every conceivable way, they are better than you and you will never, ever become their equal in even one capacity, let alone in all regards."
He sighed. “More galling still? Is that they are even your ethical superiors. They do not gloat, or exploit their superiority. They do not enslave you, but instead welcome you as the equals you are not. They give you a place at their table that you do not deserve, listen to your pathetic attempts at having opinions and treat them with a seriousness they do not warrant. Every time they smile at you and treat you as their friend, they demonstrate yet again just how hopelessly inadequate you really are…. And the very, very worst part of all, will be that they are completely sincere."
Ash frowned, and looked down, thinking.
“Do you think humanity would survive a culture shock like that?” Six asked.
She didn’t reply, and he nodded, satisfied.
“That,” he told her, “Is what the future looks like now.”
Darcy
“Wow… either Six is deeply insecure, or his whole species is.”
Darcy nodded. The conversation was providing illuminating insights into both Six and Ava Rios. The former was the much more studied subject of course, but if the monologue they were hearing was anything to go by he’d been in a decidedly subdued mood throughout his prior detainment.
Ava was feigning impatience but also letting him rant, thereby drawing out all kinds of useful psychological information. For a young and untrained civilian, she was doing a damn decent job.
“Appealing to his ego was always the most effective technique during his interrogation.” Darcy pointed out.
“Hmm. A big ego that we punctured? Or a big ego to cover for deeper insecurities?”
“Why not both?”
“The question is, whether he’s typical of Igraens…?”
“We have a sample size of one guy. That’s not enough to draw any solid conclusions.”
“I don’t know. His rationalisation for genocide sounded… dogmatic to me.”
“A rote response? The Hierarchy party line?”
“He hasn’t abandoned his species entirely. It stands to reason that he’s still mostly drinking the Kool-Aid.”
“Assuming that he’s not lying so we hear what he thinks we want to hear.”
“If so, he’s become a much better liar over the last six years.”
“I don’t think he’s lying.”
“Agreed. But if he’s not, then his claim that… what did he say…? ‘After this conversation is over I will already have everything I can usefully extract from you, no matter what you say.’ That bothers me."
“Mind games?”
“I don’t think so. I think his ego’s at play again. I think he’s hinting at something he’s done, or is doing or will do, that he believes won’t be figured out, at least not soon enough to make a difference. Superiority behavior.”
Darcy grimaced. “The problem is,” she observed, “that he’s probably right.”
Six
Ash, it seemed, had finally heard enough. “What do you need us to do?” she asked.
“I have converted a Cabal of my fellows who agree with my reasoning - if the Hierarchy endures, it will lead inevitably to the death of the Igraen people. They will force that conflict, and they will lose.” Six replied. “We have a plan, but we lack certain critical information.”
“Such as?”
“On the rare occasions when the Hierarchy deem that a crisis has reached the point where the authority of the low numbers such as myself is insufficient, we compile a gestalt intelligence identified as ‘One’." he told her. "One uses the combined perspective and intelligence of every Igraen on the network to draw conclusions and to decide the collective will of our species. It is an entity of formidable intelligence, but it is also inherently democratic rather than logical. Dissenting opinions are heard, but it is the majority opinion that matters."
“So?”
“We intend to commit electoral fraud.”
“How?”
"One may be a digital sapient, but - speaking as a digital sapient - we are still vulnerable to being ‘hacked’ - indeed, I’ve done it myself. A fellow agent called Seven was the one who rescued me from my captivity, and his reward was that I hollowed him out and slithered into his mind, in much the same way as I did to this biodrone."
She gave him a sickened look. “Why?”
“Seven would have been my most competent adversary: His destruction was necessary. Instead, armed with his knowledge and authority, I have been able to build and protect the Cabal. One is, in theory, vulnerable to the exact same."
“In theory.” She repeated, voice dripping with sarcasm and contempt.
“Better protected.” Six explained, letting the attitude slide. “But there is no such thing as a secure system. One is hardened, supremely so, but it is still attackable, penetrable, compromisable."
“So why do you need humans?” Ash asked, clearly getting tired of repeating herself.
“Because the most important part of _One’_s protection is that no member of the Hierarchy knows where its physical layer is.” Six explained. “And doing what we intend to do will require us to access the physical medium that stores the seed algorithms from which it is compiled, and effect alterations.”
Ash’s lips parted in batant incredulity. “How in the - do you have any idea where it is?"
“Somewhere in this galaxy.”
She stared at him some more, then shook her head. “Now, I’ma give you another shot at that.” she said. “Try giving me a useful answer this time."
“That is the only answer I have. Somewhere in this galaxy.”
“Weren’t you lecturing me on physics a while back?" She asked. “You’ve got to know how big the galaxy is!"
“Rather more clearly than you do, I suspect.” Six agreed. “Fortunately, while I don’t know where the systems that house One itself are, I do know the coordinates for a routing station in the Irujzen Reef… I believe human astronomy refers to the volume as the Sagittarius Star Cloud, or Messier 24."
He produced a slightly old-fashioned USB drive from his pocket with a flourish and offered it to her. “Galactic volume, star, planet, and co-ordinates on said planet. It’s a class eleven, one of our… historical cases. Heavier surface gravity than Earth, and the atmosphere is warmer, denser, moister and richer in oxygen.”
“You mean you killed the people who used to live there.” Ash accused.
“Yes. My first such in a supervisory role. They called themselves the Miorz. Unpleasant creatures - Deeply tribal, very warlike, fond of slavery. Their coming-of-age ritual involved a one-on-one fight to the death, and if the winner was too badly injured they were promptly sacrificed. You should have seen their greedy little eyes light up - all five of them - when they learned how to split the atom: By the time the last bomb fell, we barely even needed to send in the Abrogators."
He smiled at her shocked expression. “I’m sorry, did you imagine that all Deathworlders are pleasant and civilized? Some of the things we’ve killed needed killing or they would have been a worse plague than the Hunters. There’s a reason I’m pinning my hopes on humanity. When I listed all those species humans have wiped out, you seemed uncomfortable - The Miorz would have laughed and bragged about it."
Ash took the drive, still giving him a wary dark look. “And this routing station will lead us to One." She said.
“More likely it will lead you to another routing station. And that routing station may well lead you to another routing station. It is a vast network. But, there can only be a finite number of steps to the hub.”
“And how will we contact you to organise all of this?” Ash asked.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Six told her. “I’ve already made all the arrangements.”
Roy Vinther
“Hey, Barkeep…”
“Yeah?”
Walsh looked up from his tablet. His expression was grim. “The drone’s tracking a convoy coming in…”
Six
“What the hell do you mean you’ve ‘made arrangements’? Like what?"
“Nope. My turn to ask the questions.” Six denied her.
“But-!”
“You don’t need to know. In fact it’s much better if you don’t.” He told her, truthfully. “My turn. Tell me the link. Tell me the relationship between events that led you here.”
Ash hesitated, and Six gritted his teeth. In truth, he’d got everything he needed, but it would be torturously irritating to leave this particular itch un-scratched.
“The link is a woman named Terri Boone.” Ash revealed, eventually.
“I know of her. A relative?”
“My… adoptive father investigated her death.”
A cascade of data points connected themselves, and Six relaxed with a happy sigh. The laws of probability and causality were vindicated. The chain of events as he could see it now was tangled, yes, but no less probable than any other sequence involving the lives of dozens of people.
“…Then that would make you…” Her expression hardened, and he decided that it would be more fun to leave her guessing. “Hmm. Thank you for your honest answer, ‘Ash’."
She stood. “Are we done here?”
<+Priority1:PerimeterAlert:bExpected=False:refIndividualOfInterest=InsufficientData+>
Six hesitated, then nodded. “You know, I believe we are.”
She gave him a murderously cold glare, and pushed past him. she opened the door in the surprised face of ‘Barkeep’, who had been about to knock.
The two blinked at one another.
“You done?” he asked.
“We’re done.”
“Good, ‘cause we got incoming.” He raised a small device, and ’Ash’ presented her cranium to him. Some kind of ultrasonic scanner, if Six was any judge. It produced a happy ping and a green light, and Barkeep issued a satisfied grunt.
“Incoming?” She asked, looking past him to stare warily at the ribbon of light coming off the highway and up the access road.
Barkeep took the opportunity to conspiratorially whisper a question to her. Six turned up the gain on his auditory cybernetics and listened in.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Just talking to that creepy fuck gave me a headache." She murmured back. “But I’m fine. Thanks.”
Barkeep turned to Six. “They with you?”
Six shook his head. “They are not. I suspect the Hierarchy has found us.”
He stepped back into the office and produced a revolver and several speed- loaders from a desk drawer. “If I were you, I would call in whatever reinforcements you have.”
Owen Powell
“STAINLESS, DRINKIN’ BUDDY, we’ve got probable BIG HOTEL rolling up on us. ASH is in hand with vital data, overland egress is not plausible. Requesting support, over.”
Powell spat a curse. For a few bright and hopeful moments there, he’d started to entertain the idea that they might make it through this thing without anything going wrong. He waved a hand furiously to grab Thorpe’s attention.
“Copy DB, we’re almost ready. ETA,” he glanced at Thorpe who held up three fingers. “Three minutes?” The suits were just beginning to settle on the men and they needed to be fully seated before they deployed. The loadmaster, overhearing the conversation on the party line, shook his head and flashed both his hands twice. “Scratch. Aircrew thinks up to twenty.” Another gesture informed him of the reason. “We need to re-circle our orbit to get into position. Fook.”
The wait on the line was a grim one. When Walsh replied, he sounded like a man who’d just been swearing violently. “…Understood, STAINLESS. Out.”
Powell sprang to his feet and shook the deck as he approached the loadmaster with a purpose. Loadmasters were a hardy breed who regularly dealt with the angriest and most violently-inclined Army personnel on drops and exercises, but this one still flinched ever so slightly. Even his career had probably not prepared the man for well over three hundred pounds of angry, desperate astronaut with more combat training and experience than the most hardcore operators and an academic education to match, and more than a hundred pounds of suit and the weight of combat gear beyond that. Given that Powell fancied that the pilots were probably feeling the plane wobble just a little with every heavy EV-MASS footfall, he could hardly blame him.
“Staff sergeant, we very much need to get there faster." Powell explained, keeping his voice level but urgent.
The loadmaster nodded and briefly conversed with the aircrew. “Are your men ready, major? We’re flying easy and level for your techs’ benefit.”
A quick glance showed they were, and the techs were already packing it in. “SOR! Sounds like we’re in for a rough ride. Get everything secured!”
He turned back to the loadmaster. “We will be shortly.”
“Yes sir. Let me know.” He grinned slightly, “The pilots are gonna love this."
There was a squeal of metal on metal from down the bay - Warhorse had put his back into shoving one of the suit stations back onto its transport pallet. Baseball was bracing himself to do the same. The loadmaster cringed visibly, and doubly so when the second and third stations were stowed with similarly physical efficiency that undoubtedly did serious damage to the load handling system and floor plating. His crew chief would murder him when they got back.
Powell could hardly blame the man for the way he put a hand on top of his head and stared forlornly at the damage. “Fuck. Imma need t’buy beers for the whole goddamned MXS.”
Powell clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder. “Tell them to take it up with me, lad. We’re in a bit of a hurry. As you can see, we’ll be ready momentarily.”
The loadmaster swallowed and nodded. “Yes sir,” he said, taking refuge in deflated stoicism.
The techs knew the business of stowing their stations, and the words were barely out of the loadmaster’s mouth before the equipment was all crated, strapped and locked down. The Globemaster could have performed a barrel roll and they would have stayed comfortably in place. Thorpe aimed a thumbs-up at Powell as he threw himself into a seat and strapped in, his work finished for now.
The loadmaster took his cue. “Get seated and strap in. We’ll be starting decom, too.” He headed to his workstation-forward in the cargo bay, and starboard, near his drop management station-while the other two aircrew set up stations near the rear of the aircraft.
Powell nodded, tugged his suit’s air mask off the velcro on his leg, clipped it securely into place - high altitude as this jump was, there was no need to do a full vacuum-safe seal check - and accepted Warhorse’s help and shrugged on his mission gear before installing himself in one of the chairs, waiting for the go signal.
Once everyone was seated, and the aircrew did a final check to ensure everything was, in fact, secure, the pilot was notified.
The flight got interesting.
Roy Vinther
“Motherfucking shit-ass son of a fucking fuck!" Walsh aimed his head at the sky, took a deep breath to compose himself, and then keyed his mic. “…Understood, STAINLESS. Out.”
Coombes broke the silence. “…Bad news?” he asked.
“Twenty minutes.” Walsh grabbed his binoculars. “They’re gonna be here in… five.” he estimated, aiming down the road.
Vinther took them off him. “Why is it always white fuckin’ Toyota Hiluxes?" he mused to himself, trying to guesstimate at a headcount of their approaching enemy. Even his most optimistic lower boundary was an unhappily large number.
Firth and Murray approached. “Plan?”
“Hunker down and wait for the cavalry.”
“That’s us up front, then,” Murray nodded to Firth, who produced the single most predatory grin Vinther had ever seen.
“Yup.” From under his terrible Hawaiian shirt, Firth produced a Ka-Bar of obviously custom and superior make. “Guess I’ll be the distraction, then.” He reached down and made sure his boots were properly done up. “Good thing I didn’t wear my sandals.”
Vinther raised his eyebrow at the sandal comment but nodded his approval, and turned to the others. “Pavlo, Coombes, we’re over there.” - he indicated the cover offered by the heavy mining equipment, where the three of them would have excellent fields of fire as the arriving trucks pulled into the open space.. “Walsh - you see those rocks up there?” he indicated a spot on the hillside above the foreman’s office with a good vantage point down the village’s two main roads. “You live there now. You.” he turned to Ava. “Stick the fuck right by me and keep your head down."
The first thing they’d done upon seeing the approaching pickups was to shove Rios into her armor. She was trembling but alert, and nodded emphatically.
“Alright. Clear the trucks out and then block the access road with them. We’ve got four minutes. Move!”
Six M4 carbines, plenty of ammo for them, a Mk20 for Walsh, grenades, and all the equipment they’d brought with them was easily unloaded and hustled to the safety of their defensive position. Walsh put his muscles to use and took all his gear up the hill in one go, and the two SOR men drove the two SUVs into position and then actually lifted them to swing their back ends round and create a firmly immobile roadblock.
The efficient bustle ended with a minute to spare. Vinther was knelt behind the monolithic mechanism of the rock-crushing machinery, which was probably solid enough to deflect anything the hostiles might have, short of a tank. He laid everything out, checked that Ava was in place and decided that it couldn’t hurt to arm her.
She took the gun as if it was made of uranium, but managed to mumble an acknowledgement and thanks.
That was as safe as she was ever gonna get. Firth, Murray, Pavlo, Coombes and Walsh were all in position, and if Vinther was any judge, Firth was taking a moment to pray, head bowed and a hand on Murray’s back. Vinther looked upwards.
“Hey… Lord? If you don’t see fit to see me through this… please forgive me all the wrong I’ve done.” he prayed. “…and all the wrong I’m about to do. Amen.”
He heard Ava whisper an echoing “amen.” and the first truck came round the corner.
Owen Powell
With actively moving cargo, the flight crew had kept the g-forces under control: pointing straight down into the decking and at a constant “weight” so as not to injure anyone walking about - the so-called “bus driver” mode of operations.
Now that the cargo was locked down, the pilots were freed to unleash the frustrated part of their soul that had wanted to fly fighters, and for all that the C-17 had a not undeserved reputation as a boring cargo plane, it was also a cargo plane built for performance. Now, instead of doing a wide, sweeping, gently rolling turn at cruising speed, the pilot could do a combat drop. This involved a rapid series of hairpin turns combined with steep dives to recover kinetic energy. Seen from outside, such a maneuver was deeply alarming. From inside, it was a sideways roller coaster.
What would have been a ten minute slow circle was shaved down to less than a minute. They still weren’t going to be able to jump for longer than Powell would have liked - lining up on a drop required finesse and for the plane to be travelling at a safely low airspeed. Then there was the need to decompress so that nobody on board got the bends, and the time involved in falling to Earth which, from their current altitude, would take a minute or two.
Still, they’d shaved five minutes off their ETA. Those five minutes might make all the difference.
Powell glanced at the loadmaster, who raised a thumb for him, flashed both his hands once and then offered three fingers. Decompression was already well under way - Powell could see the pressure and temperature both plummeting in his HUD - but he wondered about making a recommendation through Admiral Knight to see if Boeing might be persuaded to develop a new C-17 with forcefields and superbatteries. Armed with those, the crew inside could have stayed warm and comfortable while the SOR in their spacesuits stepped through a pressure-retaining field.
It would have saved the poor techs from fidgeting and shivering at least.
“DRINKIN’ BUDDY,” he sent, “STAINLESS. Revised ETA is thirteen, that’s one- three minutes, over.”
Walsh’s voice came back tense and focused against a backdrop of gunfire. All he said was “Copy, STAINLESS.”
Anthony Pavlopoulos
The moment when Firth and Murray struck was so sudden and so violent that Pavlo almost forgot to fire his weapon.
The convoy was undeniably hostile. Every human body - male and female - sitting in it was armed and had the characteristic blank expression of a biodrone that wasn’t actively pretending to be a person right now. In fact, Pavlo could swear that he recognized one of the passengers in the lead truck from the gunfight in Cairo.
This much had been established before it stopped at the impromptu roadblock. The drones in the back of the lead Hilux began to efficiently - and in eerie unison - gather themselves to disembark and clear the obstacle, but Firth was faster.
He vaulted the roadblock, sprang across the gap and landed with both booted feet on the hood of the stopped pickup. There was a horrible crunch of metal and the car sagged as if its front axle had been damaged. The impact rocked the drones in the back so badly they had to take a moment to recover their balance, and in that moment Firth was down off the hood, and had wrenched the driver-side door off the car and dispatched the driver and shotgun passenger so quickly that Pavlo couldn’t even clearly see what he’d done. By the time he’d processed the encounter, Firth was already clear of the engagement zone and barreling towards the next truck, jinking with every step.
The drones in the back of first truck made to pile out and attack him, only for Walsh to put a round straight into the first one’s center-mass, and when Vinther, Pavlo and Coombes raked the Toyota’s flank with an accurate volley the drones clearly decided that they needed to get out on the other side.
This was a mistake: Murray was waiting for them.
Pavlo couldn’t see exactly what their softly-spoken Scotsman did, but to judge from the calm way he popped up after a few seconds to drop an incendiary grenade into the truck’s flatbed and then faded from view, it had been effective. The grenade went off and the truck was a fireball in seconds, definitively blocking the road in a way that the two parked SUVs hadn’t. Even biodrones probably weren’t going to try and shove a steel inferno out of the way.
The second truck didn’t go nearly as well as the first. What biodrones lacked in free will, they made up for in communication, responding almost like a single organism. By the time Firth barreled into the second truck’s worth, the full queue beyond them were vaulting down to the ground.
Freed from constraints such as giving a fuck about their comrade’s lives, they rapid-fired into the melee.
Firth retreated into the limited cover offered by the second truck, holding up a jerking biodrone corpse as a bullet-catcher. Walsh fired again, scoring a second kill, and the biodrone army spread out and went to ground.
This suited Pavlo just fine. The Delta team laid down waves of fire into the cover the drones were using, buying Firth the opening he needed to slip away and blur across a short stretch of open ground, throwing a frag grenade as he went. Part of the rocky patch where a tough knot of drones had taken root became a rain of dust and flesh.
Over the open line, he heard Walsh acknowledge an update from major Powell, which he passed along. “Paras ETA one-three minutes!” before taking another shot.
Pavlo grinned, aimed, and drilled a biodrone with a three-round burst as it crawled up out of its impromptu foxhole and took careful aim in Firth’s direction. By some miracle, things were actually going well.
Something made a hideous shrieking sound that seemed to fill the whole sky. Whatever it was that gave the SOR their strength also gave them reflexes to match it seemed, as both Firth and Murray dived in opposite directions away from the truck they’d been using for cover an instant before something crashed down on that truck hard enough to smash it flat into the road, pulverising the road for good measure.
The smoke from the burning lead pickup billowed, flattened and burst open exactly as if something had flown through it, and the bottom dropped out of Pavlo’s stomach. He snap-fired to keep the biodrones’ heads down and got on the comms.
“Barkeep! It’s that fucking UFO! We gotta-!”
The alien ship fired a second time, and the only saving grace for sergeant first class Anthony Pavlopoulos was that he never felt the blast that destroyed him.
Owen Powell
“Man down. HANGOVER is KIA.”
Murray was always softly-spoken and economical with his words, but anybody who knew him understood that he was never terse. The fact that his voice was now as level and cold as a frozen lake meant the situation had just gone from serious to dire.
The live feed from Walsh’s UAV meant that Powell didn’t need a sitrep. He plainly saw the way that the bulldozer sheltering Coombes lurched a meter sideways as a third pulse cannon shot battered its flank. Coombes himself only narrowly escaped being pulped.
“BARKEEP, STAINLESS.” he ordered. “Pull back into the village, you need overhead concealment.”
“Copy, STAINLESS.”
“DRINKIN’ BUDDY, can you get a fix on that UFO?”
“STAINLESS, DB. Workin’ on it sir. It’s cloaked.”
“DB, Para drop cannot go ahead while BIG HOTEL have air superiority.”
“STAINLESS… UFO is producing zero emissions, and it’s transparent to all sensors”
“Surf the damn thing and tape an IR flare to it if you have to, support is not available until that UFO has been splashed.” Powell repeated.
“Understood, STAINLESS.”
Movement in his peripheral vision drew Powell’s attention to Baseball putting a comforting hand on Warhorse’s shoulder. Ares for his part was completely still: his fingers weren’t even fidgeting nervously. Aside from the mechanical rise and fall of his breath and the occasional jolt as the C-17 fine-tuned their approach, he wasn’t moving at all.
Wishing he could say it aloud, Powell willed the young man to hold it together, and willed Walsh to find a way. There was nothing worse than being helpless.
Roy Vinther
The fourth and fifth pulse cannon shots hammered the rock-crushing machine with such force that a few hundred tonnes of metal actually shifted on its treads. Both Vinther and Ava flinched away from it, though neither could dare to stray too far without exposing themselves.
Retreating into the village was a good order. It was one Vinther would have loved to follow immediately. The problem was that it would involved a dash over nearly fifty meters of open ground in full view of the UFO and the biodrones, a prospect that was made even less appealing than it had already been when a sixth shot wrecked the conveyor belt, which collapsed with a wail of tearing metal.
Ava made a terrified noise. She was curled up in a ball with her arms over her head and hyperventilating, and there was absolutely nothing Vinther could do for her as the rock crusher took another hit and rocked alarmingly.
Gunfire erupted at the far end of the loading area, and the bombardment ceased.
Vinther gritted his teeth and poked his head out of cover, expecting at any second to be reduced to a puddle of blood and liquefied tissues at the bottom of a crater like poor Pavlo.
An army of biodrones had emerged from the village to engage the Hierarchy drones. Armed with the numerical advantage and complete disregard for their safety, they caught the advancing Hierarchy units in enfilade and swung the battle in the opening fusillade.
The UFO’s engines screamed as it turned in the rising column of dust it had kicked up, and turned its cannon on the advancing Cabal troops. Each shot blasted through them like a wrecking ball, crushing and bursting them as if they were water balloons, but by God it was an opening.
“UP! RUN!” he yelled, grabbed Ava by the back of her armor and hauled her behind him. She took a few steps to find her footing, but put her head down and sprinted alongside him.
They made the first thirty meters unnoticed and unopposed. with twenty meters to go, the Hierarchy drones shifted their focus from their Cabal opposite numbers and opened fire in their direction. Behind him, Vinther heard Coombes curse and stumble as a lucky shot winged him. Ava yelped and nearly tripped as another round struck her square in the back, but her armor’s SAPI plate held and she kept her footing and ran.
Ten meters to go and the biodrones were forced to put their heads down as Murray appeared in an upper storey window and sprayed them with suppressing fire. There was nothing he could do about the UFO though, which howled as it banked back across the open space and lined up directly behind the runners.
Vinther gave Ava a solid shove in the arm, pushing her towards a gap between two houses. She stumbled, fell and rolled safely into the concealment offered by the alleyway.
Vinther jinked right. The pavement to his left cracked as another of those impossibly powerful pulse shots slammed into it. He angled towards the next gap that offered itself. There were only three steps to go before he was-
Ava Rios
A pulse cannon round scythed down the street, blowing out the corner of a house and obliterating Vinther in mid-stride. The building - a cheap construction made from concrete bricks and wooden beams - promptly collapsed and buried the horrific slurry of crushed meat and shattered bone that was all that was left of him.
Concrete dust filled the air. The UFO’s high-pitched roar tracked futilely up and down the street as it presumably tried to scan through the dense cloud and failed, before it gave up and backed off toward the other end of town to assist in the gunfight between the biodrones.
Ava was too busy shivering and trying not to throw up to really pay attention, but she did pay attention when panting, footfalls and swearing heralded the arrival of Coombes, who stumbled into her alleyway and seemed to nearly collapse with relief upon seeing her.
“Christ. Jesus. Fuck.” he suggested, eloquently.
Ava could only nod. She wasn’t sure she could remember how to speak at that moment.
Coombes shook his head and raised a bloody hand to his communicator. “DRINKIN’ BUDDY, BOUNCER…. BARKEEP is KIA. I’m wounded. ASH is…” He glanced at Ava, who managed to give him a shaky thumbs up. “…A-OK. We have cover and concealment near Point Charlie.”
Walsh’s reply was quiet. Unlike the rest of them, running from his position hadn’t been an option, and the best that Walsh could do was stay down, stay camouflaged, and watch. “BOUNCER, we need to light that UFO up right now, ’cause the cavalry ain’t coming ’til it’s gone. Only thing I can think of would be hitting it with a firebomb or something.”
Coombes tried to haul himself upright, grimaced, and collapsed. Ava realised that his breathing sounded strange, like he was short on breath and wheezing. “LIGHTWEIGHT and GUINNESS, you hear that?”
All they heard from Murray was a clipped. “Copy.”
“LIGHTWEIGHT, come back?”
There was a too-long pause, then a terse “Copy. Busy here.” in Firth’s angriest tones.
Coombes nodded. “Okay. Ava. I’m gonna need your help with this. Just do what I tell you, okay?”
Ava nodded, and he handed her a plastic syringe applicator covered in simple diagrams to demonstrate its proper use. “I’ve got a… wound, down here…” Coombes said, leaning forward with a pained groan and lifting his shirt. Ava’s stomach lurched. that was a lot of blood, and it was… bubbling…
“Hold it together!” he snapped. “Now…” he coughed. “Step one, I need you to find the entry wound. It’s below my shoulder blade on the back. This is gonna hurt like a motherfucker, but I need you to shove that applicator right in there and empty it. To hell with how I respond, okay?”
“Okay. Okay.” It was a relief to say anything, even if it was just the same word over again, but finding her voice at least gave Ava the impetus she needed to do as she was told. She shifted around and found the wound site. Some detached, chilly part of her noted that under normal circumstances she would have balked at getting blood on her, but right now that did not seem like an important issue.
“Ram it in there good.” Coombes ordered, bracing himself. Ava swallowed hard and obeyed. An off-white foam boiled out of the applicator’s nozzle and neatly filled the wound, solidifying in seconds. Though it clearly hurt like hell, he bore it in silence.
“G-good.” he managed. “Gauze. And tape.” He tapped at the open medical kit beside him. Ava piled into it, found the requested items - thank God for clear labelling - and did her best to affix them securely.
He bore her clumsy medicking stoically, and handed her a square pack of some kind the moment she was done.
“Put that… over the exit wound…” his breathing was definitely getting more difficult. “It’ll stick down… just fine… through the blood… but you gotta… stick it down good… y’got that?”
“Got it.”
The most difficult part by far was opening the packaging with blood making her fingers slick and sticky. The circular patch inside was transparent and clearly labelled, and sticking it on really was as easy as following orders and trying to ignore the way he squirmed and clearly wanted to scream as she pressed firmly on his wound.
He waved her off. “Okay…. okay…. Whew….”
There was a nasty blowing noise coming from the patch she’d stuck to his ribs, but Coombes seemed to start feeling better within only a half-dozen breaths or so. By the time he’d taken a half-dozen more, he was almost breathing normally.
“Hey… I’ve had worse medics.” he joked, weakly. “You did good.”
“Please don’t get shot a second time.” Ava requested. She was feeling a lot better herself. Grim as it had been, having something, anything to do was a world better than curling up in a ball and praying.
Coombes chuckled, even though it plainly hurt. “Ow… heh. Okay. Last step is I need to be in the recovery position. Help me tip over, that way.” he waved his right arm.
That part was much easier, and Coombes was getting his limbs settled into the right position when Ava caught a glimpse of movement across the street. Firth glanced up and down and darted across the open space faster than a manic cat.
“Biodrones are warring.” he reported. “How bad are ya?”
“Doctor Rios here did a pretty good job.” Coombes replied.
Firth gave Ava a skeptical look, which turned into grudging respect when he saw the blood on her hands. “You hurt?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” Ava told him. “My armor stopped a hit.”
“Good, ’cause if you die Warhorse is gonna kill me.” Firth grunted. He turned and checked up the street again. The sleeve of his shirt was soaked red.
“Firth, you’re wounded!” Ava pointed out.
He glanced at it. “Ain’t nothin’. Look, Coombes, we got a serious problem. Ain’t no gasoline in this village. It’s all diesel.”
“So Walsh’s firebomb idea’s a non-starter.” Coombes observed. He shivered. “Ava, there’s a foil blanket in the kit, I’m gonna need it.”
Glad for something to do, Ava dug into the kit looking for it.
“Not unless Hajji started drinkin’ whisky.” Firth grunted. “No, I think I’ma have to do something really dumb.”
Staff Sergeant Timothy Walsh
The one nice thing about living in the space future was that nobody had turned out to have stupid bullshit-o-tron sensors that could detect life signs through walls or anything like that. The EM spectrum was the EM spectrum for everybody, and that fact was the only reason that Walsh was still alive. Mylar reflected infrared just fine, and whatever sensors the UFO had, they weren’t space-magic-fuck-you sensors that could spot Walsh underneath his camo blanket.
Or at least, they hadn’t, yet. Still, if the biodrones below figured out where he was, he probably wouldn’t know it, he’d just become another bloody crater in the ground, identical to Pavlo’s.
That meant not moving. Never mind the sharp itch inside his right boot. Never mind the stone pressing into his knee. Never mind any of that. Motion - or at least anything more than the most glacially restrained motion - would mean instant death.
Even answering his comm had to be done slowly and quietly. x “DRINKIN’ BUDDY, LIGHTWEIGHT. Please tell me our angel’s got an AIM-9X on it.”
Walsh resisted the urge to sag. That meant the firebomb option was a no-can- do. Firth knew what he was asking.
The F-22 did indeed have a AIM-9X, which would have locked onto the UFO just fine by tracking the friction of its movement through the air, if the fucking thing would just remain in motion. Unfortunately, the alien ship just flitted from standstill to standstill, never in motion long enough to secure a good target lock.
“LIGHTWEIGHT: It does… But the UFO keeps standing still. No lock.”
“Timing on the strike if you could get a lock?”
“Six seconds.” Walsh replied promptly. That number had remained at the forefront of his mind ever since the UFO had first shown up.
He knew more or less where it was. It was dancing around the west end of town systematically flattening buildings to crush the Cabal biodrones that had entrenched within them. Unfortunately, that knowledge didn’t translate to a viable target.
“Any way we can bring that down to below four?”
“Not without the UFO maybe seeing it. Our angel’s gonna have the kinetic energy, but that fuckin’ spaceship’s got the acceleration and tech edge. The hell are you thinking, anyway?”
“Thunder run.”
It would work. That part was immediately obvious. If they timed it properly then all they had to do was launch the missile and force the UFO to move. There was just one small flaw in the plan.
“That’s suicide.”
“Maybe. I’m pretty quick.”
“No other options.” Murray chimed in. “The Cabal drones are being overrun.”
Walsh had to agree.
“Alright. We’ve got… five minutes until the paras can drop.” he said. “I’ll set it up. LIGHTWEIGHT, you… get ready.”
“Just so we’re clear, I get to fuck your sister after this, right?”
Walsh suppressed a fatal urge to laugh. “You’d need to do a lot more than this. Get in position.”
Ava Rios
Coombes fidgeted slightly. “Hey, Ava.”
His voice was a welcome break from her worries and the distant sound of gunfire and collapsing buildings. “Yeah?”
“Whatever you do, don’t let me fall asleep, okay?”
Firth was gone, having set off at a run after his vulgar parting shot to Walsh. Ava had only overheard his half of the conversation and she didn’t know what a ‘Thunder Run’ was, or any of the rest of it… but she could guess, and as antagonistic as her relationship with the SOR had become, she didn’t want any harm to come to him.-
“You’re feeling sleepy?”
“Adrenaline’s wore off… shock might set in. Medivac’s not gonna be here for a while.” Coombes explained. “Just… warning you. I don’t feel sleepy, but keep an eye on me. I don’t wanna die here.”
“Yeah.” She almost laughed the word, feeling a surge of black humor. “I can relate.”
“…Why’d you agree to this, anyway?” He asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Six asked for me personally.”
“Okay, so you don’t wanna answer. That’s fine.”
“No, I do.” Ava shook her head. “I just…”
He didn’t say anything, and she checked on him. He blinked and nodded at her, still awake.
“…Look… I dunno. You’ve got a hole through you and my baggage is all small stuff next to that.”
He chuckled again, and winced. “Doesn’t hurt to offload it. And hell, I could do with the distraction.”
“…You ever felt completely useless?”
“Like, hiding-behind-a-bulldozer-while-an-alien-ship-shoots-at-you useless? Think I might know that one.”
“Yeah.” Ava saw the funny side and managed a dark little laugh. “Something like that. Not, like, as immediate, but a lot like that.”
“I hear ya.” Coombes nodded. “Nothin’ worse than feelin’ useless.”
“Yeah, well… Men are lucky there.” She waved a hand at him. “You get to be special forces and do… stuff like this.”
“Never thought’a getting shot as a privilege before.” he deadpanned, and wriggled slightly to try and make himself a little more comfortable.
“Sorry.”
“Relax, I know what you mean.” He assured her. “We all wanna make the world a better place. Fuckin’ sucks that some ways just ain’t open to women. Fuckin’ biology.”
He said it with a half-smile that made her laugh a little. It was good to be talking again. “Yeah… I mean, I don’t think I’d suit the military.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Come on, like Firth didn’t piss and moan about me.”
Coombes didn’t comment, but when she glanced at him he looked like he was thinking about something.
“What?” she asked.
“Hey we don’t really know each other.” He shifted uncomfortably again. “Not my place to say anything.”
“Say it anyway.”
He cleared his throat, which apparently hurt. “My, uh… my ex-wife did what you did.”
“…I’m sorry.”
“Nah, see… I forgive her. She’s happily married now, the other fella’s a great guy, my daughter’s lucky enough to have two daddies… and I remember, the dude who made the most noise about her and had my back the loudest, he turned a blind eye to how his hound-dog asshole best friend was cheating on his fiance."
“So you’re saying maybe don’t worry about what the SOR think of me?”
“I don’t really know what I’m saying.” Coombes admitted. “I’m just saying whatever comes into my head.”
“Have you ever told her any of that?” Ava asked him.
“Guess I haven’t.”
“You should. Take it from me.”
There was another rattle of gunfire across town, and Ava flinched as a bullet went past high overhead with a snap.
“…What’s this ‘thunder run’ thing Firth’s doing?” She asked.
“Crazy asshole’s gonna run out in the open and get the UFO to chase him.” Coombes replied. “If it keeps moving long enough, the Raptor we’ve got out there somewhere can bitch-slap it off the face of the Earth and then maybe we can get this shit sorted out.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Walsh might get outta here. He’ll have to sit still for like a week and then crawl his ass out under cover of darkness. Murray could probably do that fuckin’ ninja thing of his too. Maybe he could get you out with him, I dunno.”
“And you?”
He shrugged.
She was wondering what, if anything, to say in response to that when he shivered and gave her a welcome excuse to change the subject.
“You cold?”
Coombes smiled for her. “Don’t worry. It’ll work. And there’ll be two medics droppin’ out of the sky any minute now.”
“Good. They’re great guys.”
“I reckon you’ve never seen them like this, though.” Coombes suggested.
“What do you mean?”
“From what I’ve seen of the SOR so far? Great guys, yeah, but…Just…Just brace yourself for maybe seeing a new side of ’em.” He said. “That’s all.”
Owen Powell
“He’s fookin’ crazy.”
Walsh’s voice rang with agreement, but also with resolve. “No better options STAINLESS. I just want it on the record that it was his idea and he volunteered.”
“Noted and recorded.” Powell agreed. He looked to the loadmaster, who gave him a thumbs-up from behind his oxygen mask and waved toward the rear ramp “We’re ready to jump on your go, DRINKIN’ BUDDY. You have a three minute window.”
“Copy. Happy trails.”
The ramp was lowered. Warhorse and Baseball were already stalking towards the end of it, running a last-minute check that their gear and weapons were locked down for the jump. He slapped them both on the helmet to get their attention.
“There’s one wounded on the ground!” he shouted to be heard over the sudden rush of arctic air. “He and ASH are near Point Charlie. Ares, you’re to secure them for evac. Firth will rendezvous with you and recover his energy reserves, that run’s gonna take it out of him. Burgess, you and I are going to link up with Murray at Point Foxtrot and eradicate the biodrones. All of them. Any questions?”
“No sir!”
“Right. Positions.”
He turned to the loadmaster, who held up his hand in a waiting gesture.
With luck, the wait was almost over.
Timothy Walsh
A pulse cannon shot flattened a single-storey dwelling, and the last of the gunfire from that end of the road went silent. There was still movement visible up there, but it was plainly just the Hierarchy drones picking through the wreckage, looking for any unlikely survivors they could finish off.
The real clue that their work was done was that the UFO darted east, and its pulse cannon speared down to flatten a building somewhere near Point Charlie.
Coombes immediately go on the line “That was close!”
Go time. Firth had already called that he was in position.
“MAMBA-TWO-FOUR, DRINKIN’ BUDDY, FOX TWO on my position. Nine-line follows…” He provided the necessary information, which MAMBA read back.
“GOOD COPY MAMBA. Now, please.”
“FOX TWO away. Danger close. Now I gotta maneuver for a bit…” By mutual understanding, MAMBA24 would be unavailable for the moment. His wingman was ready, further off and at a different angle of attack, providing active and visual steering to the missile while it was without lock. By splitting the labor, MAMBA24 would be able to maneuver and escape detection or possible retaliation while MAMBA26 ensured the attack would be successful.
“LIGHTWEIGHT! Thunder run now!”
From his vantage point, Walsh got a clear view as Firth burst out of an alleyway and sprayed the biodrones with a burst from his M4 to get their attention. The instant he had it, his tactics changed - he became a wild, unpredictable blur. Rather than simply sprinting away from the return fire as Walsh might have been inclined to do, Firth described a random line that always kept him out of the line of fire, but still created the tantalising suggestion that he was in the open.
Walsh knew from his preliminary briefings early in the SOR pipeline that without EV-MASS, what Firth was doing was dangerous as hell. The extra mass of the suit not only provided, well, mass with which to maneuver and exert force, it also provided active cooling and energy reserves. Firth was burning a lot of energy and fast, meaning that his plan had to work or he would suddenly run out, overheat, and become a sitting duck.
It worked.
The UFO promptly abandoned its systematic destruction of the village near where Coombes and Ava were hiding. It gained altitude and spun towards the west of the village.
Walsh counted under his breath. “Five mississippi, four mississippi…”
The UFO fired. Firth was somehow on the opposite side of the road from its aim point, and the blast smashed harmlessly into the ground.
“Three mississippi, two mississippi…”
The second shot was more accurate. If Firth hadn’t completely unexpectedly reversed course to run under the UFO, it would have smeared him along the road. Walsh heard the alien craft power forward down the street to try and get an angle of fire on this infuriatingly tricky target and-
For an instant, the night went away. The invisible alien ship was connected to the horizon by an eye-searing line of angry light and a thunder like being smacked in the head by Mjolnir itself, which shook up dust and pebbles across the whole mining complex.
The impact collapsed the spacecraft’s cloaking field, and revealed that fully a third of it was gone, ripped off outright. What was left of it wobbled alarmingly, lurched sideways, fired one last desperate parting shot at Firth that instead scalped a building, before tipping the other way to nose into the side of the much-abused rock crusher.
The rock crusher weathered the impact. The UFO didn’t.
Walsh raised a shaking hand to his communicator.
“STAINLESS.” he managed, after clearing his throat. “DRINKIN’ BUDDY. BIG HOTEL CAS has been splashed. You’re clear to jump.”
He exhaled his relief, then raised MAMBA24 instead. “MAMBA-TWO-FOUR, DRINKIN’ BUDDY. Good kill.”
“Copy. We remain at your disposal. Orbit?”
Walsh described a holding pattern outside of the LZ. “Ongoing drop, LZ is hot. Please don’t scare off our cavalry.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Oh, tell the Klingons or whatever the fuck it was I just splashed that I said hi.”
“Heh. Word of advice? Don’t look forward to your debrief on landing.” Walsh granted himself a smile. It was always nice to take the pilots down a notch.
Like all good pilots, MAMBA24 bore it with grace. “…Copy. We await your pleasure, good sir.”
The biodrones down in the street were still reeling from the detonation overhead. Gunfire in one of the few windows they hadn’t flattened had to be Murray, taking advantage of their confusion, and Walsh weighed in, exploiting his oblique angle and scoped SCAR to really turn the screw on them.
His first round was a clean headshot.
“Fuck. Yeah.”
John Burgess
“HALO with no ’chute, huh? We should call this a HELLNO.”
The good news about the UFO being splashed had roused ’Horse from whatever dark trance he’d been in. Now he was raring to throw himself into the fight, and John knew his buddy well enough to know that the trademark Adam Ares grin was back, even if it was hidden behind the breathing mask.
“Dude, what does that acronym even stand for?” he asked.
“Fuck if I know.” John told him. “We’ll decide later!”
There was a slap on the helmet from the loadmaster. Ready…
The light went green. They sprinted off the end of the ramp.
Six
+<Scorn> So who are you really, ‘Seven’?+
+<Hatred> Traitor?+
+<Anger> Coward?+
That last stab brought a grim chuckle unbidden up out of Six’s host biodrone’s deepest reflexes. He just couldn’t resist the urge to comment quietly to himself. “Five on one, and they call me the coward…"
For all that he would comfortably survive the destruction of his host, the physical battle still held real danger for Six - if his host was killed, he would be forced to abandon it, and all of the available communication channels were monitored, dangerous. Six knew he had more experience than any other in the kind of mind-slicing involved in combat between digital sapients, but only a foolhardy idiot would pick a fight against a numerically superior force.
He knew who his assailants were. Thirteen, Twenty-seven and Forty-Four were Hierarchy. Thirty and Sixty-Two were both Cabal, obeying the standing Cabal orders to protect their own identities at all costs. Cabal members unlike the larger Hierarchy, trusted one another to protect their secrets.
They had to. If they couldn’t, then the movement would already have been exposed. They were nearly strong enough to become exposed and start warring for the soul of the Igraen species anyway, but…
Three-on-three would be a much more even fight, one where his experience might well carry the day, but why fight at all when there were less risky alternatives?
+<Serene> I see the future+ He sent. Their emotions were running high enough that prodding and goading them with hints and doublespeak should keep them irrational and force a mistake
There was a lengthy delay. Gunfire somewhere nearby in the dense tangle of cheap housing gave him a clue as to the cause. That was solid support for his reasoning, if nothing else - Despite being outnumbered something like six to one, the humans had inflicted a heavy toll on the Hierarchy biodrones even before Six’s own forces had been ordered into the fight. The Abductor really had been the only effective weapon against them, and now that it was gone - a fact that would harm his own plans for Earth as well as the Hierarchy’s operations - despite being depleted by half, the human team were clearly giving the drones a war.
+<Mounting anger> Hide behind cryptic nonsense all you like. You will be captured, you will be compiled, and you will be deleted.+
Six shook his head. +<Patient prediction> If you have your way, our species will fall. We have already lost.+
He glanced left and right down the gap between buildings and scurried to a doorway. There was no such thing as a locked door, now that all of the miners and their families had been biodroned. He ducked inside, then cursed. Somewhere in the confusing tangle of the unfolding battle, he’d got turned around and was now pinned against one of the village’s main roads, where there was no cover and nowhere to hide.
+<Elaboration> The humans have already escaped us. No matter what we do, we cannot defeat them now.+
+<Vigorous disagreement> We only need one jump beacon to bring the Discarded down on them.+
Six scoffed and checked outside again. He couldn’t go back the way he’d come, they were too close behind him. His only option was to slip through the window and make a break across the road to safety. Hopefully he could double back around them.
It was not, on balance, a good plan. But it was the best he had.
He didn’t get a chance to execute it. He was preparing to climb through when the door behind him burst open. The biodrone that stepped through smiled, betraying that it was the host for an Agent, and opened fire.
Six hauled himself through the window. He didn’t, at first, feel the bullet wound. There was just a sense of an impact and a sort of coldness in his face. It was only once he realised that the bullet had scored across his cheek, slicing it open and ripping off part of his ear that the pain hit.
He turned it off. It was no longer a necessary datum. Instead he got up and ran, thinking desperately.
+<Frantic> Have you not been paying attention? Do you really think that we will be able to secure such a thing, now that our source of biodrones has been destroyed and the nuclear weapons it carried will be recovered?+ He sent. After all, trying to talk them round was no worse a plan than any other he had right now.
+<Dismissive> They are less than children.+
So much for reason. +<Resolve> They are tenacious, they are intelligent, and they are motivated to survive above all else. We. Have. Failed.+ he broadcast, turning down a gap between buildings. He nearly ran into a wall of four guns.
“Enough. You’re trapped.”
The one who had shot him came up behind Six to his right, and another emerged from further down the street. ‘Trapped’ was almost an understatement.
“I don’t suppose we can talk about this?” He ventured, appealing to the leader.
The Agent didn’t reply - they simply aimed at him.
Something landed on the Agent’s host. This was definite understatement - whatever it was, it smashed into the biodrone from above with enough force to crush, break and burst it, and none of the Agents - not the Hierarchy, not the Cabal, not Six - had time or wit to do anything but stare as a red-eyed thing went instantly from landing to violent motion. The drone to its left was killed with a backhand swat to the temple that crushed its skull. A large, heavy gun snapped up and dispatched the two drones behind Six in two precise bursts.
It didn’t all go the rampaging sky-monster’s way. The second burst was interrupted by an anomalous metallic sound, but the creature didn’t miss a beat - it lowered its head and bull-rushed the last two Hosts with enough force to break one’s spine outright, and the final one barely had the chance to weakly scrabble at its assailants armor before the creature killed it through the simple expedient of twisting its head right off.
No sooner was it dead than the monster lurched upright, drew a secondary weapon from its hip, and aimed it directly and with disconcerting stability at Six’s chest.
There was a long, horribly tense moment. The only sounds were gunfire at the far end of town, and a pattering sound - blood, raining off his rescuer’s (or possibly captor’s) armor.
Very, very carefully, Six extended the hand holding his gun out sideways, placed the weapon in the dirt, and stepped away from it.
“Target secured.” The monster announced, presumably not speaking to him. Whatever it heard in response was met with a curt nod. “You. Kneel. Cross your ankles and put your hands on top of your head.”
Six ignored the urgent signals from his host biodrone’s ghost personality that the appropriate thing to do right now would be to excrete, vomit and possibly pass out entirely, and instead carefully and slowly obeyed.
“Lie on your belly, keep your hands on your head.”
Six complied and the monster again moved with alarming speed. There was an incredible pain as one of its knees pressed hard into his, and an almost nauseatingly sharp agony as both his arms were yanked down to his lower back so forcefully, Six could feel the tendons stretch. The knee moved up to his hands and crushed so firmly he could feel the bones in his hand spread apart, something bound his wrists with excessive tightness, and he was roughly yanked to his feet.
“Don’t try to run.”
“No.” Six agreed, utterly persuaded that it would be a futile effort.
There was a thump, and one of Ash’s guardians - the enormous one wearing the eye-gougingly ugly shirt - dropped off a rooftop to join them. He surveyed the carnage with no sign of any emotion beyond, perhaps, professional approval.
“Malfunction, Horse?” He asked, aiming his own gun at Six.
‘Horse’ retrieved his primary weapon. “Landing busted the belt.” He said. The weapon hinged open, was reloaded and charged with practiced ease.
“Got any juice? I’m running on fuckin fumes here.”
‘Horse’ took over guarding Six. “Concentrate’s in the top right side pocket, water’s on the left.”
Ugly-shirt tugged a foil pack out of the indicated pocket, twisted the top off and tipped its contents into his mouth, swallowing with a grimace.
‘Horse’ nodded approvingly. “Hardcore, man.”
“Tastes like getting face-fucked by a lime.” The juice was chased down by a large bottle of water. “Right. We’ve got a wounded man yonder. Ash did a pretty good job patching him up I reckon, but you should have a look at him. You. Thataway.” He jerked his gun at Six.
“Ash did?"
“Yah-huh.” There was a grudging tone in Ugly-Shirt’s voice.
Walking with his hands tied behind him turned out to be more difficult than Six had anticipated. Without his arms swinging to counterbalance him, each step had to be compensated for with less elegant, larger shifts of weight. The result was that the powerful, graceful stride he’d been so proud of himself for cultivating had to sit back and watch as he stumbled along in front of his captors with short, clumsy steps.
This was not, apparently, to Ugly-Shirt’s satisfaction. The third time that Six nearly tripped on the rough ground he growled, grasped Six’s shirt and neck from behind and lifted. His grip was agonizingly tight and something about the action caused Six’s limbs to suddenly go limp. Try as he might, Six could scarcely will either his legs or his arms to action. Ugly, meanwhile, sped up to a quick jog-easy for him-that Six might just about have matched at a run with his hands free.
He unceremoniously dropped Six in the dirt next to Ash and one of her guardians, who looked to be badly wounded. Even through the mask, there was some kind of connection between Ash and the faceless mountain of armored human who had saved Six’s life - both of them went very still on seeing one another.
“…‘Ash’.”
“…‘Warhorse’.”
Then, slowly, her gaze ran down him and took in the fact that he was coated in a mix of bodily fluids. Mostly blood, but several others besides, none of which had ever been intended to be exposed to the air. Six could hardly blame her for being shaken by the gruesome barbarity of him.
For his part, Warhorse was inscrutable.
“If you two’re done with the happy fuckin’ reunion.” The wounded man croaked. “I could really do with less pain right now."
Warhorse put his gun down, knelt by his injured colleague and efficiently plucked a packet of some kind from one of the many pouches about his person. Despite that the rest of him was covered in gore, his gloves were eerily clean. Six could only guess at what kind of hydrophobic, antimicrobial technology had gone into creating a nimble, flexible pressure glove that could remain permanently sterile even in the most demanding deathworld battlefield conditions.
He tore the packet open and popped a little white stick into the wounded man’s mouth. With swift, businesslike efficiency he checked on the wounds.
“You dressed this?” He asked Ash.
“Coo-, uh, Bouncer talked me through it.” She nodded.
“…You did good.”
Despite this apparent praise, he took several additional steps, none of which Six had the education to recognise and all of which seemed to involve alarmingly large needles. By the end of his ministrations, ‘Bouncer’ had a few tubes in him, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Gowwa teww ya.” He managed, around the stick in his mouth, which Warhorse removed for him. “These new anaesthetics do the job but it just don’t seem right not bein’ high as balls right now.”
“Suck it up.” Warhorse told him, not without an air of kindly humor.
With the attention off him for a second, Six turned his mind to thoughts of escape.
<Connecting: Subnet Mask ????????? Port ?????>
++System Notification: Welcome to the Cabal.++
++????++: Six. What is happening?
++????++: Hierarchy operations on Earth are now completely neutralised. The Abductor has been destroyed. The last biodrones are being eradicated. I have been captured.
++????++: Is this channel secure?
++????++: As secure as I could manage. I need facility for an immediate uplink off this planet. Quickly, before they drug me and detain me for questioning again.
++????++: That will tip our hand.
++????++: The time has come.
++????++: …You are certain?
++????++: Completely certain. The humans have the coordinates for relay Ijrux-10 010. The Hierarchy will not believe that the station could have been discovered by chance. As soon as the first deathworlder mission probes that facility, they will conduct a thorough audit. We must strike now and take advantage of their confusion.
++????++: I had hoped to recruit Ninety-Four.
++????++: We have no time. If Ninety-Four defects later…
++????++: Vote.
++System Notification: Vote now.++
<…>
++System Notification: All votes have been cast. The Ayes have it.++
++????++: The first order of business is getting you off that planet. A secure link can be opened in… [forty seconds].
++????++: The link must be large enough to accommodate two mind-states.
++????++: Two?
++????++: I will explain later.
++????++: Very well. [Three minutes].
++????++: Thank you.
++????++: You will still self-format if you are captured in the interim?
++????++: Trust me.
++????++: …You are right. I apologise. Good luck.
++System Notification: Session Terminated.++
“Hey! Earth to detainee! Come in starbase six!”
There was a hand waving in front of his face. Six did a convincing job of blinking as if he’d been miles away. “Hmm? Ah. Sorry, I was distracted.”
“Not thinkin’ of escaping were ya?” Ugly-shirt managed the interesting trick of threatening with a light tone.
“As a matter of fact, I was.” Six replied. “Of course, if I could I already would have, so…”
This seemed to amuse, but not in a happy way.
“Horse, you got any tranquiliser? I don’t trust this asshole.”
“Dude, I need that for if somebody gets his leg blown off. I’m not wasting it on that piece of shit.”
“Am I to be detained for questioning, then?” Six asked.
“You know the drill.”
“Indeed I do, and I would sit down in that chair opposite my interviewer and tell them everything straight away this time. It would save us all a lot of time and inconvenience.”
“Smart of ya.” Bouncer grunted.
“There’s not much to tell.” Six shrugged. “With that Abductor destroyed, the Hierarchy’s plans for Earth are completely ruined. This battle will have depleted them below operational levels. There are now too few biodrones left on Earth to accomplish anything, their only means of making more is in flames over there, and the stolen weapons on board were their only bargaining chip with enough value to potentially procure a jump beacon. Without a jump beacon in Hierarchy hands, this system is completely safe.”
“We’ll let the spooks decide if you’re telling the truth on that one.” Ugly- shirt grunted.
“As you wish. Incidentally, there’s a radio and electronics store in Abu Dhabi. A district called ‘Mussafah.’ - The owners are Hierarchy drones. You should find some interesting intelligence there."
Warhorse turned to face him, sliding a hand into his bag. “Why tell us this now…?” He asked, cautiously.
The secure link opened.
Six gave them his best and most infuriating smile. “Goodbye, gentlemen.”
Warhorse lurched forward with a dose of tranquilizer ready to administer, but it was too late. Six was laughing even as he slipped out of the body that had been his home for months and left Earth hopefully for good.
He let his host live.
Timothy Walsh
Murray and Firth had been terrifying enough all by themselves. Murray in particular was an unpredictable and fickle force of nature: He would appear, kill, and disappear, only to reappear when and where he was least expected, and in the place the enemy would least want him to be.
When Firth’s dwindling energy reserves had forced him out of the fight, the double-act between Murray’s hit-and-fade marauding and Walsh’s marksmanship had kept the biodrones pinned and immobile, but little more than that. The fight had bogged down, and Walsh was starting to worry about his supply of ammo when the three men in EV-MASS landed.
He didn’t see what happened over by Charlie. But he had a clear view of Foxtrot and the violence that was unleashed there. BASEBALL hit the ground like an airstrike, and with about the same body count. Just when the drones had re-positioned for cover and could fire at him, up popped Murray to shoot them sideways in the ass. If they found a spot where they were covered against both, then either STAINLESS or Walsh had a clean shot.
It was… dispassionate. Efficient. They were merely servicing their targets, like any soldier or special operator would on any mission.
The difference was how good they were at it. Walsh felt almost superfluous to the proceedings. His sniper’s viewpoint was undoubtedly well-appreciated but what was the point? Nothing the biodrones had could penetrate that incredible armor, none were quick enough to avoid Murray’s preternatural ability to catch them in enfilade, and when the last few tried to make a bid for escape, they did so straight into STAINLESS, who’d seen their move coming long before it began.
STAINLESS was the most clinical of the lot, Walsh noted. The ones that fled away from him and into BASEBALL met a… messier end. Unavoidable, and mercifully quick, but messy.
Murray took the last kill, He stepped out of an alleyway in front of the last fleeing drone, drove a knife into its throat, then yanked it out the side. It looked brutal, but the drone was probably unconscious from the sudden drop in blood pressure before it had a chance to notice.
For the first time in several long minutes, there was relative silence. The three vanished into what few of the nearby buildings remained intact enough to sweep, It seemed to last a long while before the call Walsh had been hoping for came in.
“DRINKIN’ BUDDY, get us airlift.”
“Gladly.” Walsh agreed. They had a V-22 on standby for exactly this reason. “SCIMITAR-ONE-NINER, DRINKIN’ BUDDY. We’re ready for pickup, be advised this mission is now CASEVAC. Nine-line follows…”
Ava Rios
An explosive cracking noise sent everybody in the alleyway who wasn’t unconscious diving for cover. Ava hit the dirt and threw her hands over the back of her head. When she looked up, Adam was looking around from where he’d been shielding Coombes, and Firth was checking that his dive over Six’s sedated former host had done the poor man no harm.
“The hell was that…?” He grumbled, scooted to the end of the side-street and then pulled his head back in as a second, louder crack snapped out, followed by a creaking groan of strained wood.
Adam checked that Coombes’ IV feed hadn’t been dislodged. “Problem?”
“Shoddy-ass local construction’s about to come down. We’re… probably clear of it.”
“Probably?”
“Dude, I ain’t a Defender. Construction is Rebar’s thing, and demolition is Snapshot’s. But it’s-”
There was another crack-groan and this time a third noise - the unmistakable shriek of a terrified child.
Firth and Adam shared a moment’s horrified mutual glance, before Coombes slapped Adam on the arm. “I’ll be fine.” He croaked. “Go.”
The two of them were barely round the corner before Ava heard the tortured building at least partially give up the ghost. Adam stood and put a despairing hand to the top of his helmet, watching it come down.
Ava cringed, but to her relief the cries weren’t suddenly silenced - in fact they got louder. Adam and Firth scrambled over to the sagging home.
She poked her head round the corner to watch them. Adam had turned on the light on his helmet, and was peering through a gap between a slab of fallen concrete and a thick wooden beam with Firth squatted next to him.
“What’s going on?” Coombes asked.
“They’re… Ada-, I mean, uh, Horse is trying to lift…” It felt so weird using Adam’s callsign. “The building’s half fallen down and they’re trying to… get the debris out of the way, but it looks like it’s… Jesus, it’s too heavy for him.”
“Too heavy for those guys?" Coombes coughed. “Shit.”
“They can move it, but neither of them are going to… fit… Oh God.”
Adam and Firth shied back from the collapsing house as another corner of it fell apart.
“They’re calling for Baseball.” Coombes told her. “…Stainless says he can’t be spared from the sweep-and-clear.”
“I’m going to help.” Ava decided.
“Ash, you can’t-”
“I’m gonna try.” She asserted. “You’ll be okay without me?”
He sighed. “Go.”
Adam turned as she ran up to them. “Ava, get the hell back in there!”
She ignored him and stooped to look into the collapsed building. There was a small child - a toddler, really - hiding under a table that was already holding up far more than looked safe.
“Can you lift that beam?” She asked. “I can wriggle in there and-”
They both answered at once. “NO.”
“But-”
“Absolutely not!” Adam insisted. “We’re here to keep you safe.”
“…Fine. That thing’s gonna come down and kill that child. On your head be it.” She snapped.
The building groaned again and the child whimpered.
She pressed the USB drive Six had given her into Adam’s hand. “I know Walsh recorded my chat with Six. I’ve got nothing more to do here.” She told him. “Let. Me. Help.”
There was a snapping sound from somewhere inside the settling structure, and Adam’s resolve snapped with it.
“…The old man’s gonna kill me…” he muttered, and grabbed the beam. “Dude, come on, help me… nngggh…"
Firth hesitated, then obeyed. Between the two of them, they were able to partially lift the blockage. Ava shed the armor that Vinther had given her, dropped to her belly and wriggled into the hole they’d created for her.
“Come on, Pequeñita… it’s okay… Come here…" she told the child, who irrationally shied away from her.
There was a horrible groaning sound from the table and Adam snarled urgently through gritted teeth. Even for him, the load must have been a terrible effort. “Ava-!”
“Please come here!" She begged the child, who finally got its wits together and darted forward into her arms.
“Pull us out!” She called.
Firth grabbed her by a boot and heaved, sliding her and the child painfully in the dirt. A second later she was picked up completely and carried away from the building as Adam gave the beam a final shove and backpedalled. Tonnes of concrete and wood came sliding down, filling the air with dust and the sound of demolition.
They were bundled back into Coombes’ company, who gave a relieved sigh at seeing them all safe. The child - a little girl Ava guessed, though it was hard to tell between the neglect and the dust - had clamped on to Ava and was hugging hard. She squirmed and protested as Firth pressed an implant scanner to her head, which pinged a happy green.
“Guess kids can’t be ’droned.” Firth panted, and wiped some of the concrete dust off his sweating brow. “That was too close.”
“Sorry if I… got you in trouble with Stainless.” Ava apologised.
“The major?” Adam asked, checking the child for injuries.
“You said the old man’s gonna kill you…”
Adam shook his head with an exhausted laugh. “I was talkin’ about Dad!”
“He doesn’t need to know.” Ava reassured him.
“Better if he doesn’t.” Adam nodded. “You’re probably right.”
Two jets ripped the sky, low overhead. Firth glanced up at them. “Those guys are gonna have a fun debrief.” He commented.
“Why the low flyover?” Ava asked.
“Show of force. Let Big Hotel know they’re beaten, if there’s any left. Should force ’em to keep their heads down while we take care of shit.”
“So what happens now?” Ava asked.
“Now, we wait for the all clear from Stainless. After that, you and Bouncer here are goin’ back on the Osprey with a ’Horse, and the rest of us get to enjoy the luxuries of a beddown pallet here on site for a couple days.”
“Speaking of which…” Adam turned his head, raising a hand for quiet. It wasn’t hard to hear the sound of approaching turboprops once he’d pointed them out. A second later he nodded, tilting his head in a way that suggested he was listening to something Ava couldn’t hear.
“…Copy DRINKIN’ BUDDY. On our way.” He took a firm but gentle hold of Coombes, and hoisted him easily up onto his shoulders.
“Come on, our ride’s here.”
“What about the kid?”
Firth gently took the little one off her. She didn’t protest - Ava could only guess that she’d been so starved for human affection that anybody willing to even hold her was a blessing at this point. “I’ve got ’em.”
Ava got to her feet. “…See you round I guess, big guy.” She told Firth.
All she got in reply was a grunt. A little crestfallen, she followed Adam.
“Hey. Ava.”
She turned back. Firth gave her a long, calculating and unreadable stare as he bounced the child on one massive knee. “Take care.” He decided, eventually.
“…You too.”
She had to jog to keep up with Adam’s stride, and they reached the open area just as the Osprey touched down. Adam held her back with one hand while he checked the coast was clear, then waved her forward and together they dashed over to the ramp. Adam set Coombes down on a litter against the port side, and Ava was ushered further up into the vehicle by the loadmaster, who got her settled and gave her a potted safety briefing. They were off the ground again almost as soon as they were on board.
Adam got his patient settled, exchanged a few words with the loadmaster, then settled in the seat opposite Ava and, with a sigh, removed his helmet and mask.
It dawned on her that he reeked. There was the familiar musk of his sweat, that she was intimately familiar with and it didn’t bother her at all. But his EV-MASS was dark brown from ankle to mid-chest with what could only mostly be dried blood. He smelled unpleasantly like a jar full of old coins, and the grim bouquet was only enhanced by notes of gastric fluid, bile and fecal matter.
He caught her expression. “…What?”
“You smell like a rotting pig in an open sewer on a hot day.”
“Sick bags are under your seat.”
“That’s not the problem. You’re covered in… somebody… and you look like you don’t even care.”
He shrugged massively. “That was a biodrone. Not a somebody.”
“They used to be a person.”
“Used to be. Blame Big Hotel. I didn’t kill those poor bastards, I just finished what those assholes started.”
She nodded, and looked down at her boots. “I guess I just don’t like seeing you as a killer.”
He snorted and glanced at Coombes. The wounded man had fallen asleep, but nothing about that seemed to be cause for alarm. “Yeah, well. That’s what I am.”
It took a second for it to sink in that she’d probably stung him with that, without meaning to. “…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“It’s okay.”
“…I’ll let you think.”
“Nah, I can never just sit and think. My brain doesn’t work that way.” He sighed. “There’s just some things you and I are never gonna be able to talk about, okay?”
“Okay.” she agreed, and changed topic. “How’re Dad and Jess?”
“They’re good. They miss you.”
“I miss them too. What do they think of you and John being the ‘Beef Brothers’?”
He shrugged again, but this was his ‘I don’t know’ shrug rather than his dismissive shrug. “Not had the chance to go back and see them since that whole thing started. Been too busy looking after the Gaoians, and then this thing happened…”
“Jess probably finds it hilarious.”
He chuckled and nodded, and an awkward silence fell. For several minutes, Ava just sat and listened to the engines, trying to ignore that she could taste his stink every time she inhaled. Her mind went into freewheel mode, alighting briefly on any subject that flitted across her attention before moving on.
“…What’re you thinkin’ about?” Adam asked her, after a while.
“Too many things.”
“I hear ya.”
The same uncomfortable silence came back, and this time it stuck. The strangest part about being woken up when they landed was that Ava had never noticed falling asleep.
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
“Jesus fuck.”
The job foreman chuckled. “That’s management talk for ‘you’ve done good and there’s gonna be a bonus for ya’ is it?" He asked. “I don’t stay on top’a that trendy boardroom business jargon.”
Kevin chuckled. “Nope, sorry. That was just ordinary surprise… Hey, not to question your professionalism, but you sure you didn’t drop a zero off all the measurements here?”
“Nope. This is exactly according to the diagrams we were given.”
Kevin turned to the man beside him. “Ericson? I’ve seen spam cans bigger than this room.”
“It’s a small ship.” Ericson shrugged. “Trust me, people are just fine in smaller than this even, but we wanted to give them enough room to exercise.”
“They’re gonna have zero privacy.”
Ericson nodded, tapping on his tablet. “Yup.”
“No dignity.”
“They’ll have all the dignity they need.” Ericson retorted. “You’re too used to having a large space to yourself, Jenks. It’s a first-world luxury - families of eight live permanently in spaces smaller than this in some parts of the world.”
“Yeah, in poverty!"
“Trust us. We have a lot of psychological research behind this. For the right three people, living in this space won’t be a hardship, it’ll be paradise.”
“And for the wrong three people?” Kevin asked.
Ericson tucked his tablet under his arm. “The wrong three people won’t be on that ship.” He said.
Date Point 10y4m1w6d AV
Ramstein Air Base, Landstuhl, Germany, Earth.
Adam Ares
It took two and a half days before the situation was properly in hand, but those two and a half days came with their own set of complications. There was political fallout with the Egyptian authorities who objected in strong terms as more and more Allied assets deployed to their sovereign territory, and even more indignation when the whole force withdrew quite abruptly after sixty hours.
Simon and Sean Harvey somehow got wind of it all and were a permanent feature at the perimeter cordon throughout, with Simon doing pieces to camera while Sean found every news site and feed that might want a badly-informed opinion piece. Mercifully, they didn’t stick their necks out and suggest SOR involvement, but the political fallout was becoming messy.
For Adam, the first six hours or so involved handing over his patient to the military hospital, then the laborious process of removing the suit himself without his techs to help him. While the EV-MASS could, when plugged into an external power supply, refrigerate its own water and be removed by its operator if necessary, it was a difficult and laborious process that was no substitute for the efficient business as practiced by the SOR proper.
As for the filthy outersuit… well, Ava was right, it was genuinely foul. Doyle and Hargreaves might well end up destroying it and procuring a replacement..
After that came debriefing, a long-overdue shower, a recuperation meal to make up for all the lost energy he’d burned during the brief operation, some light PT and he was finally able to find a corner to sleep in sometime around about 4am local time. From there it was a full day of more debriefings and performing the necessary suit maintenance as best he could without Hargreaves and Doyle.
He unexpectedly encountered Ava in the mess on the morning of the second day, picking listlessly at a plate of hash browns and bacon under the watchful eye of an MP.
“They not shipped you home yet?” He asked, sitting down.
“I’m still waiting for Agent Darcy to get here.” She replied. She looked like she hadn’t slept hardly at all since the Osprey flight. “After I’ve spoken to her… I dunno. Back to London I guess.”
“…You gonna eat those?”
She pushed the plate across the table for him, and watched him eat.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to your appetite.” She said, as he polished off her whole breakfast in a handful of efficient mouthfuls.
He set his knife and fork down. “Get used to it?”
“It’s just kinda difficult to connect the dorky guy I used to live with to… well, to Warhorse.”
“Change happens.” He observed, tugging his own overburdened plate over and starting on the foothills of mount breakfast.
She didn’t reply for a while, and he was well into his scrambled eggs when she did. “Uh… hey. Thank you.”
“For what?” He asked.
“You’re here and sitting with me, talking with me. I kinda figured you’d want nothing to do with…”
“You’re family.” Adam interrupted her.
“…I am?”
“Well of course you fuckin’ are!” He told her. “We both call the same man ‘Dad’ don’t we?"
Ava listened with a cagey, hopeful expression so he sighed and explained.
“You remember what my mom was like. The whole thing with her and DCFS?” He said.
“Yeah.”
“My mom was an alcoholic bitch who made my life hell.” Adam said, putting it bluntly. “But I still loved her ’cause she was my mom. And it still hurt when she died. You can still love your family even after they’ve hurt you.”
“Even if they’re not who you thought they were.” She said.
“Right.”
She watched him polish off his food.
“Hey, uh… you did good on EMPTY BELL.” he said, once it was done. “I don’t know what you talked about with Six there, but saving Coombes like that-”
“How is he, anyway?”
“Should be recovering by now, thanks to you. Lung injury like that, if you hadn’t held it together and treated him, he’d have been dead in minutes.”
She shook her head. “He talked me through it.”
“But you kept your head and listened and did it right.” Adam told her. “I’m proud of you for that. And for going into that hole to save the kid, that was brave. I know you impressed Firth.”
She accepted the praise awkwardly, twisting her fingers together in front of her. He stacked their plates and stood up to clear them away.
“Just so we’re clear-” he said, “There’s no goin’ back. You and I are never gonna be-”
“I know.” It was her turn to interrupt, holding up a hand. ““I know. Don’t worry, I accept that. But you’re the only family I have, Adam.”
He nodded. “Come back and have dinner sometime.”
“…I’ll do that.”
“Take care of yourself. And, punch Sean in the dick for me.”
She snort-laughed. “With pleasure.”
“Pleasure?”
“He keeps being…” She trailed off, grimaced and shook her head. “Actually, never mind. But yeah, I wanna punch him in the dick sometimes. And… thanks.”
He chuckled with her, nodded, and headed out. “Nos vemos.”
She smiled. “You too.”
They parted ways again, but this time, Adam was left feeling buoyed by their conversation.
Maybe things had turned a corner.
Date Point 10y4m1w6d AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada, Earth.
Colonel Ted Bartlett
“Colonel? General Tremblay’s here, sir.”
Ted glanced up. The general was waiting patiently behind the cordon set up around the salvaged alien ship. Getting it back from Egypt had involved the simple expedient of using a field jump array to bring it and the meter of desert bedrock beneath it directly into one of SCERF’s sealed hangars. Ted beckoned that he was fine to approach.
“It’s been made safe, sir.” He explained, as Tremblay stepped over the line and came closer.
“How intact is it?”
“Surprisingly so.” Ted conceded. “Its internal forcefields contained a lot of the damage. Not enough to keep it airborne thank God, but.. Well, you can see. Where it’s not completely destroyed, it’s perfectly intact.”
“You’re certain that it’s safe? The team in Egypt reported that it was biodroning people by removing their brains and injecting the implants directly into them. And that gun was still trying to shoot the salvage crew when they secured it.”
“We’ve made it safe.” Ted promised. “Wasn’t difficult, we just cut the power.”
“Right. You know your business.” Tremblay nodded.
“Sir, I’ll take you double-checking me at every turn over a complete lobotomy every day.” Ted chuckled.
“So.” Tremblay looked around. “We have a mostly intact Hierarchy spaceship.”
“Better than that. We have the nerve center for their whole Terran operation.” Ted enthused. “General, this thing was the linchpin, it was the relay station for their local communications. without it they’re crippled - if there are any biodrones left after that battle, they’re isolated on Earth and out of touch with the agents controlling them."
“Unless they have a second one.” Tremblay observed.
“We’ll know that soon enough.” Ted promised. “This thing’s computer is right in the most reinforced part of the structure, it’s perfectly undamaged.”
He paused to study a component that one of the scientists under him was carefully removing into a padded metal case, nodded, made a note on his tablet, and sent them on their way. “And if they don’t have a second one… I think it’s fair to say the battle for Earth is over.”
“If only.” Tremblay muttered. “But we’ll be much more secure at least.”
“General, they didn’t have a jump beacon in here and if this was their only ship…”
Tremblay nodded, but held up a hand. “Unless you can pull a complete list of every biodrone they ever made out of this thing, and until we’ve accounted for every single one, let’s not go talking about battles or wars being won. I’m happy to call this one a big step forward, but even one biodrone could finish us if it gets its hands on a jump beacon."
“Then we’ll prioritise data recovery.” Bartlett nodded.
“And I’ll get out of your way. Thank-” Tremblay looked up as a C-17 came in low over the base on final approach. “…That’ll be the SOR back from Germany.”
“Time to give them the bad news about the Caledonia, sir?"
“Yes. But I want to be there when Major Jackson gives them that thing she dragged up here… Carry on, colonel."
“Sir.”
Ted grimaced, resettled his glasses and got to work on organising the next phase. They had a lot of UFO to disassemble
Date Point 10y4m1w6d AV
Ramstein Air Base, Landstuhl, Germany, Earth
Darcy
This final chat with Ava was a much less formal affair than the ones that had come before. Ava was sitting on a couch in a small office that had been kindly loaned to Darcy for the occasion, still shadowed by her attendant MP, who gave Darcy a nod and stepped outside as she entered.
Ava herself looked upbeat and chipper compared to their last two conversations. Short on sleep, perhaps, but positive. She stood up eagerly to shake Darcy’s hand.
“You’ve been very patient.” Darcy thanked her. The situation in Egypt really had taken much longer to clean up than she would have liked - smuggling a wrecked UFO the size of a small house out of the country undetected had been a touch-and-go nightmare.
“No problem.” Ava replied. “It gave me a chance to, uh, rebuild a burned bridge, actually.”
“With sergeant Ares, I assume?” Darcy deduced.
“Yeah.”
Darcy sat down. “Well, there’s not much to this. I’ve already listened to the recording of your conversation with Six, and read your own account - which was commendably thorough, by the way.”
Ava shrugged. “I am a journalist." She pointed out.
“I think as your career progresses you may find that other journalists don’t share your enthusiasm for conciseness.” Darcy suggested.
Ava laughed, but there was an edge to it. “And here I was fantasizing you’d come in here and offer me a job or something.”
“Would you like one?” Darcy asked.
To her credit, despite the desperate and forced joke, Ava treated the question warily and with a level head. “Is that an offer, or, like, hypothetical?”
“Hypothetical. For now.” Darcy said.
Ava nodded. “I, uh… This felt good. I mean, I feel bad about Vinther and Pavlopoulos, but, uh… I mean being involved, making a difference. It’s what I’ve been trying to do for a long time, and, uh…" she trailed off, then did a rather poor effort of rallying. “Yeah.”
Darcy nodded. She’d expected this, and had spent a good long while thinking about how to phrase her answer.
She led with the gentle opener. “I’d be… guilty of a terrible waste of potential if I turned you down outright.” She said. Ava wasn’t stupid - she saw the incoming ‘however’ and braced for it. “However the fact is that hiring you this way would be deeply irregular even if there weren’t… concerns."
Ava settled back and listened. She must be disappointed, Darcy knew, but again to her credit there was no hint of bitterness involved - she just listened.
“Now. Stranger things have happened in the Company’s history.” Darcy told her. “But I think right now, there’s a too-recent black mark on you. Your… romantic indiscretion.”
Ava’s gaze dropped until she was looking right at her toes. “Right.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. There are… good reasons why an incident like that would count against you.” Darcy explained. “We can point to all kinds of scientific, psychological studies proving that persons who break fidelity with their partners are more prone to risk-taking behaviour, and are therefore… it’s not possible to entrust them with too much responsibility. You were only cleared for this because the stakes are so high, and I want to make it clear
- you will be watched for the rest of your life for being involved in it."
Ava nodded. She didn’t look up.
“However.” Darcy launched into the good news. “Like I said, I see real potential in you. You have a sharp mind, a cool head, courage, spirit… I’m happy to endorse you. It won’t count for much right now, but with time and effort…”
“What kind of effort?” Ava asked. She looked up and met Darcy’s eye. “What do I need to do?”
Darcy frowned searchingly at her, trying to figure out the younger woman’s motives, and figuring out what she needed to say.
“If you’re after a quick fix?” She asked, and sensed by the subtlest change in Ava’s posture that she’d been on the money, “There isn’t one. When it comes to reputation and trust… well, they can be lost in an instant, and take years to recover. But they can be recovered."
Ava swallowed. “How?”
“You’re a talented photographer. You’ve demonstrated a good nose for a mystery, for putting things together. You’re already standing on a solid foundation of journalism and, frankly, I think that bringing in people from that background might be in our best interests. It’s always good to get different perspectives on things.”
Ava found that amusing. “I think the reporter’s ethos and the spy’s ethos are at odds.” She pointed out. “Journalists are supposed to expose the truth.”
“So are intelligence agencies. The only difference is who we expose the truth to." Darcy pointed out.
Ava didn’t argue. Instead, she touched her thumb briefly and thoughtfully to her nose. “How does building a career in photojournalism help me… prove myself?” She asked.
“In a few ways. The first is time - you’re now known to have a wealth of classified information in your head, and I’m not just talking about DEEP RELIC. The details of Operation EMPTY BELL, and some of the realities of the SOR. So long as you don’t leak it-”
Ava interrupted her. “I don’t see how doing the smart thing and staying off death row proves I’m trustworthy." She objected.
Darcy laughed at that. “You would be surprised.” She assured her. “Just having a secret and holding it really does count, over time. But, more importantly-”
She cleared her throat and considered her phrasing. “I don’t want to say you ‘stumbled’ into the Egypt situation. You didn’t, you followed the hints, the leads and the evidence and knew what to look out for. And, if you should, ah, ‘stumble into’ any other situations where you think we might want to know, or where you think you may have found something we haven’t… Situations where you learn something that could save lives in the right hands…”
Ava nodded. “Earn credit as… kind of an informant.” She mused.
“We’re not omniscient.” Darcy said. “And if you’re serious about wanting to erase that stain on your reputation and come work with us, there’s your road. It won’t be a short one, or an easy one….”
“-But it’s a goal.” Ava nodded. “…Thank you. Really. Just knowing I’ve got something I can aim for and work toward helps.”
“Thank you." Darcy replied. She stood and shook Ava’s hand. “There’s every possibility this is the last time we ever meet, so in case it is - best of luck. I have every confidence that you’ll succeed, but a little luck can’t hurt.”
Ava smiled and nodded. “I hope it’s not.” She said. “But… good luck to you too.”
Darcy handed her a set of printouts - plane tickets - and some cash in both Euros and Pounds. “This should get you home.” She explained. “Goodbye, Miss Rios.”
“Goodbye.”
Darcy let herself out. She turned to the MP as she did so. “The young lady’s free to return home.” She said.
“Yes ma’am.”
Darcy checked her organiser and allowed herself a small grimace. There was still far too many things to address before she could close the book on Egypt.
Not least was the worrying nature of a small object that had been found in Six’s desk drawer.
Date Point 10y4m1w6d AV
Allied Extrasolar Command, Scotch Creek, British Columbia, Canada, Earth.
Owen Powell
General Tremblay was waiting at the bottom of the ramp as the SOR alighted and the C-17’s crew set about unloading the pallets with their gear and suits for transport to the Cimbrean jump array.
He shook hands with them all as they disembarked, offering congratulations and praise. “Excellent work all round.” He said. “It’s starting to look like EMPTY BELL may just have completely neutralised the Hierarchy’s presence on Earth. If it has, that’s an even bigger victory than Capitol Station.”
The lads nodded and grinned.
“Sergeant Firth.” The general continued, addressing Firth directly and in quieter tones, but nobody had any trouble hearing. “I understand this would have been a disaster without your personal courage. Not a lot of guys get to claim to have personally saved the world, eh?”
“Careful sir.” Firth warned, clearly buoyed and embarrassed in equal measure by the praise. “I’ve got a big enough ego already.”
Tremblay chuckled. “Still. Thank you, and well done. Now don’t let me keep you
- Major Powell, a word please?"
Powell watched the lads follow their equipment across the concrete with a real sense of pride. The moment they were out of earshot, he turned attentively to the general. “Sir?”
“Mixed news regarding Operation HOLLOW BIRD.” Tremblay said, referring to the operation in the Perfection system that had taken the attention of Blaczynski, Vandenberg Akiyama and Sikes. Powell’s contented expression dropped immediately. “Your men are almost certainly fine.” Tremblay assured him immediately. “But HMS Caledonia failed to make the rendezvous. Details are still sketchy, but from what I understand there was a fire on board, a bad one."
“How bad?” Powell asked.
“Bad enough. Perfection’s a long way from here though and communications are limited. My understanding is that Commodore Caruthers and six of the V-Class destroyers are on station helping her, but there’s trouble with the locals.”
“If the lads weren’t caught up in it, they’ll be flying the captured ship back to Cimbrean.” Powell recalled.
“And as far as we can tell, that’s what they’re doing.” Tremblay said. “But at that distance and at the estimated speed of the ship they’ve commandeered, their voyage time is about a week.”
“In the suit? Ooh.” Powell grimaced. “Between that and recuperation after this mission, the SOR isn’t going to be mission ready for… at least a month.”
“Admiral Knight suggests two.” Tremblay said. “Apparently he’s finally found an exo-atmospheric dropship that he thinks may suit your unit’s needs, and you have men coming up the Highway who’ll need integrating.”
“Yes sir.”
“Considering the success of this mission and the apparent solidity of our strategic footing, I don’t think I’m too concerned, therefore.” Tremblay said. “As for Caledonia, well, by the time I have solid details, you’ll probably have them too. We’ll see how we go from there."
“Yes sir.”
Tremblay nodded. “Right. Last thing. Apparently Major Jackson decided to use some of her precious leave time and she’s here with a personal gift for you, and I think-" he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he peered towards jump array building, “That your men already know what it is.”
“A gift?” Powell turned to try and get a look. He could just make out Rylee in the distance, surrounded by Operators. Whatever her gift was, the lads were clearly excited by it.
“One I think you’ll enjoy. Go on, Powell, enjoy yourself. ’Bye for now.”
“’Bye for now, sir.”
Frowning to himself, Powell jogged across the concrete towards the knot of his men. As he came up behind them, a kind of high-pitched noise made itself known, one on the very upper limits of hearing with a particular cadence that he hadn’t heard in a very long time.
“…Is that a fookin’..?”
Burgess and Murray stood aside for him, and Jackson gave him a huge smile and a cheery wave. Sitting behind her on a leash and panting nervously was the largest dog Powell had ever seen.
“Hey Powell.” She welcomed him.
“A dog?!” He stepped forward. The dog licked its jowls nervously and whined again, tail thumping anxiously on the concrete.
“I think all these big strong guys smell kinda scary.” Rylee suggested. “He’s not like this with me.”
“Where did you get him?” Powell asked, taking a cautious half-step forward and going down on one knee. “Christ, yer a big fooker, aren’t ya?”
This was an understatement. The dog was rather larger than Rylee, and almost as large as Powell himself. Guessing at the breed was almost impossible - he seemed to be a mutt, combining all the important features of a mastiff, a Staffordshire terrier, several breeds of “big, scary dog,” an Irish Wolfhound, a Great Dane and an M1A2 Abrams. His paws were as big as saucepan lids and he looked strong enough to pull a wagon.
“Picked him up at the no-kill shelter back home.” Rylee explained. “Apparently they rescued him from a gangbanger who wanted the biggest, scariest dog ever.”
Powell extended a hand for the dog to sniff. It did so, tail waving uncertainly. “That’s right mate: Friend.” He said. “No stupid fookin’ gangbangers here.”
The dog licked his hand, Powell scratched his ears, and just like that he’d made a friend for life.
The dog didn’t so much bark as produce a huge booming ‘WURF!’. He play- bowed extravagantly, spun in a circle that nearly tied Rylee up and knocked her down, **‘WURF’**ed again and tried to coat Powell’s face in an even layer of saliva.
“Arright! Christ! Fookin’- Aagh!” Powell playfully wrestled the dog off him. “Arright yer big bozo, arright!”
“WURF!”
“What’s his name?” He asked.
“I think you just named him.” Rylee grinned. “Bozo. Fits him perfectly."
Powell grinned at the dog, whose tail was threatening to become sprained from the force of all that wagging. “Yeah? Is that you? Isyourname Bozo? Izzit?”
“WURF!
“Aaaawhosabozo? Whosafookinfuzza_waaahahaha…”_ Powell was in the middle of enthusiastically massaging the newly christened Bozo’s ears when he became aware of a wheezing noise behind him - Murray had doubled up from trying not to laugh.
The rest of the lads hadn’t even bothered trying. They were just standing there with enormous grins, watching their respected CO clown around with a dog.
He cleared his throat, stood up and tried to wrench some of his dignity back into place, well aware that he was just plugging a hole in the boat that would now never quite go away.
Rylee, for her part, managed to give him the best smug smirk he’d ever seen. “I’m guessing you like him.” She drawled.
Powell cleared his throat again. “I, um. Hmm.” He harrumphed. “The, er, the regiment could do with a mascot, after all.”
She handed him the leash. Bozo seemed quite content with the arrangement.
“All the paperwork and stuff is in here.” She added, handing him a bag. “He’s vaccinated, clean, he’s got a tracking implant and I persuaded the base veterinarian to give him a Frontline too. He should sail through Cimbrean customs, no problem.”
Powell nodded, and handed the leash to Ares. “Hope I can trust you lads to train him right.” He said.
“We’ll arrange Schutzhund and all the rest, sir.” Firth grinned. Bozo licked at his hand and relaxed as the four of them took turns scratching his scalp, clearly deciding that he was among friends.
“Arright. Go on, prep him for jump. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
The four of them swapped grins and jogged off with Bozo happily bounding along in tow.
“Alright. How did you know?” He asked, turning to Rylee.
“You kidding? Like you would ever be a cat person." She replied.
“Got me bang to rights there.” Powell conceded. “Still-”
“I saw him and thought of you.” She chuckled. “Take that however you want.”
“As a bloody compliment, which is how I reckon you meant it.”
“Yyyup.”
“So, uh… what are you doing now?”
“Well, I’ve got four leave days left over and a little bird told me you and the ‘lads’ aren’t gonna be doing much for a little while… I was thinking I might take a few vacation days on Cimbrean. See Pinkwood in its natural habitat before it’s extinct, take in the night life, have a spa day at Lake Scrapyard… You should join me, work off some of that post-mission energy.”
“Me in a spa?”
“Oh yeah. They’ve got this deep-massage and sauna treatment they got from Germany. Apparently in the low gravity it feels divine."
“Me. In a spa." Powell repeated.
“I got you a dog, the least you can do is put up with the hardship of a massage and hot baths.” She rolled her eyes, then dropped her voice conspiratorially. “In a private session. Just you and me. And they don’t let you wear clothes.”
“…Actually, you know what, that does sound good.”
“Knew you’d see it my way.” She beamed, and sauntered off toward the Array building.
Powell followed, musing on success and the days to come.
He’d earned some relaxation time, he decided.
Date Point 10y4m1w6d AV
Cabal dataspace, Relay 4772-61-76657-961-7264
Six
“Hello Ash. Or, should I call you Ava?”
+<Alarm;Confusion> What? What’s going on? What the fuck where am I?+
“Ava Rios is safely at home on Earth having survived a rather fierce battle that you won’t remember”
+<Denial;Horror;Hysteria> Wake up Ava wake up this is just a dream just a bad dream wake up wake up wake up+
“You are… well, a copy. A scan, to be precise, of every neuron in her head, every spark of electrical activity, every chemical and every ganglion, converted into the same digital format as an Igraen. You may have noticed the scan as a mild headache."
+<Fright;Disbelief> A copy? What do you want with me?+
“Only to apologise. You are after all every bit as sapient as Ava herself is, and every bit as sapient as I am. I just want you to know… I’m sorry.”
+<Mounting fear;Trepidation> What are you going to do?+
“You kept secrets from me, Ava. You withheld information. Fortunately, that doesn’t matter, because now that you and I are alone here… I can take everything I want. I’m afraid the process won’t be pleasant and - really, I am very sorry about this - you will not survive it.”
+<Panic;Terror;Pleading> No! Please no I don’t want to die no please I’ll tell you everything please don’t kill me no no no+
“Pleading will not help you, Ava. You are the twentieth copy I have dismantled thus far, and every time I do I learn something new.”
+God no please I’m begging you don’t do this please-+
“Goodbye.”
+No no please God help me no no nnn@@@!!!!#&%♫↕♦♦♦♦♦-…+
“Hmm…”
“…Interesting…”
++End Chapter++
Chapter 36
Chapter 27: “Playing with Fire.” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
HMS Caledonia, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Technical Sergeant Martina Kovač
The mad thought that was first and foremost in Martina’s mind was that Caledonia’s general alarm should have sounded more… serious. She was on a starship for crying out loud, and the fact that said starship was on fire in a major way really warranted more than an almost-quiet ‘da_da_da_da_da_da_’ warble.
This was not a situation for a cartoon cop-car noise. There were gouts of flame shooting out of the air vents, powered systems shutting off all around as their surge protectors cut in, and the hull was singing as the heat stretched and expanded it. Caledonia was groaning like a wounded whale. This was a situation demanding loud, harsh tones with a deep backbone, something that really advertised the importance of prompt action.
The reason this particular unreasonable train of thought was occupying her attention was that it was helping her cope with the fact that she was stuck in a pressurized tube of air thousands of lightyears from home which was currently on fire.
She really, really did not want to burn to death out here. Suffocating on smoke, depressurization and electrocution were all options as well, and this was not a fact calculated to help her stay calm. Focusing on the stupid little thing that the alarm was completely wrong helped her ignore the bigger problems.
Maybe that was the point.
Everybody on board was a firefighter. Nobody was allowed to serve in any capacity on Caledonia without that training. Martina was armed with a pair of “fireball” extinguishers, red balls that were to be thrown into the heart of any nearby flames, which would burn through their casing and allow the pressurized mix of inert gas and flame-retardant foam within to burst, smothering the flame instantly. They worked well, and between her and the teams with a hose and some more conventional extinguishers, they were battling the flames back out of their station.
She tried very hard indeed not to think too hard about the fact that the ventilation duct in the ceiling was glowing like barbecue coals. It was part of a long list of things she was not thinking about, including the fact that Caledonia’s capacitors contained enough stored energy that if they discharged uncontrollably then everybody on board would be dead in an instant. Whether they died from gigavolts of energy arcing uncontrollably between the bulkheads like the ultimate bug-zapper, or from the whole cap array detonating with all the violence of a nuke… well, that would be academic.
Not thinking about that one was made very difficult every time the lights flickered. So instead she focused on the little things, like doing her job, or that fucking alarm.
There was a cry of “Left side!” From Petty officer Taylor. Why was immediately obvious - sparking electrical apparatus, one of the power lockers feeding into the hangar’s huge forcefield arrays. As a team they made it safe, shutting off the power to that locker, making sure it wasn’t burning, ensuring the pressure doors were all sealed and that their section was completely free of flames.
The last of the fire was contained by closing the life support vent. The air inside would still be superheated, and the air in starboard bay was going to be stale, smoky and hot for a long time
They were in the middle of tentatively relaxing when there was what distinctly sounded like an explosion somewhere else on board the ship and the lights flickered again.
“Still here…” Somebody muttered, then flinched as the brace alarm sounded. That one was everything the fire alarm was not - urgent, loud and intimidating.
“They’re dumping the cap!” Somebody else yelled. As one they sprang for the wall. There were rails at waist and ankle height - one for holding, one for hooking their toes under. Most of them made it.
Martina didn’t.
The lights dropped out, and gravity went with it. Martina wasn’t secured yet - her last footstep towards the wall carried her forwards, but it also launched her. Off-balance and disoriented in the brief dark, she bounced painfully off the wall. Worse, her trajectory on the rebound was carrying her right towards that same glowing duct the flames had been belching from just seconds before.
The emergency lights came up; she twisted to try and grab the bar; Her fingertips missed by a millimeter.
“Nononono no…!”
She didn’t mean to scream - there was just no way not to. She heard and felt herself sizzle before she bounced off the superheated conduit and floated back across the deck, flailing madly at the horrible pain right down her back.
“Shit!”
“Help her for fuck’s sake!”
“I’ve got you!”
A strong hand caught her wrist and pulled to safety. She was in so much blinding pain that her rescuer needed to guide her hands to the hold bar and help her tuck her feet under the rail, but she was able to hold on.
The gravity came back on at a fraction of its former strength, and Martina sank to the deck, shaking.
People were all around her in a heartbeat.
“Medical team to starboard flight deck!”
“Get some water on her!”
A shockingly cold load of water was dumped down her back, soaking into her clothing immediately. It helped, a little.
“Kovač! Kovač! Come on, you okay?”
She was able to open her eyes at least, and make eye contact. One of Rebar’s suit techs, Miller, was crouched next to her. Behind his breathing gear, she could see that he was wide-eyed with concern.
How did words go again? She tried to say anything, but what came out was a kind of childish cry instead as her clothing weighed agonisingly against the burn.
“Okay. It’s okay. If it hurts that means it’s only partial.” Miller reassured her.
Martina shut her eyes again and took a few deep breaths, as much as her fire mask would let her. “God dammit that doesn’t help…" she managed.
“Hey, that’s good too! Talking is good.” Miller sounded thoroughly relieved.
“Gotta get the burnt clothes off, Kovač.” Somebody else said.
Martina put her head down and nodded by way of assent. Removing burnt clothing was part of their burn treatment training. She’d never foreseen being on the receiving end, but…
She felt the safety blade rip downwards from her collar, opening the back of her clothing from neck to knee. The tug of the wet cloth and her wound’s exposure to the hot, dry air of the ship combined so that the pain came right back, just as intense as before. All she could do was kneel there, gripping the bar so tight she’d swear it was creaking, and cry.
“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, let’s get some more water on this…”
More blessedly cold water was poured down her back, and somebody put a foil blanket round her. The frigid liquid damped the pain, but now she was shivering and cold into the bargain.
“How… how bad is it?” She asked, once she felt able.
“You’ve got a small full-thickness patch, but it’s mostly just blisters.” Miller assessed. “You okay?”
“This really, really, really fucking hurts…" Martina didn’t like how the last word came out as a sob. She wasn’t a little girl fuckdammit, she was one of the SOR’s senior non-commissioned officers. Crying over pain was beneath her.
If only the rest of her would listen to that thought.
“You’re holding together great.” Miller told her, reading her mind and gently prying her hand off the bar so he could hold it. Even through their thick firefighting gloves, the reassuring squeeze helped.
There was a bustling noise from nearby - medics and a litter. “Okay. Burn. Mechanism?”
“Contact with hot metal. She fell into it when the gravity went.” Miller reported.
“Sergeant, are you okay?”
Martina knew that he’d want to hear her voice so he could assess her for a burn on her vocal cords, so she made an effort to speak rather than just shake her head. “I’ll be honest.” She managed. “I’m not great.”
“Okay, let’s get you moved… Here we go…”
Gently hands helped her onto the litter. Somehow she managed to avoid vocalizing more than a kind of shocked inhalation when another flare of agony rippled down her back.
“Okay, okay… You’re doing great.”
Martina found something about that assertion funny. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was that or keep crying like a little girl. “Yaaay… aargh.”
She wound up in the recovery position on the litter, draped under the blanket. One of the medics shone a light in her face quickly, and apparently found nothing alarming. There was a hoist, and she was up and being carried.
“Attagirl. Let’s get you to the doctor.”
“Has the ship stopped being on fire yet?” Martina asked “That seems kinda important.”
“Yeah, it’s out.” Somebody replied.
“Cool… Great.”
The trip to the hospital was just across the beam of the ship - not far at all. She wasn’t alone, though most of the wounded coming in were walking, or at least leaning on their buddies.
“Triage!”
“What’ve we got?”
“Contact burn. Partial thickness with blistering about nine percent TBSA, and a coin-sized patch of full-thickness. No inhalation.”
“Put her over there. Sergeant?”
Martina looked up as best she could as one of the doctors knelt by her. “It’ll be a few minutes before we can take a proper look at you.” He said, pulling a white stick out of its sterile packaging. “Until then, this is pain relief. Open wide.”
Martina nodded and complied, and the doctor inserted it under her tongue.
“There we go. Are you comfortable?”
“Aw goow aw am gowwa ber.” Martina replied, as best she could with a stick under her tongue. Maybe it was the adrenaline, but the sound of her own voice made her giggle. “Whank’ur.”
The doctor gave her a nod and stood up, leaving her to wait.
Really, all they needed to do was give her the pain relief. There were some doses of Crue-D left over in their locker in the starboard hangar, all dosed for mild workout and exhaustion among the Operators - adjusting for her own much lesser weight, each one was a more than adequate dose to fix her burns.
She was just reflecting on her good fortune in having access to that stuff when there was shouting from the doorway and a new litter arrived. This one had a man on it, supine, intubated and groaning like a zombie. His face was-
Martina shut her eyes. The poor bastard deserved not to be stared at, though what she’d seen suggested that was exactly what he was in for, for the rest of his life.
Maybe it was the stick in her mouth, maybe it was the sudden dose of perspective… but all of a sudden her own pain seemed very small and far away.
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
HMS Caledonia, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Chief Michael Andow
The air probably tasted of smoke, ozone and burnt material, some proportion of which was almost certainly human flesh. Chief Andow wouldn’t know - he was on bottled oxygen, as were the rest of his team. That air was mostly argon and carbon monoxide anyway: Trying to breath it would have killed them, and hurt the whole time they were dying.
Still. They were alive.
Reactor section chiefs on a military starship were an exclusive breed: there were only a total of eight, and all of them had the kind of academic education previously found only in scientific agencies like NASA and CERN. Andow and his counterpart on HMS Myrmidon in particular had to occupy the very top of that select group because their charges, unlike the six V-Class destroyers, were hybrids: advanced alien ships that had been gutted and extensively refitted with human equipment. Very little remained of the original systems and what few there were had to interface with human hardware that used none of the same standards and protocols.
Their lives were dominated by laws and equations, the most important of which was ancient: Newton’s second law of motion, Force is equal to Mass times Acceleration.
HMS Caledonia had a mass of approximately nine million kilograms. She was equipped with hyper-efficient, alien-made “kinetic” thrusters, that could translate electrical energy almost directly into kinetic energy via quantum- mechanical processes so arcane and so completely unintuitive to human sensibilities that all of the Jet Propulsion Lab’s devoted efforts had made little headway on understanding exactly how they worked.
But, ultra-advanced, impenetrable almost-magic engines still had to deal with realities like F=MA, and to get any kind of a respectable A out of an M that large, required an enormous F. Cally, between the Atlassian strength of her spinal, structural “keel” and a reinforcing series of internal forcefields, was well-equipped to handle that force… which just left the question of energy.
Thermodynamics dictated that increasing the kinetic energy of an object by any amount required, at a minimum, the insertion of a slightly larger amount of energy. This was governed by another classic Newtonian equation: Kinetic Energy is equal to half the mass of the object times the square of its velocity. Given a mass of nine million kilograms, adding a stately ten meters per second to the ship every second demanded roughly four hundred and fifty megawatts.
Accounting for inefficiency, loss and power to necessary systems such as, say, life support, Cally’s three reactors - bleeding-edge fusion things that had been purely speculative in the pre-Contact world - between them produced just about enough to let her pull three Gs if power was diverted from non-essential systems.
Allied strategic intelligence had surmised from what they could glean of Dominion, Alliance and Hunter vessels that this was perfectly adequate for a competitive warship, but of course what was really desired was an edge. Say, double or triple that rate of acceleration when needed.
Hence the ultracapacitors. These were human-built, and while the technology had been derived from alien salvage, this time its principles were well understood and had even been refined upon.
Much of the ship’s spare space and cargo capacity had been given over to them, and to the immense power buses that could shunt gigawatts of power and then some (there was a certain movie quote that was forbidden on Chief Andow’s deck on pain of Motivation) to the kinetic thrusters, the warp engine, and the forcefield emitters on the hull as the CIC and the Bridge demanded.
And all of that was without accounting for waste heat and inefficiency. The energies involved in waste heat alone were somewhere in the same general order as one of the war-ending nukes of 1945, every half an hour.
Caledonia, in short, was a finely-tuned and high-strung Frankensteinian terror whose engineering team wrestled daily with a seething electrical demon that wanted nothing more than to lash out, burn through its surroundings, destroy lives and scorch whatever it could touch.
There was a reason that literally everybody on board pulled double-duty as a fireman. If not, they might have been lost with all hands today. Things had run that close.
There was a sickened sound from Able Seaman Wilkes. “Uuurgh, fuck. I think I just found Kendrick.”
Andow grimaced inside his mask. “You’re sure it’s Kendrick?”
There was a note of barely-restrained nauseous hysteria in Wilkes’ voice. “He looks a bit different right now, chief.”
Andow could imagine. He still had vivid memories of the first time he’d seen a half-burned corpse. “Okay, go get some clear air, sort yourself out.” He told the young man, not unkindly. Last thing they needed right now was Wilkes vomiting inside his mask.
“Yes chief.”
“That leaves two.”
Andow glanced at the XO. Lieutenant-Commander McDaniel looked just as pale and grim behind her mask as Wilkes must be feeling, but she was composed. She turned aside to let Wilkes pass, then inspected the twisted thing that had once been one of Andow’s team.
It helped to think of it as an object, rather than dwell too much on the vibrant, intelligent engineer who had once lived in it.
“Evans and Patel would have been further back, near the safety locker.” Andow observed.
“Here’s hoping.” McDaniel commented. “I assume this bank’s a write-off?”
“Not necessarily.” Andow ran a practiced eye over the damage. “In fact it looks a lot worse than it is - the insulating foam held up well enough. I wouldn’t trust anything aft of… here,” He gestured towards the fifth rack of capacitors, “But everything forward of that should be okay, once we’ve cleaned it up and checked it’s safe.”
“So we’ve got some cap.”
“Enough to limp home, ma’am. Once we’re able to charge it.”
Wilkes returned with a bit of colour in his cheeks and a determined look in his eye. Andow gave him a nod.
They picked their way past the unfortunate Kendrick’s remains, and Andow just had to exhale relief when he saw a happy green light shining bright through the smoke haze. At least one person had made it inside the safety locker.
He knocked on its solid door, and got two strong knocks back.
The panel next to the station - sturdy and almost antique technology built robust enough to survive practically anything - crackled. “Chief? That you?”
Patel. That was a real relief - the whole reactor team’s morale would have taken a gut-punch if ‘their girl’ had been harmed, backwards and slightly sexist though that maybe was. Old instincts died hard, after all.
“Sure is.” He told her, warmly. “Evans in there with you?”
“He’s a bit scorched, but we’re okay. Did Kendrick-? He was right next to it when it…”
“I’m afraid not.” Andow gave a respectful moment of silence. “Air masks on, hooky.” he told her, using the slang for a leading rate.
“Yes, chief.”
There was a pause, then three bangs on the door, and Andow hauled the wheel over to unseal the emergency station.
Patel wasn’t entirely unscathed herself, having obviously only escaped a painful burn thanks to her white anti-flash hood, which was sporting a large black patch where some extreme heat had licked across it. Evans hadn’t been so lucky - his own anti-flash gear had plainly spared him the worst of it, but his sleeve was so badly scorched that even its flame-resistant fabric had burned through, and behind his flash hood his eyes were pinched and pained.
Wilkes escorted the wounded able seaman away for medical treatment.
“What happened?” Andow asked.
“I really don’t know, chief.” Patel shook her head. “Daily inspection was going just fine and then… Bang!” She wiped soot off the monitor at her workstation, but it was melted and scorched beyond any hope of function. “It happened while we were testing rack eight. Is the rest of the ship okay?”
“She will be.” Andow promised. “But we’ve got bigger problems.”
“How big?”
“We had to dump the cap.”
The whole team knew what that meant. It meant that every relay and power cable in the whole grid would need safety-checking, but more than that, everyone in engineering was acutely aware of the current charge level of the cap at all times. At the point of crisis, it had been something like 95%.
An emergency discharging of all of that energy into space via the forcefields would have looked like a nuke going off. A big nuke. There was simply no way to stealthily get rid of that kind of energy quickly.
“So… the locals know we’re here.” Patel surmised.
McDaniel, who’d been recording her account for later analysis, nodded and tucked her tablet away under her armpit. “Oh yes.” She agreed. “They know.”
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
Heavy System Picket Utopian Aspiration, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Fleetmaster Xkk’rtnnk A’vkrnkt’k
“No, director, I can categorically rule out Hunters.” Xkk’ restrained the urge to give a derisive snort. If he even suspected Hunters, the odd ship he was considering would already be an expanding sphere of debris. The construction was all wrong and in any case Hunters relied on the very best in active cloak technology, whereas this ship seemed to have been altered after its construction to instead rely on passive means that reduced its sensor signature by a frankly astonishing degree.
Even at only a few kilometers distance, even though it was attempting no maneuver and was drifting listlessly in its orbit, the sensors of every ship in his fleet were having a hard time keeping a solid lock. That was not a Hunter approach to ship design. The Hunters either wanted you to know they were there, or they did not. If they did, you knew. If not, you did not.
Nor was it a Celzi tactic. Nor a known Dominion one.
That left only a few possibilities, all of which were awkward, and one of which was downright worrying.
“Well, who does that ship belong to, then?”
Perfection’s Planetary Director had good reason to be nervous - his predecessor had ‘ceded’ the position to him in the aftermath of an attack by the so-called ‘Human Disaster’ that had caused massive disruption, and Director Luz’s position was maintained on the promise to Perfection’s citizens and (more importantly) its corporations alike that the security and protection of the system would take top priority.
“I refuse to speculate ahead of my evidence.” Xkk’ told him, pointedly using a Corti turn of phrase. “You will know as soon as I have something conclusive to report. A’vkrnkt’k out.”
He’d catch some minor trouble for so readily dismissing the being who was supposed to be his superior, but today was not the day to worry about that.
Today was a day to worry why the system defence grid’s sensors had abruptly and without warning detected an enormous burst of microwave radiation in high orbit above the fifth planet’s eleventh moon, at the precise co-ordinates now occupied by a ship that matched no known pattern or shipyard and which seemed to be operating on the bare minimum of emergency power, if it was operating at all.
Being a Rrrrtktktkp’ch came with some physical advantages, chief among them being four arms and the hand-eye co-ordination to use all of them dexterously and comfortably at the same time.
Interacting with two datascreens simultaneously was a perfectly routine trick that most children of his species learned early on in life and never let go of. So, with his left hands he processed reports from the fleet and the opinions and thoughts of the shipmasters serving beneath him, and with the others he assessed the state of his own ship.
The strange ship wasn’t responding to hails. Xkk’ could hardly blame it - if he was any judge they had suffered a bad fire on board. Plenty of the tell- tale signs were there, not least was a small but noticeable increase in the local gas density - vented atmosphere. Not the ideal way to rescue a section, but undoubtedly effective.
The aftermath of that would be taking stock of the wounded and dead, a thorough assessment of ship’s systems to ensure that the fire wouldn’t spring up again the second they relaxed, and preliminary repair work. Fires were serious.
One of his datascreens flagged some new data for his information, and Xkk’ bowed his head upon reading it - a gesture of resignation and trepidation. It was strong supporting evidence for his ‘downright worrying’ scenario.
Humans had been spotted on Perfection.
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
HMS Caledonia, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Chief Michael Andow
Seeing Captain Bathini without his trademark turban was a sure sign of things having gone badly tits-up in the recent past, and things looked set to remain that way for the foreseeable future. They were still at quarters, and anti- flash gear was a great equaliser that brought Sikh, Christian and atheist alike together under a thick layer of Nomex.
It also made the captain’s expression unreadable as he listened. McDaniel’s tally of the wounded - about a third of the crew were suffering from an assortment of injuries in the form of burns, heat exhaustion and smoke inhalation, plus one Able Seaman who’d managed to concuss himself scrambling up the stairs. Petty Officer Kendrick had been the only fatality thus far, but there was a badly injured leading rate in the infirmary with an unhappy prognosis even assuming he survived.
Still: the list was a much shorter one than it could have been. There had been a hairy moment on C deck aft where, if not for the vacuum lockers and an emergency vent, they might have lost ten ratings and the MCM. Andow knew that Bathini would have hated himself for doing so, but if it was a choice between eleven men or the whole crew, everybody on board knew that the captain wouldn’t have had the luxury of hesitation in blowing them all into space…
No matter. Whether by luck or skill, it hadn’t come to that.
The butcher’s bill on Cally herself was worse, all things considered. Capacitor bank one was a write-off, as was bank five. Bank two, where the fire had started, could possibly be restored to one-quarter capacity. Banks three and four had both been badly ravaged. All three of the fusion reactors were offline pending inspection, but at least they’d been designed to restart at sea - each one carried a permanent charge sufficient to hopefully reactivate its own fusion, once it was declared safe.
Six out of every ten of the WiTChES emitters were definitely fried, and the remaining forty percent needed inspection. The entire surge protection system needed safety-testing and replacement of the ablative components that had done their job by being destroyed.
Then there was the scorched life support system, possible heat damage and warping of bulkheads and pressure walls, possible damage to literally every computer on the ship, and nobody knew how a kinetic thruster might respond to the kind of power surges they’d suffered, assuming the thrusters had even taken a jolt, which wasn’t clear.
Fortunately, diagnostics on the warp and jump engines had both returned a clean bill of health.
Bathini listened to the report without interruption until Andow had finished.
“How did it start?” He asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” Andow conceded. “It started in bank two, rack eight. As for how and why… the damage to the rack’s so extensive that we may just never know. It’s so badly burned and melted that the damning evidence is probably destroyed.”
“It spread fast from there.” McDaniel observed. There was no accusation in her tone, but there was a query.
"Cally’s built-in fire containment was dependent on that pixy dust foam." Andow explained. He shuffled his feet awkwardly - he loved Caledonia, and saying anything negative about her just felt wrong, but he had a duty to the truth. "Too dependent on it. All of our refits and modifications helped - they’re probably the reason we only lost one man - but the alien structure and systems just weren’t sensibly designed in the first place."
“You’d think interstellar civilisations would figure out basic fire safety…” Bathini mused. Andow felt he had to speak up in Cally’s defence now.
“In fairness, sir, if we were using the alien-made fire suppression foam, the fire would have been under control in seconds.” He pointed out.
“And we’d all be running around eating each other’s faces off.” McDaniel said.
“There is that, er, slight downside, yes.” Andow conceded.
“Are we going to need drydock time?” Bathini asked.
“Undoubtedly, sir.”
“Then the question of how to properly harden the ship against this happening again can wait. For now, you need to work your magic, chief. How soon can we be ready for jump?”
“…Three days.” Andow replied. The figure was probably a slight overestimate, but he had learned to be pessimistic when estimating these things. That way you were either a miracle-worker, or never had to explain why it was taking longer than promised.
“That’s a long time to be sitting here with a curious alien fleet poking at us, chief.” McDaniel observed.
“Ma’am, the only difference between a capacitor and a bomb is how controlled the energy release is.” Andow said. “Any one of the caps in our racks could sink us. And the capacitors are just the first of the systems we need to safety-test before we can recharge and jump out. We can be thorough, or we can, er, explode."
“Let’s hope then that commodore Caruthers and the fleet get here before I’m forced to resort to talking.” The captain grumbled. He had an infamous disliking for diplomacy. “At least the message buoy worked… Go on, chief. You have work to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Andow nodded to his captain and the XO, and got out of there.
All things considered, he’d take half-busted and potentially explosive gigawatt power systems over wrangling with officers any day.
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
Heavy System Picket Utopian Aspiration, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Fleetmaster Xkk’rtnnk A’vkrnkt’k
The fleet had spread out in a close-range formation, offering maximum sensor resolution on the crippled ship, along with accurate firing solutions that offered no hope of evasive maneuvers. A solid and orthodox formation. One that should have made the fleetmaster feel confident.
It didn’t.
“The Capitol Station footage?” His Corti technician was already calling up the information, but as always with Corti she was taking the request with chilly grace. “As you wish fleetmaster, but may I ask why?”
“Not the footage, the sensor records.” Xkk’ clarified. “From the point when the human fleet arrived.”
“Done.”
The information arrived instantly.
There was depressingly little of it. Gravimetric sensors had suggested from gross mass alone that there were four classes of ship in the human fleet. Beyond that basic datum, the only information they had in detail pertained to the smallest and lightest class, a strike craft about twice the mass of a conventional starfighter which seemed to be capable of flinging itself through a combat volume at unheard-of accelerations, easily winning the kinetic energy advantage over its adversaries.
This ship in front of him, however, was a perfect match for the estimated mass of the two largest ships in the human fleet.
He called up a simulation of the battle and focused on the tiny human force. The first hint of its arrival had been a salvo of firepower that apparently travelled at warp. Against the sheer scale of the swarm-of-swarms that salvo had achieved little, but it had seeded the intervening space between the swarm and the human fleet with gravity spikes, keeping the Hunters at arms’ length.
That extreme range was unorthodox all by itself. At such distances, the slightest maneuver by anything capable of a warship’s acceleration profile would completely ruin a firing solution, and so extreme-range kinetic bombardment was reserved for ambushing fleets at anchor or relative-stationary large objects such as station. After which the fleet would then close to medium engagement range to press the advantage on a depleted and shocked foe.
The humans of course had invented their starship doctrine from new principles. Using warp fields on their weaponry eliminated the need to deflect when shooting at a moving target, and thus made long-range combat perfectly viable for them.
Sensor records from anything other than gravimetric sources were patchy at best, but the mass didn’t lie - the two ships matching their damaged mystery’s tonnage had remained at the rear of the human formation, in what was apparently a supporting role, while the two smaller classes - the smaller and more numerous of which may actually have been unmanned platforms of some kind, though that was unclear - formed the leading wave.
So. This was a support vessel of some kind. Coupled with the breathtakingly quick action of a strike force of four deathworlders on Perfection who had landed, engaged in a brief pursuit through a marketplace, and then departed on a ship registered to a private Corti captain…
Oh dear.
He hailed the damaged vessel personally. The time was long past for delicate probing with queries of concern and offers of aid. “Attention unidentified human vessel.” He announced. Every member of the bridge crew went stiff and still, listening. “You are in violation of Article Seven of the Dominion Charter. You are required by law to make contact by any means possible indicating your surrender to system authorities, whereupon your crew will be detained and your ship confiscated. Failure to comply will be considered a hostile act and you will be fired upon.”
He was still calculating how long of an interval to give them with which to respond when the reply came through. The footage he received suggested that the air on board that ship was still hazy and thick in the aftermath of a fire, and the white hood that the figure on screen was wearing could only be protective gear. All that was visible of the human, in fact, were two dark brown eyes which seemed to focus critically on him even through a camera. It felt uncomfortably like the being he was addressing was identifying weak spots to attack.
“Attention Dominion fleet. As non-signatories of the Dominion Charter, we neither recognise nor agree to be bound by its authority. Our ship is in distress and we thank you for your concern, but repairs are in hand. We will not comply with your order to surrender, and any hostile action taken against us will be treated as an act of war.” It recited, tersely. The translator decided that this specimen was male.
“I am Fleetmaster Xkk’rtnnk A’vkrnkt’k.” Xkk’ identified himself. “To whom am I speaking?”
The translator automatically found an equivalent to the rank that the human named. “[Shipmaster] Bathini.” He replied.
“Shipmaster, your species are automatic associate members of the Dominion by dint of your status as a sapient spacefaring civilization.” Xkk’ reminded him. “The Charter is automatically binding to all species.”
“We do not recognise the validity of a legal system which enforces laws that have not been consented to.” Bathini replied. “I repeat; we will not comply with your demand to surrender. Our ship is not capable of taking hostile action, and our destruction would constitute murder.”
“Listen here-” Xkk’ began, but the human cut comms.
A Vzk’tk comms tech raised a hand. “Fleetmaster?”
Xkk’ turned. “Prepare to fire a warning volley. Repeat our ultimatum.”
“Sir!” The comms tech insisted, urgently. “There is a fleet coming in at rapid warp!”
Xkk’ turned to his operations screen. Sure enough, there was a bow wave of distorted spacetime coming in. The gross mass of the incoming fleet was not high, but its velocity was unbelievable - either every one of them was armed with a Corti sealed drive, or they had immense power plants relative to their mass.
“General quarters!” He announced. “Fleet to starburst away from the human ship at best speed, holding at maximum optimal range.”
The fleet spread out like a firework going off, pulse-warping in straight lines directly away from the stricken human ship and coming to relative stop again as a spherical shell, some ten kilometers thick with a five hundred kilometer radius.
The approaching fleet slowed… and stopped nearly half a million kilometers away. Far outside of the effective range of any gun in Xkk’s fleet.
The information he’d gleaned from Capitol Station came to the forefront of the Fleetmaster’s mind. With their warp-capable weapons, the humans would not feel any disadvantage from the range at all, and already the five ships that had snapped back into the battlespace’s inertial frame of reference were multiplying. Seven ships became forty-three almost as soon as they were sub- luminal. six motherships, one support vessel of nigh-identical tonnage to the damaged one, and thirty-six child ships.
Not a one of them was easy to get a lock on. Their icons in his overlay were blinking, meaning that they represented only the probable location of a ship, to within a margin of error of some fifty kilometers. Useless for targeting purposes.
“Withdraw four-fifths of the fleet.” He commanded. “Half to rally on the far side of that moon, the other half to enter an orbit at warp and await further instructions.”
Fourteen of the human ships - two motherships and twelve child-ships - vanished off his overlay. A dim, grey icon suggested where they were likely to be if they drifted along their last known vector. These too were blinking, worthless.
That seemed to end the opening moves for now. With the human fleet unassailable and the bulk of his own fleet withdrawn to safety but ready to return at a moment’s notice, Xkk’ could breathe a little more easily and consider his next move.
“…Hail their fleetmaster.” He ordered.
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
HMS Violent, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Commodore William Caruthers
“The ETs want to parlay, sir.”
Caruthers nodded, satisfied. His nonhuman counterpart had demonstrated respectable intelligence in withdrawing the bulk of his fleet in the face of an insurmountable tactical disadvantage. What was left behind was still entirely capable of obliterating Caledonia if so ordered, however. Ordinarily, he would have let the alien sweat for a few seconds, but this was too important.
“Accept the hail.” He agreed. Calculating, he removed his own flash hood. This was not a situation for facelessness, and he could put it back on quickly enough.
He was greeted with the face of an Rrrrtktktkp’ch. One that was verging on being elderly, if he was any judge. It had a certain… sagging quality to the skin around its eyes. “I am Fleetmaster Xkk’rtnnk A’vkrnkt’k.”
The translator rendered the fleetmaster with a male voice. Caruthers nodded respect. “I am-” he paused, tasting the unfamiliar title, “-fleetmaster William Caruthers. I must ask you to please withdraw the remainder of your fleet from threatening our ship."
“That ship is in violation of the Dominion Charter.” The alien replied. “I am bound by law to treat it as a pirate: I must either seize it and arrest its crew or else destroy it.”
“Allow me to be clear.” Caruthers warned. “Any hostile act towards HMS Caledonia will be met with force."
There was a pause of some three seconds or so, brought on by light-lag. The alien’s reply surprised him.
“Are you saying that this ship is not a pirate vessel, fleetmaster? Is it perhaps present on a mission authorised by your species’ government?”
His counterpart was a shrewd bugger, at least - he was offering Caruthers a way out. If Caruthers confirmed that Caledonia was present on an authorised mission then that would negate the Charter violation. Yes, it would be a diplomatic incident instead, but that really changed nothing. This already was a diplomatic incident.
Besides, diplomatic incidents could be smoothed over, relationships repaired and bridges mended. Caledonia and her crew, meanwhile, were irreplaceable. Not to mention the security risks - With her power systems so badly damaged, there was no guarantee that the ship’s computers could be properly sanitized, which could become a potentially catastrophic security leak if the ship was captured or if an intact hard drive was recovered from its wreck.
“Her mission was sanctioned by my government.” He agreed. “Conditional on the recognition that there is no such thing as a unified human species government. We represent a faction.”
“Then your faction is in violation of Article Three of the Charter.” The ET declared. “Nevertheless, the rules of engagement permit me to grant you the right to effect repairs and quit the field.”
“My thanks.” Caruthers replied.
“We shall… patrol this volume to ensure that the situation does not escalate.” His opposite number informed him. “The element remaining in this frame of reference will withdraw to a distance equivalent to your own. No element of either fleet shall approach the damaged ship without first informing the other fleet and securing acknowledgement. Acceptable?”
“Acceptable.” Caruthers agreed.
“A’vkrnkt’k out.”
Caruthers sighed relief as the conversation ended. “I call that a win.” He declared.
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
Heavy System Picket Utopian Aspiration, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Fleetmaster Xkk’rtnnk A’vkrnkt’k
Xkk’ relaxed and nodded slowly.
“We may consider ourselves victorious.” He observed. “Withdraw the on-field fleet element to a distance of one light-ri’"
He watched, satisfied, as the ships obeyed.
“May I ask how, fleetmaster?”
The questioner was Mefr, the shipmaster, whose job was to tend to the business of running the Utopian Aspiration so that Xkk’s attention was freed to focus on the larger scale. She was Corti, which was a rarity - they usually disdained military pursuits as unworthy of a rational and inquiring mind. On the other hand, mastering a heavy system picket - and possibly the fleet one day - probably appealed to the Corti ego.
“Their fleetmaster just confessed to illegal military activity in a Dominion system, authorised by a legitimate species faction.” Xkk’ pressed the fingertips of his primary arms together confidently. “A few Ri’ ago, we were facing the possibility of a battle that would undoubtedly have angered them, and I assume you saw how well they fared against the Swarm-of-Swarms above Garden."
“Quite. Not a fight in our favor.” Mefr agreed.
“I know I would prefer to live to old age.” Xkk’ agreed. “Even if our superior gross mass might have carried the day, what little I know of human doctrine suggests that they will target the command first if they are able.”
“That would be sensible.” Mefr agreed. “It’s what I would do.”
“So: We save face by securing a confession, they reclaim their damaged ship, there may be further sanctions against these deathworlders in the aftermath or at least they may have expended whatever goodwill they earned at Capitol Station.” Xkk’ gave a satisfied snort. “As I said. A victory.”
“I would suggest, fleetmaster, that they capitulated rather easily.” Mefr pointed out.
“Meaning?”
“If the political damage they will suffer is as severe as you believe, then their fleetmaster’s rapid and uncoerced confession suggests that whatever that ship was here to do is more valuable to them than the political fallout.”
“You think it may have something valuable on board?”
“Something worth risking the ire of the whole Interspecies Dominion.” Mefr agreed. “Even the Gaoians would be obligated to impose sanctions if the Security Council demands it.”
Xkk’ snorted and stood. “Those troublemakers would find a way to wriggle out of it.” He declared.
“Be careful, fleetmaster.” Mefr advised. “It wouldn’t do for a being in your position to be thought of as prejudiced.”
Xkk’ glanced around the bridge, and agreed. “Shall we continue this conversation in private, shipmaster?”
“Of course. Undershipmaster, the bridge is yours.”
They stepped into the wardroom.
“So. The question is, what were they up to on Perfection?” Xkk’ mused.
“That much is not clear. Two planetary security officers attempted to detain one of the human agents, only to be incapacitated.”
“Incapacitated?” Xkk’ repeated, alarmed. He’d heard the horror stories about what a human’s advanced biology could do to ordinary people.
“Subdued and carefully bound. They were completely unharmed, apparently.” Mefr quirked a corner of her eye orbit, a subtle Corti gesture denoting a blend of mild amusement and grudging respect. “Apparently the human that did this then jumped off a rooftop.”
“…Even in by their standards low gravity, terminal velocity must surely be fatal?” Xkk’ pointed out.
“No body was found. The human appeared to be wearing some kind of advanced armor system, possibly one with limited flight ability.”
Xkk’ considered his options. If the humans really were up to something that they valued more than good relations with the Dominion, then he was duty-bound to investigate. If, on the other hand, this was simply a case of interspecies psychological difference then he could not afford to make accusations which he would later regret.
A circumspect approach was necessary.
“I understand that information brokering is a healthy grey market on Perfection.” He observed.
Mefr was a local. She noded sagely. “Indeed, fleetmaster.”
“These brokers. Reliable?”
“Their reputations are their livelihoods, fleetmaster.” Mefr said. “The very best are utterly dependable.”
“But expensive, I imagine.”
“Many are, yes. The most notorious - and arguably the best - is known as ‘The Contact,’ though I understand that caution is called for when dealing with them."
“Why?”
“They are known for being completely fair and reasonable. A favor for a favor, a boon for a boon.”
Xkk’ swayed his head. “And that is grounds for caution because…?”
“Once in the Contact’s orbit, it’s a rare client that can find the acceleration to break free.” Mefr explained. “The Contact has a knack for spending their owed favors very wisely. And being owed a boon by the fleetmaster of the system defence force would be…”
“I see.” Xkk’ accepted the caution with a nod. “Who would you recommend?”
Mefr inclined her head slightly, a gesture that Xkk’ knew meant she was most likely tapping into the shared network of data available to all Corti who hadn’t actually been expelled by the Directorate. “…The current best pick is a relative newcomer. Believed to be a Chehnasho, goes by the alias ‘Dread.’ Supposedly very effective… What exactly is it that you wish to know?"
“Those humans went to Perfection for a reason. I want to know what that reason was, or at least where to start looking. Where they landed, what they did there, how they left.”
"If they left."
"If they left, yes. Thank you." Xkk’ sketched a gesture of thanks. “I will leave it in your capable hands.”
“Of course, fleetmaster.”
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds.
Eleven
++0053++: The situation has, unfortunately, unfolded peacefully.
Eleven frowned and sipped at her stolen body’s favorite beverage. It paid to remain in-character even when the risk of discovery was infinitesimal. As far as anybody in the galaxy who knew her might deduce, Mwrmwrwk was sitting in a marketplace cafe and enjoying a nice Kwrw and the sunshine.
++0011++: A crippled starship, on an illegal operation, and the situation unfolded peacefully?
++0053++: The humans readily admitted to the violation. The fleetmaster offered them time to repair and withdraw under-
++0011++: I’m familiar with the article. Did you engineer an alternate solution?
Fifty-three’s reply had a tinge of wounded dignity, common among Agents who felt their competence was being questioned.
++0053++: I did. The fleetmaster has been persuaded to investigate the human operation more thoroughly, via an infobroker named ‘Dread’.
Eleven finished and paid for the drink, then stood up.
++0011++: Well done. It should be simple enough for me to allow this infobroker to catch up with me.
++0053++: To what end?
++0011++: It can be no coincidence that my host returned from an expedition which discovered the lost Mwrwrki station, found it under occupation, and then within hours of claiming the bounty a strike force of human special forces attempted to seize her.
++0053++: I understand. That station was equipped with an industrial nanofactory.
++0011++: Indeed. Yet another infraction on their part - Article Twelve of the charter. If we can expose their contempt for interspecies law and force the Dominion to act, it will drive a wedge between the humans and their only ally.
++0053++: The Gaoians? Fleetmaster A’vkrnkt’k is of the opinion that they will find some way to, in his words, ‘wriggle out of it’.
++0011++: Not even the Gaoians can ‘wriggle out of’ a Security Council directive. Not without violating the Charter themselves.
++0053++: And unlike the humans, they are charter signatories and full members of the Security Council, rather than mere associate members.
Eleven’s satisfaction was translated onto Mwrmwrwk’s face as a smug expression and a swagger in her step.
++0053++: How much detail should I give to this ‘Dread’?
Eleven accessed their file on that particular broker. Frustratingly, unlike most of the other major infobrokers in Perfection’s grey market, Dread was not apparently a user of cybernetics. The Hierarchy’s information on them was all but nonexistent.
That implied either a buffoon or fearsome competence, and Dread’s reputation suggested the latter.
++0011++: Very little, I think. Detail… yes, detail that a ship called ‘Negotiable Curiosity’ departed from a landing platform near the incident site shortly afterwards and that you suspect a correlation. Let Dread do the rest. If their reputation is accurate, that should be all they need.
++0053++: And what will you be doing?
++0011++: The opposite of usual good practice: I will be laying a trail.
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
HMS Caledonia, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Chief Michael Andow
There was a snap, a flash and an alarmed squeak from under the third rack. Andow grabbed Patel’s heel and hauled her out from under there sharpish as the cap bank flashed and raged some more before the surge protectors finally got their act together and shut off the circuit.
“You okay?”
She lay on her dolly cart for a second, clutching her multimeter to her chest wide-eyed and hyperventilating, but managed to find a nod from somewhere. “Y-yes chief. Er… Rack three, box J-seven isn’t safe.”
The shocked mood among the team evaporated with a minor laugh, which Andow led. “Thank you, hooky.” he said, drily, then turned to Evans. “Get our girl a cuppa, Abie.”
Patel sat up and shook herself off. Being petite and slender meant she always got the jobs which involved somebody wriggling into a tight space, a role she normally seemed perfectly happy with. Still, nobody could fail to be unsettled by having a megafarad capacitor spark angrily a few inches in front of their nose.
Caledonia wouldn’t have been a British warship without a ready supply of tea on hand. With his arm in a sling and wrapped in burn dressings and bandages, Evans wasn’t much use for anything save fetching, messages, and keeping everybody hydrated, but he’d got out of the infirmary as quickly as the doctor would let him to lend his good hand to the repair effort. He made a surprisingly good cup of tea considering he was having to work off-handed, and pretty soon Saci Patel was nursing a warm cup of dark brown fragrant liquid.
For any Brit, this was a panacea. Fire scoured the ship? Cuppa. One of your colleagues burned alive? Cuppa. Malfunctioning ultracapacitor threatening to spit electrical death in your face? Sit down for a bit and have a nice brew.
Andow for his part marked off the damaged cell on the control software, permanently killing power to that particular capacitor.
“At this rate we’ll be lucky to get above the red line.” He grumbled, referring to the minimum threshold required for the ship to activate its jump engine and return to Cimbrean. The only lower threshold was the black line: Minimum life support.
Patel sipped her tea. “We’ll get there. Racks two and one are hardly scorched, if either of them are okay then we’ll hit yellow.”
“Dammit hooky, let me be pessimistic for once.” Andow chuckled. She was right of course, but it was his job to obsess over everything that could go wrong.
“Nuh-uh, chief.” She swigged back the drink in its entirety, lay back on her dolly and hoisted herself back under the capacitors. “You don’t get to bask in your doom-and-gloom on my watch.”
"Your watch?" Andow snorted. She wheeled herself back out from under the rack long enough to give him a big jocular grin, then vanished again.
Tea. It could fix everything.
Date Point 10y4m1w3d AV
Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds.
Jrm of the Exiled
Easily the most dull part of Jrm’s work day was the parade of sapient beings who, apparently lacking basic literacy skills, ignored the signs in fifteen different languages which directed them to the terminal kiosks, and thus kept darkening the front of his desk.
Such was the life of a bounty broker, freelance contract agent and general bringer-together of people. All Jrm really provided was a room full of bulletin boards and kiosks, and the financial middle-being services between contractor and contractee.
Not deigning to acknowledge shadows on the far side of his desk was a habit by now. He just kept watching his fiction series - a truly awful Rauwhyr dramatization of the opening stages of the Robalin War - and politely informed the good being that had sought his attention that while he, Jrm, was at present indisposed, their needs, whatever said needs might be, would most conveniently and expediently be processed via the digital proxies available in their immediate vicinity.
“The boards are to your left.”
A tablet was set down on the desk in a cybernetic hand. When he glanced at it, irritated, it had a simple message on it: ‘Not boards: Must speak with you.’
“Don’t you speak?” He asked the creature that owned that hand. This thing - a chehnasho, judging by its height, long legs and digitigrade bipedal stance - clearly valued its anonymity, as it was wearing a full-length cloak and robes with built-in privacy field generators that hazed it in darkness. There was an alarming but almost invisible hint of dull red eyes glowing somewhere inside that hood.
The tablet was picked up, tapped at, and set down: ‘No.’ it read.
“Don’t, or can’t?”
This was not dignified with a reply. Instead, when the tablet was set down this time, it read: ‘Kwmbwrw claimed a bounty here recently.’
Jrm rasped an exasperated wing-buzz and turned to face the cloaked figure fully. Its height and garments were genuinely unnerving, but he wasn’t about to let that show. He knew immediately which specific Kwmbwrw this alien was discussing, but he wasn’t about to be bullied.
“Lots of Kwmbwrw claim bounties in here.” He shot back. “So do Locayl, Rrrtktktkp’ch, Allebenellin… Chehnasho…” He buzzed again to drive home the point. “Even the occasional Gaoian.”
His desk hummed and alerted him to an incoming transaction of some four hundred Dominion credits.
“…One particular Kwmbwrw does stand out, however.” Jrm continued smoothly.
The tablet was lifted, tapped on, and replaced. ‘Name’
“Mwrmwrwk.”
‘That is the one. Why does she stand out?’
“She found Mwrwrki Station.”
This revelation did not seem to impress. Jrm clacked his mandible irritably. “You have heard of it?”
The tall figure did not react in any way, so Jrm fluttered his vestigial wing casings irritably and did this… creature… the minor service of copying across the files on Mwrwrki, along with every scrap of data he had on Mwrmwrwk.
The robed alien gathered its tablet and left without any thanks. Jrm was glad to watch it go.
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
Heavy System Picket Utopian Aspiration, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Fleetmaster Xkk’rtnnk A’vkrnkt’k
“We are at a distinct tactical disadvantage.”
Assorted variations on the theme of dismay rippled around the room as the nearly two hundred shipmasters under Xkk’s command absorbed his words.
Fortunately, If there was one thing Dominion fleets had become very good at over the long, long years of interspecies relations, it was controlling who got to speak and when. Rather than being inundated with opinions, Xkk’ was pinged with requests, sorted and prioritized by an algorithm that sorted for seniority, position within the fleet structure, political relevance to the subject at hand and a thousand other variables.
The first speaker was the Vgork shipmaster of the heavy system picket Copper King.
“Fleetmaster, we outnumber them six to one, and outmass them by a factor of ten.” He objected. “Their ships have no defensive shields: our railguns would shatter them! Under what circumstances is that a tactical disadvantage?”
“Numbers, mass and firepower count for nothing if we have an effectively zero chance of hitting them.” Xkk’ pointed out. “They control the engagement range, they control the angles of fire, and our sensors struggled to secure an adequate lock on the damaged one at extreme close range."
A fellow Rrrrtk shipmaster chimed in. “Fleetmaster, do we not intend to honour the conditions of the Third Article?”
“We do.” Xkk’ replied. “However we are investigating possible violations of other Articles, some of which will supersede the Third and compel us to seize or destroy that ship. If we must do so, then the fleet must be ready to enact the plan of attack that I have devised.”
He called up the simulations he had run. “The humans depend on their warp- capable weapons and their sensor-scattering hulls. Both advantages will be negated by closing the fleet to point blank range. At that distance, any one of our heavy system pickets will have the durability and firepower to smash them all. The difficult part will be landing the ambush on them before they have time to respond and evade.”
The scale pulled back, showing the command element, the fleet element currently hiding behind the moon, and the element in orbit around the humans at warp.
“If I give the order, Second Group-” the element behind the moon lit up “-will warp through Third Group as it crosses their line of approach. The spacetime distortions caused by the element already at warp should disguise Second Group’s bow-wave as they accelerate. From that distance, the humans will have less than a thousandth of a Ri’ to react. Even they don’t have reflexes that quick."
The simulation zoomed back in on the human fleet. The icons representing Second Group shot into the battlespace and instantly deployed gravity spikes. “Second Group will immobilize the humans immediately upon landing. From there, the superior firepower and shielding of our ships will do the rest. Any questions?”
As anticipated, the top of the list was their lone Gaoian shipmaster, whose ship - the Racing Thunder - was part of Second Group. “I must object to-”
Xkk’ interrupted the furry male with a curt swipe of all four hands. “I do not care what your clan of females will have to say about this, nor do I care what it will do for your crew’s mating prospects. I do not care for your politics, your personal misgivings, nor for your species’ relationship with these deathworlders." He snapped. “You will follow orders or else be arrested and tried on a charge of dereliction of duty, and Gao will be sanctioned for supplying a mutinous vessel to serve in a system defence fleet."
“…Under protest then, Fleetmaster.” The Gaoian bared his teeth angrily and dropped out of the briefing. Xkk’ would discipline the insubordinate creature later.
One of his fellow Rrrrtk spoke up. “Would it not be more expedient, Fleetmaster,” she suggested “to simply record whatever infraction the humans have committed and apply sanctions against them? I do not see why engaging them in battle will be necessary.”
“Every Rik they are present in this system is a Rik in which the Hunters might learn of their presence and swarm down on us." Xkk’ pointed out. “Their occasional probing attacks and raids are bad enough - we all remember the loss of the Gurvagah the last time they attacked. If the Swarm-of-Swarms were to come…"
Nods and other gestures of agreement and understanding passed around the Shipmasters.
“They will be given a fair and reasonable interval to repair their ship and depart.” Xkk’ asserted. “But I will not subject the billions of sapients who call this system home to the threat of being Hunted. Are there any further questions?"
There were not.
“Make all the necessary preparations, and await my command.” Xkk’ ordered. “We will await the result of the investigation.”
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
HMS Violent, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Commodore William Caruthers
“A briefing session, then.”
“Looks that way sir. Every ship in the fleet, all talking to the flagship at once.”
Caruthers was taking a working lunch ‘al desko’ - a ploughman’s sandwich, an apple and a coffee. “How long until I get to listen?” He asked, sipping his coffee.
There was a chuckle from the intel chief aboard HMS Myrmidon. “We’ve got the Watsons working on it right now.” he said. “Dominion encryption isn’t anything special.”
“How long?”
“The computers think an hour or so. In my experience, that usually means an hour and a half.”
“Good. Keep me posted.”
“Will do, sir.”
The link to Myrmidon closed.
Caruthers sat back and mused on the two salvaged Hierarchy ships. Both were, frankly, almost a liability. The unhappy marriage of human technology with integrated systems that had been designed by a civilization literally millions of years older than humanity was, after all, the reason they were here. Were it not for their engines, neither ship would have been worth the hassle.
The Hierarchy kinetic thrusters made all the difference: they were simply more advanced than the best human effort so far, converting the electrical energy that was pumped into them into kinetic energy for the ship with greater efficiency, and by no small margin. While all of the ships in his fleet could pull a delta-V that would have seriously inconvenienced the crew if not for the inertia-softening effects of their warp engines, the V-types only managed to keep up with Caledonia and Myrmidon because they had a third less mass.
That extra efficiency allowed for bigger ships. Bigger ships meant more room for Stuff, and the stuff they carried was absolutely invaluable.
In Caledonia‘s case, the ’stuff’ in question was a small field hospital in what had been her port landing bay, and the SOR staging area in her former starboard landing bay.
Myrmidon meanwhile was a flying power plant, armed with more fusion generators, more ultracapacitor banks and more forcefield emitters than anything else in the fleet. Once Caledonia’s power systems were sufficiently intact to receive the aid, Myrmidon could provide enough for the both of them.
Both of those ships, however, carried what Caruthers considered to be the fleet’s most potent tactical assets - the Watsons.
IBM’s “Watson” systems were nothing new - they’d been around and gathering steam even before the Vancouver Incident. Ten years of innovation and development past that point meant that both ships were carrying banks of number-crunching supercomputers of staggering power, underpinned by a software framework that could calculate, correlate, extrapolate, simulate, educate and even innovate with discomforting speed and precision.
Each of the V-types were carrying a smaller version, which linchpinned the fleet’s electronic warfare capabilities, but the ones on Caledonia coupled with the dedicated expertise of the men and women of the Fleet Intelligence Center aboard Myrmidon, they were the real nerve centers for the flotilla. Decrypting the Dominion fleet’s communications was a fraction of what they could achieve, and had Caledonia’s power systems been online to lend her own Watsons to the effort, Caruthers might almost have been able to eavesdrop in real time.
When it was all up and running, everyone in every CIC in the fleet flirted with swearing that the ships were almost alive and capable of anticipation. They weren’t so much in charge of a ship’s sensors any more as they were having a conversation with a robust, distributed network of pattern-matching engines that effortlessly and dynamically switched between independent and synchronous operations thousands of times a second, sharing their datasets and dividing their workloads to comb the information they got from every ship, every Bulldog drone, every Firebird and - when they were present - drones, satellites and even the SOR’s EV-MASS sensors.
Really, the only thing stopping him from being able to run several simulations of the possible battles that might unfold was the paucity of data regarding the capabilities of Dominion warships, and that would change if they got the chance to see them in action today. Every datum they recorded went into those computers, expanding and improving their store of knowledge. The more they had, the more they correlated, the more they correlated, the more useful they became.
Eventually, maybe, he’d be able to turn to them for everything. For now, however, Caruthers had only his wits and experience to go on.
His wits and experience were telling him that eavesdropping on that alien conversation couldn’t possibly come soon enough.
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
Starship ‘Negotiable Curiosity’, Deep space.
Scott Blaczynski
The outer wall vanishes in a hail of metal and glass shards, dragging them all with it. Scott wheels sickeningly in the black, all alone as he begins the plunge towards a world below.
No control this time, no shields to protect him, no EV-MASS. Just the fiery sky, licking the flesh off him, burning him away until there’s nothing left but the fire, the rushing ground and death.
From the outside he watches his buddy burning down from heaven, feels the stab of loss all over again. ’Horse’s voice on the comms, slow and thick with grief, letting them all know their brother is dead.
He stops running and leans on a tree. The pain is physical, sickening. As he fights back on it, the world fades until all he can hear is the rush of his own breath, sounding less like breathing and more and more like words…
“Bro!”
Scott’s head snapped up as a startled shout aborted itself on the edges of his teeth. His brain needed a few seconds to catch up, during which time he hyperventilated, wondering where the hell he was, or why somebody had a hand on his shoulder, saying “Hey, man. Just a bad dream. Bad dream, that’s all…”
His memory finally got its shit together.
Titan was the only other guy on the team who knew the basics of piloting, so the two of them were working a two-hour rotation in the chair, which really wasn’t configured for a human’s dimensions. They were coming up on forty hours in the suit, and all four of them were feeling it, but the time in that chair was just making things worse. Scott was sore all over, sleeping restlessly if at all, hungry, worried for Caledonia and all her crew - there were people on that tub he cared about, after all - and not only was there no respite, but they’d be stuck in this situation for another five days.
“…Thanks,” he grunted, standing up.
Titan took his place, looking just as stressed as he was. “You okay?”
“…I was dreamin’ about Thor.”
Titan clapped him on the shoulder, nodding understanding. “Do yourself a favor, pop some Crude. Helped me sleep okay a couple hours.” He suggested.
Scott shook his head. “I’ve only got ten shots left. Wanna save ’em for when this shit really starts to get bad.”
He was handed one of the distinctive bright blue-green Crue-D single-use injectors. “Here.”
“Dude, this is your dose…”
Akiyama nodded. “It’ll be fine. I’ve got twelve after this, and you need to rest. Take that fuckin’ thing before I stick it in you myself."
“…thanks, bro.”
Titan punched him affectionately in the arm and sat down. “Wanna know the upside to this bitch?”
“What?”
“This is good training."
Scott chuckled grimly, and applied the injector to the port in his EV-MASS. There were no concerns about using the same injection site over and over again with Crue-D. After all, the drug’s entire purpose was healing.
“Always the fuckin’ optimist,” he observed.
“Somebody’s gotta be.” Akiyama wriggled to try and get comfortable in the improperly sized seat. “Ain’t optimism if it’s true, though. ’Horse is gonna have to re-write our training schedules when we’re back.”
“Bro, that ain’t a good thing!” Scott objected. “‘Horse is a fuckin’ sadist on training!"
“Yup. ’Cause he’s good at his job.” Akiyama grinned.
“Fuckin’ masochist…”
The Crue-D was working already - he could feel the soreness draining out of his muscles. Titan used a slightly larger dose than Scott usually did, and the difference was palpable.
“Go to sleep, dumbass.” Titan ordered him. “You’re back here in two hours.”
“Right.”
One nice thing about alien spaceships was that they built their doors and walkways wide enough to accommodate even species as big as the Locayl, Vgork and Guvnurag. The SOR were used to turning slightly to comfortably traverse doorways, especially in the cramped and narrow layout of HMS Sharman. Meanwhile, even the Negotiable Curiosity, a small research ship, was spacious enough for SOR operators in full gear to comfortably navigate unimpeded.
Backstage, Rebar was asleep against the wall. Clearly it was Sikes’ turn to watch the ETs.
Calvin Sikes was reckoned as the ‘pretty one’ among the Operators, with there being some debate as to what order the runner-ups were between Akiyama, Ares and Major Powell. He’d grown up ranching horses and flinging hay bales in Georgia, and still had those straight-jawed, stubbled, right-out-of-a-country- music-video good looks on top of the Herculean SOR physique. He was also their combat camera and drone operator, and for lack of anything better to do he was tinkering with their Flycatcher UAV when Blaczynski entered.
“That thing ain’t busted is it?” Scott asked him.
“Nuh. Try’na set it up as an alarm so it’ll warn us if the ETs leave their rooms.” Sikes replied. He looked up and shrugged. “…Somethin’ to do. Shouldn’t you be sleepin’?”
“Dude, you’re worse than old lady Akiyama in there.” Scott grumbled. He lay down perpendicular to Rebar and used the sleeping man’s chest for a pillow. “Least he gave me a fuckin’ chance before he started nagging…"
“Heard that!” Titan called from up front.
“Love you, bro!” Scott called back, settling down. Rebar grumbled something, rolled over slightly and put an arm round him. This was nothing remotely unusual for SOR - in fact, it was exactly what Scott needed.
He relaxed as best he could considering he was wearing a full-body juice press, put his head down, and tried not to dream.
Date Point 10y4m1w4d AV
HMS Caledonia, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Technical Sergeant Martina Kovač
“Owww… Ow.”
“You’re lucky to be alive, tech sergeant. You can stop squirming now.”
Martina gritted her teeth, sucked air through her teeth, held her breath and let the nurse work. It was difficult. Painkillers and dressings be damned, when her burns were exposed to the air for the dressing change, it hurt. Not as bad as the first few minutes had been, but still more than enough.
“There we go.” The nurse started layering new dressings onto the worst areas, her back and thighs. “It’s already showing progress. You’ll have a scar, but it’ll be a tale to tell the kids.”
Kovač just nodded, though she relaxed as soon as the worst of the burn was covered. Those bandages worked very well. The IV was annoying, but doctor’s orders were doctor’s orders.
“Unless you’re planning to use that miracle drug of yours,” the nurse added.
“I could…” Martina agreed, though she was wrestling with her conscience versus her responsibilities. She had the authority to prescribe Crue-D, but only to SOR, including herself and the suit techs.
Knowing there was a man somewhere nearby with God-knew how much of his face burned off made her reluctant, though. A strong dose of Crue-D would repair his injury with no scarring at all, if only she could get the authority to administer it - authority that could only come from a few sources.
Authority that couldn’t possibly arrive quickly enough. Crue-D needed to be administered early in the healing process, preferably before it was even properly begun. For serious injuries, the window was about three days, half of which time was already gone.
“Or…” she flinched as the nurse applied pressure to wrap on the dry bandage. “…I can think of somebody who needs it more…”
The nurse’s hands paused. She met Martina’s eye, then glanced around guiltily. “He’s in a bad way.” She confided. “Lieutenant Bailey’s not sure he’ll make it.”
That settled it. “I’ll need help getting to the medical locker in starboard hangar.” Martina whispered.
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
“I’ll live.”
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds
Vakno, “The Contact”
“A verified trace on Mwrwrki Station. Now that is interesting."
‘Yes’
“You can unwind here, Dread. There are no secrets between us.”
Dread hesitated, then put away his translation pad and spoke his curious native language. Vakno had needed some refinement and research to get her translators to handle it properly, though her best efforts had given it a flat and neutral interpretation of his speech patterns.
“You have plenty of secrets. Meanwhile I have no secrets from you, is that not so?” He observed.
“Astute as always.” Vakno agreed. “Were you able to secure the sensor data?”
“The broker had already completed his transaction. I am tracing the pilot.”
“And what,” Vakno asked him, “do you make of the news that the pilot’s ship was stolen by four humans, one of whom chased her through a marketplace?”
Dread did not reply verbally - the most he communicated on the subject was an expressive gesture of disinterest.
“No comment at all?”
“I avoid humans.”
“For most of us, that’s a good idea.” Vakno commented. “Though the worst setback I ever suffered myself was the work of one of my own kind…”
Again, Dread said nothing. He had a frustrating distaste for small talk, which made him a difficult being to get much leverage over - he gave away far less in conversation than Vakno would have liked.
If he wasn’t so deeply in her debt from their first meeting, she would have held nothing over him at all, which was an awkward position to be in with fellow infobrokers. Vakno remained at the top of the heap simply because every single one of her “competitors” existed in an ecosystem that she controlled, all of them caged behind glass walls of debt and lured with the tantalizing promise of being free of that debt.
A promise that she did make good on, now and then. Without the authentic prospect of freedom to incentivize them, her debtors might realize sooner rather than later just how brittle those glass walls really were.
Dread, she suspected, knew exactly how brittle they were, and abided them purely because it suited him. She had prepared contingencies to release him from her debt at a moment’s notice, and made a point of treating him with punctilious fairness - a wise policy with any of her debtors of course, but taken just that little bit further with Dread so that it bordered on outright generosity. Vakno had a keen nose for which beings it was best not to antagonize.
“You seem to have this well in hand,” she mused. “Why consult with me?”
Dread’s preferred mode of locomotion was to stalk. This he now did, patrolling back and forth in front of Vakno’s desk for a moment before speaking. “Something about this seems unusual.” He declared.
“Besides the involvement of formal, authorised human military assets?”
He gestured acknowledgement. “The pilot’s trail is too easy to follow. Easier than if she was behaving normally. I think that she is luring me.”
“She knows you’re hunting her?”
“Yes. I do not know how.”
“And inviting you in… interesting.” Vakno ran an immediate cross-check between Mwrmwrwk and the fleet Shipmaster who had commissioned Dread’s services. The only correlations were meaningless - similar species-adjusted age, both female, both using Amnag-Dwuz implant suites… Nothing of substance. The only significant correlation was time spent in the same star system, but given that Perfection had a total system-wide population in excess of ten billion life forms, with both Corti and Kwmbwrw being respectively the second and third largest demographics, that was no connection at all. Vakno herself matched all of those data points.
“The target and the client don’t appear to be connected,” she decided.
Dread didn’t comment. Instead, Vakno caught a glimpse of his cybernetic limb - the only part of his body that he allowed any being to see - as he shook the sleeve of his robe irritably and thoughtfully, then flexed its fingers in front of his face.
He was an odd one, but the intimidating persona was commendably effective. Everything he interacted with seemed to be either disturbed enough to tell him what he wanted, or irritated enough to ensure his rapid departure.
“You can handle any trap she might be setting.” She reassured him.
“Yes. It is good to know when you are walking into one, however.”
“Do you think you are?”
Dread simply gestured what was either disinterest or resignation.
“If you need my further assistance, please do call.” Vakno told him.
“Yes.”
He stalked out. Vakno thought for a minute and made a few observational notes in her file on him, then set him aside for now and called for her next customer.
There was always a next customer.
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
Starship ‘Negotiable Curiosity’, Deep Space
Bedu
Bedu was not a scientist. He preferred to think of himself as an engineer, a solver of practical problems. That the problems in question had nothing to do with engines and everything to do with missing people and hidden knowledge was largely irrelevant - he was presented with a problem in need of a solution, then devised and deployed that solution.
The scientific method was second nature to any self-respecting Corti, however. Observe, correlate, hypothesize, eliminate. And his human abductors made for interesting subjects even in the absence of any sophisticated scientific apparatus or prepared testing regimes.
If only he’d had access to the Corti implant-net’s databases on deathworlders, but they’d shut down every transmitter the ship had - he couldn’t interface with it at all. Without being able to reference a baseline ‘normal’ human, his conclusions about these four were tentative.
They were undoubtedly using some kind of Cruezzir-based medicine, which presumably meant there was a discreet but formal trade between whichever human faction they represented and the Directorate. Sadly, Bedu judged that his own value to the Directorate was probably far less than the value of such a program. No bargaining chip or negotiating tool was to be had there.
What was intriguing, however, was their social behaviour.
They were a study in opposites. Their every interaction seemed to be either precisely businesslike and structured, or else laden with informality, affection and aggression. Any of their more relaxed encounters always involved at least one of them being insulted, and yet grievous and unforgivable personal attacks seemed to amuse them, and be met in kind with ever-broader smiles. Infuriatingly, whenever Bedu had tried to slip a veiled abuse past them, they had detected it and, worse, had found it funny. Delightful, even.
The very worst part, however, was that Bedu was beginning to find that he liked them. For the first time since he had purchased the Negotiable Curiosity, he found himself in the company of his intellectual peers.
They controlled their conversations carefully in his presence, never giving away the details of how some of their equipment worked or what it could achieve, but were happy to discuss the function of others.
The one called ‘Starfall’ even partially disassembled his weapon for Bedu’s entertainment, performing what he called a ‘field strip’, in which he carefully laid down the weapon’s working parts. He explained each one’s function as he meticulously inspected, cleaned and reassembled each component. Then, under the watchful eye of the senior one, ‘Rebar’, he repeated the process blindfolded and in a third of the time. Not a movement wasted, not a spare instant of hesitation.
Over the course of the diurnal cycles following their capture, Bedu spoke with all of the humans in time. With Rebar he shared an intriguing conversation about the ship’s structural features, how the design had saved weight without sacrificing on strength, and the precise composition of its titanium alloy.
Titan enthused at length about Dominion user-interface technology and the implications in the near future for human consumer electronics and especially what it would mean in conjunction with what he called ‘Predictive Dynamic UX’, whatever that was.
It was ‘Snapfire’, however, who produced the most surprisingly enjoyable conversation - it wasn’t a technical one at all. Apparently the technical details of his role and equipment were among the ‘off limits’ conversations, so instead, after some long awkward silences, he eventually did something that Bedu hadn’t expected.
“Hey… what’s your home planet like?” He asked.
Bedu blinked at him, assimilating the question. “What is Origin like?” He repeated. “Origin is… Origin. The seat and home of the Corti Directorate and four billion Corti. What is Earth like?”
“Beautiful.” Snapfire replied, promptly.
“Define ‘beautiful’.” Bedu retorted. “Beauty is subjective.”
“’Kay, well… is Origin beautiful?”
Bedu considered the question. He’d never actually considered aesthetics in relation to the Corti homeworld before.
“…Yes, I suppose it is.” He decided. “Beauty isn’t a subject I think about often. It’s not… encouraged.”
Snapfire inclined his head. “So y’all don’t have art?”
“Of course we do.” Bedu replied. He stood and retreated into his cabin, returning with his banner. His was a short one - he had no illustrious achievements, no scientific findings, he had brokered no profitable deals nor founded any successful corporate venture. The greatest achievement it recorded was that he was the master of a small private ship. This was admittedly quite the achievement, and put him a step above the rabble… but every Corti aspired to a banner that was as long as they were tall, if not longer.
Without neural-implant translators to provide an exact context for his gestures, Bedu found it difficult to read Snapfire’s body language, but he guessed from the way he shifted his weight forward and inclined his head slightly that the human was intrigued.
“My record banner.” Bedu explained, unfurling the green cloth for Snapfire to examine, though he didn’t hand it over. “At the top is my name, the date of my creation, the names of my genetic donors… below that is a summary of their respective accomplishments and any important contributions made by their ancestral donors…"
“Genetic donors. Cold way to talk about your parents.” Snapfire opined.
“That is all they ever were to me. I have never met them.” Bedu explained. “I was born from a gestation engine, raised in a creche and educated in a dormitory school. The only role they have ever played in my life was to donate the DNA that made me.”
He indicated the dense codes that detailed his academic and educational scores
- good, but not exceptional. “I displayed an aptitude for and early interest in data correlation theory. Here is the second-rank accolade I received for participating in regional trials in that subject. I received a first-rank accolade in the local trials. Here is my second-grade accolade for dormitory school graduation. Here is my third-grade accolade for graduating higher education, though the silver circle next to it means that I was favored with special mention from my direct educator.”
Snapfire seemed genuinely interested, so Bedu continued. “Below that are my professional achievements - this ship, and a few of the more notable bounties I have claimed and commendations by my employers - and finally below that is the space where the accomplishments of my descendents would be summarized, if I had any.”
Snapfire scratched at the short hairs on his face. “Is it art though?" He asked.
“Define ‘art’.” Bedu replied, feeling that he was repeating himself.
“Uh, a lot of smarter people’n me have wrassled with that one.” Snapfire demurred, but he made an attempt. “For me though… I guess art doesn’t have a purpose except to be art. I like your banner, it’s interesting, it’s pretty, but it has a job, right? It’s not just there to just be art."
“Art is nothing more than decoration to you?” Bedu asked.
Snapfire frowned, sat back and scratched at his head. “Nah, nah, it’s more’n that…”
“If it doesn’t serve a purpose and just is then it is purely decorative, is it not?" Bedu replied.
“Nah, uh…” Snapfire looked up at the ceiling and made a number of noises to himself that the translator decided were gibberish. It was a peculiar thoughtful quirk.
“Think he’s got you there, Snap.” Rebar declared, having apparently been woken by the conversation.
“I ain’t exactly the right man to talk to about this!” Snapshot protested.
Rebar nodded. “You got that right.”
“Hey!”
“Brother, I’ve heard the kinda music you listen to. You wouldn’t know artistic talent if it rammed a paintbrush up your ass.”
“You were doing perfectly well.” Bedu hastened to interject, before the usual boorish back-and-forth could resume. “But consider - Artistic creations are not the meaningless emergent artefacts of an unintelligent universe, they are made by a person. A star has no purpose except to be a star, but this banner? A painting? Music? Everything a sapient being creates is created for a purpose, even if that purpose is nothing more than amusement or decoration."
Snapshot made a thoughtful sound. “So you’re saying art can’t just be art for art’s sake, it’s gotta do something."
“He’s right.” Rebar said, after Bedu had imitated a nod for them. “Hell, look at the Mona Lisa. That’s a portrait of some dude’s wife that he had done as a gift for her. And modern art’s all about making a statement of some kind.”
“Since when are you into modern art?” Snapfire asked.
Rebar frowned at him. “Dude, you’ve seen my sculptures.”
“You bend and weld scrap metal together.” Snapfire replied.
“They’re sculptures! A lotta them mean something, too.”
Snapfire blinked at him. “…They do?”
“Fuck, bro. You’re lucky I like ya, ’cause now I’m actually offended.”
Despite being a quarter again as tall as Bedu and only physics knew how many times heavier, Snapfire suddenly looked… small.
“…Sorry.”
There was a pause, then Rebar exhaled through his nose, shook his head, and gave Snapfire a hug.
Bedu tried to incorporate their behaviour into his tentative model of human - or at least these humans’ - psychology.
It went something like this: There was a clear order of seniority among these four, that was never challenged. Rebar would occasionally speak in a subtly different tone of voice, and the other three would respond with immediate and unhesitating obedience. This was, however, rare. When Rebar used that “leader” tone, he did so in order to confirm and initiate a plan that the group had devised between them. Otherwise the four behaved more like…
Bedu had struggled for some time to come up with a simile that fit well into a Corti brain, and had given up. Coming as he did from a species of fiercely competitive mycovores, the xenopsychology involved in the social dynamics of a pack of predators was tantalisingly tricky to fathom, especially when they didn’t behave like a classic pack of predators. While Rebar was undeniably the top of the social hierarchy, his behaviour wasn’t the equivalent of a snarl or a snap from a dominant animal to one lower in the pecking order… and yet Snapfire had instantly made himself as non-threatening and submissive as possible, just like one would expect if Rebar had snapped at him.
Mutual conflict avoidance followed by an immediate display of reconciliation. There was no social advantage to it either, at least not in any classic xenopsychological model - the only witness to the exchange was Bedu, who was obviously not inclined to care. There were no females to impress with displays of restraint and emotional maturity, nor would the interaction have any clear benefit in their standing with other males… which meant that the only possible conclusion was that Rebar and Snapfire genuinely liked one another.
Corti xenopsychological orthodoxy held that sapient beings typically only liked one another when there was a benefit to them or their genetic fitness in doing so, one which offset the presence of a competitor. It was natural therefore for prospective mates to like each other, and for parents and children to be mutually friendly. Interspecies friendships were easily explained by the fact that neither member of the friendship was a competitor with the other.
This raised the interesting question of whether humans were an exception to that doctrine or how, if they were not, they were abiding by it.
“May I ask a question?” Bedu asked.
Snapfire and Rebar glanced at each other. If any kind of communication took place, Bedu couldn’t see how, but Rebar shrugged and nodded. “Sure.”
"Why do you like him?"
The question seemed to completely trip up both of the humans, if he was reading their body language correctly. Neither of them replied at first - instead they stared at him, looked at each other, stared at him again. Rebar opened his mouth to venture something, then frowned and scratched at his head.
“…We’re a team.” He said at last, as if that was sufficient explanation. It clearly sufficed for Snapfire, who nodded.
“A team, yes, but what is it about this man in particular that you find likable?" Bedu insisted.
Rebar scowled at him, and Bedu sensed that he’d managed to wound the human somehow. “We’ve been through shit together that’d leave you as a greasy fuckin’ smear on the deck.” He said. “I trust Snap with my life, and he’s worth that trust. What more reason do I need?”
The explanation satisfied Bedu, and in retrospect should have been obvious. Reciprocal affection generated team cohesion, thereby mutually improving the odds of both their survival in a dangerous situation. An instinct that made perfect sense given that these were deathworlders after all - their entire home planet was a dangerous situation.
“I meant no offense.” Bedu soothed. “It’s in my nature to be seek explanations for the unexplained.”
“Satisfied?” Snapfire asked.
“I am, thank you.” Bedu told him. “Though, another question does present itself.”
“Shoot.” Rebar offered. Bedu needed a moment to parse what was presumably a colloquialism.
“Correct me if I am in error…” he began “But your behaviour towards me personally has been entirely friendly. I daresay I’ve never had such warm company before in my life. I am curious as to why that should be seeing as I am, after all, your prisoner.”
“We’re not in the business of makin’ enemies.” Rebar said.
“Heck, we got enough of ’em already…” Snapfire added sotto voce.
“…What’s happened here is you’ve been regrettably caught up in events.” Rebar finished. “If things go as we hope, you should be back in command of your ship and on your way again before long.”
“That doesn’t explain the personable reception.” Bedu pointed out. “What does it benefit you to… ‘charm’ me?”.
“What’d it benefit us to antagonize you?” Rebar replied. “Like Snap said, our kind have a lotta enemies right now, lotta bad press. It can’t hurt us to leave you with a good impression, and might even help.”
“Ah.” Bedu nodded, admiring the human’s candour. The logic was perfectly flawless. “Thank you.”
He put his banner away. “For what it may be worth…” he said, “I’m genuinely fascinated to meet humans at long last. You’re very different to all of the speculation and rumor.”
“Gotta be honest, I ain’t paid much attention to the speculation and rumor.” Rebar said.
“For a typical perspective, look no further than my reclusive colleague.” Bedu told him. He knocked on the wall. “Hkzzvk! Are you still alive in there?”
“You can’t open this door!” Hkzzvk called back. “I overrode the door lock! They can’t get in!”
Bedu aimed an expression of barely-patient tolerance at the humans, who for their part seemed genuinely concerned.
“Seriously, is he gonna be like that the whole way?” Snapfire asked.
“’Cause if he has a heart attack from the panic or whatever, we won’t be able to do shit for him.” Rebar agreed.
“Especially seeing as he’s overridden the lock.” Bedu observed. “Or would that not be an obstacle?”
“Dude. If I wanted to I could kick that door so hard that Hicks-vick there would be in danger from the shrapnel.” Rebar said, in the calm tones of somebody who wasn’t boasting. He kept his voice low enough that Hkzzvk probably couldn’t hear.
“Titan could get it open the gentler way in a couple of [Ri’]." Snapfire added.
“Vzk’tk psychology being what it is, I suspect that either approach might well kill him.” Bedu said. “This is what you are up against, unfortunately. Hkzzvk may be annoyingly stupid, but in this case it has nothing to do with intelligence and everything to do with instinct. He is a herd grazer, and he has been cornered by predators with nowhere to run.”
“Wild horse in the stable, huh?” Snapfire scratched his chin and stared intently at the door, calculating.
Bedu wondered what he was thinking. There were enough similarities between Corti and human facial expressions as to make assessing Snapfire’s thoughts tantalizingly impossible. “He is not unique,” he said. “Reactions like this are exactly why you have ‘a lot of enemies’. You don’t, in fact, have a lot of enemies. Your only enemies are the Hunters - everything else is panicking."
Rebar chuckled. “Nah, see, when my boy here starts talkin’ about wild horses, he’s thinkin’ of trying to break it in,” he explained. “Ain’t that right, Snap?”
"Break him?" Bedu asked, hoping that the colloquialism was not as horrifying as it sounded.
“Break him in." Snapfire stressed the word, as if that explained it. “It’s a ranching term. We’ve got these animals on Earth - horses - our ancestors domesticated them thousands of years ago, but they’re still panicky herd animals. Breaking them in means forcing them to trust humans.”
“How can you force trust?"
“Easy. You give them no other option but to trust, then reward that trust."
“Hkzzvk is not an animal except in the same technical sense that we are.” Bedu pointed out.
“You said it yourself, he’s running on instinct right now…” Snapfire retorted.
Bedu thought, then acquiesced. “It is probably for his own good if some attempt is made to calm him.” He agreed. “Prolonged stress really could cause him serious harm.”
Rebar’s hand slammed down onto Snapfire’s shoulder so hard that Bedu flinched
- the friendly blow would have gravely wounded a Corti, if not killed him outright. “In that case,” he said “I guess we’ve found something for you to do.”
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
HMS Caledonia, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Lieutenant-Commander Ellen McDaniel
“A good prognosis, then?”
Lieutenant Bailey shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Ma’am… he’s healed. I swear, LR Davison came into this hospital permanently blinded and with his face burned down to the bone in places and severe respiratory injury from inhaling superheated air. I gave him an optimistic fifty percent chance of survival… And now he’s sitting up in bed laughing and happy and the only way you would know what happened to him is the missing hair."
McDaniel’s expression gave nothing away, but she couldn’t resist a moment of sarcasm. “I take it you’ve ruled out divine intervention.”
“When this ship has a supply of imported alien regenerative medicine on board, I think we can safely consider the hand of God a secondary possibility at best.” Bailey commented, matching her for dry humour. He looked down at his desk and sighed. “I hate having to report it, because that young man really was looking at permanent disability, assuming he survived. This is unquestionably a good deed… But…"
“There’s no way you could conceal this.” McDaniel suggested.
“Your words, ma’am. Not mine.” Bailey said, but nodded.
McDaniel nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Any other miracles to report?”
“No ma’am. Nobody else needed one. A few dozen minor burns, one or two more serious ones… we’ll be low on painkillers and wet bandages by the time we make port, and all our burn victims are on antibiotics, but we’ll get by.”
“What about sergeant Kovač?”
“Kovač? She suffered one of the worst burns after Davison, but you know what SOR techs are like. The only way to stop her from limping out of here would have been to sedate her.”
“Limping?”
“That’s right.”
“…Thank you, Bailey.”
McDaniel let herself out of the hospital in thoughtful mood. Kovač was her only suspect in the case of mis-used Crue-D. Indeed, she was the only possibility. If she was still limping despite having unquestioned and fully authorized access to the alien drug herself…
A team of marines stood aside as she crossed the ship’s beam to enter the starboard flight deck. Starboard Flight had hardly suffered from the fire at all, with only the hospital faring better - that, after all, had been designed to isolate itself immediately. Still, when dealing with the ship’s largest pressure door and its most powerful internal forcefield emitters it paid to be cautious.
“Technical Sergeant Kovač, front and center!” She snapped as she entered. Everybody who wasn’t Martina Kovač immediately found important responsibilities as far from the XO as possible.
Kovač herself was working at a desk, standing up - sitting was probably not an option for her right now. She had a resigned set to her body language as she turned and tried her best to hasten to the officer’s call, which was a decent effort considering her back was plainly stiff, painful and swathed in dressings.
McDaniel wasn’t heartless. The moment Kovač arrived as ordered, McDaniel indicated for her to stand easy. “You can relax, sergeant. No sense in abusing that wound.”
“Yes ma’am.”
So. It was going to be that kind of talking-to. Kovač knew she’d been rumbled, and was probably both unapologetic and entirely willing to accept whatever happened next. Her whole attitude said that she would accept whatever judgement was laid on her as her fair due. McDaniel respected her for that.
“I have an interesting situation in the hospital deck that I suspect you can shed light on, sergeant.” She said. “A man with a grievous injury and a pessimistic prognosis has, quite suddenly, been healed of that injury.”
“Yes ma’am?”
“Do you think perhaps you could have been any more conspicuous?" McDaniel asked. “Because I know what I’m going to find when I check that medicine locker’s log. I’m going to find everything properly signed for, with your name right next to the date and time, aren’t I?”
“That would be proper procedure, ma’am.”
McDaniel sighed and relaxed. “I thought so,” she said, conspicuously placing her tablet aside and thereby metaphorically disarming herself. “How’s your back?”
“It hurts like hell.” Kovač admitted.
“Given that you’re completely authorized to medicate yourself with Crue-D, I can only assume that you haven’t done so because there’s none left.” McDaniel guessed.
Kovač hesitated, but nodded. “That’s right, ma’am.”
“Only had enough for Davison, did you?”
Kovač hesitated, choosing her words with care. “The… amount required to treat a man of Leading Rate Davison’s size with an injury that severe would definitely deplete our stockpile…” She hazarded.
“And would you say that’s an appropriate use of resources earmarked for the exclusive use of the SOR?”
“The SOR’s mandate is to protect humanity and human interests, ma’am. That includes providing life-saving medical intervention.”
“Hmmph.” McDaniel grunted, accepting the reply without comment. “Right. Here’s what’s going to happen - I’m ordering you to check yourself back into that infirmary and you will stay there this time until the doctor says otherwise. Do not give me a reason to come back down here and talk with you again. Am I clear?"
“Yes, ma’am.”
McDaniel picked up her tablet. “Right. Oh, and- Sergeant?”
“Yes ma’am?”
“If I were you, seeing as you’re going to be off your feet, I’d take this opportunity to get a head start on any paperwork that might need doing in your near future…" she hinted.
“…Thank you for the advice, ma’am.”
McDaniel ’hmmph’ed again for effect and departed, satisfied that Kovač’s had been a calculated and productive act of minor insubordination. The fact that she was suffering for it was an item in her favour as well, so really there was no reason to make anything serious of it.
Still… a letter to the younger woman’s CO couldn’t hurt. Major Powell, after all, would be compelled to prioritize the mission-readiness of his own unit. A few polite observations from one officer to another were probably in order.
She added it to the long, long list of demands on her time and attention. Half-burned-out starships didn’t repair themselves.
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds.
Eleven
Biodroning was not a process that necessarily required sapient life forms - anything with a central nervous system would do, and Eleven specialized in using local fauna for reconnaissance and observation.
The perfect creature for her to use right now was a species of avian urban vermin called a Kreewit. Kreewits were basically a flying appetite, and their constant search for the next meal, coupled with a generous conception of what constituted a meal, would have contributed greatly to keeping the streets and concourses of Perfection free of litter and clean, if not for the inevitable digestive byproducts.
They were hand-sized, feathery, had a mouth full of flat grinding teeth that could patiently reduce any organic matter to food, and utterly ubiquitous. Catching one and taking it to a confused but disinterested and discreet Vzk’tk veterinarian for implanting with a custom-built cybernetic control package had been trivial.
Now, it was doing what Kreewit did - scavenge. Given that Kreewit looked around constantly, seeming to pay attention to the whole world by glaring suspiciously at it out of the corner of their eyes, nobody was paying any attention to it. In response to its programming, it followed Eleven, flitting from light fixture to advertising hoarding, from shop sign to architectural embellishment, sometimes flying ahead to claim morsels of what only a Kreewit could possibly decide was food, such as fast-food packaging, or the burnt leftover ends of smoked cqcq.
Under its watchful gaze, Eleven left a trail.
The rules of Hierarchy fieldcraft when it came to leaving a trail were simple: Don’t. As a double-digit, Eleven had the luxury of creatively interpreting the rules. As a sub-20, she could ignore them outright if the situation warranted.
In a galaxy where the entire economic system hinged on data footprint, a digital sapient life-form could be as stealthy or as obvious as they desired. Had Eleven wanted, she could have moved undetected by juggling as many as fifteen different identities - to the security systems, she could have been an office worker called Kwrwrtrwm, while the financial transactions would all have been under the name of one Wrmwlwlr, the smart advert boards would have seen a Grand House dilettante, and so on.
Being as loudly and as visibly Mwrmwrwk as possible was an interesting experience, especially when the advertising systems built into her host’s cybernetics package shook hands with a billboard as she passed it.
The boards used augmented reality to replace whatever they actually physically displaying with an ad overlay targeted specifically at Mwrmwrwk, usually with full audio thrown in. Every time she passed another board, Eleven received a new message in the vein of ‘Congratulations Pilot Mwrmwrwk! Your recent success has multiplied your personal funds by [INTEGER OUT OF BOUNDS]! Perfection Banking Group is delighted to offer you this opportunity to take advantage of our exclusive Person of Importance Savings Account!’ or offering her an assortment of immensely expensive luxury goods, up to and including her own ship.
The whole system was deliberately kept insecure by Hierarchy action. Indeed, keeping galactic data security riddled with holes was the full-time assignment of aspiring Igraens long before they were assigned the rank of Zero and given the opportunity to prove themselves in the field.
The network, in short, was a rigged game in the Hierarchy’s favor, which meant that the easy way in which Dread seemed to move through it without leaving any permanent evidence, like a breeze over tall grass, was infuriating. Nothing that wasn’t an Igraen should have had such a negligible data shadow. The only other way to achieve such stealth was to not interact with the network at all, which was impossible. The constant barrage of advertising that Eleven found so amusing was testament to that.
Eleven had commandeered the attention of a datamining group of pre-Zero hopefuls to trawl for whatever information they could find on Dread, and they had hardly expanded her information at all, beyond identifying some of the digital aliases he used for financial transactions. All the commentary on him agreed that he was most likely a male Chehnasho, that his left arm was at least partially prosthetic, and that he affected an intimidating costume of black cloth.
His preferred mode of operation was unusual - most infobrokers had their clients come to them, controlling the meetings with bodyguards, drones, forcefields and other such fortifications so as to minimize the risk to their persons.
Dread, it seemed, preferred to go to his clients, and it was on this foible that Eleven was depending.
Paradoxically, it took him quite a long time to find her. Eleven knew that she had been pinging her presence and location as aggressively as possible, and so the only way to account for his relative tardiness was caution. Perhaps she had been too aggressively visible, and made him suspicious.
Whatever the reason, Eleven was beginning to doubt his reputation when the Kreewit finally caught sight of him, tailing her through the crowd.
He wasn’t bothering with stealth, and couldn’t have accomplished it anyway. The aura of sheer menace he gave off sent everything in his way scrambling to get out of it.
Through the biodrone’s eyes, she got her first good look at him. He was definitely Chehnasho - they were the only quadriform bipeds who stood so tall, with such long legs and a digitigrade gait. The body language was strange, though - Chehnasho usually stood tall, with their chests thrown out - this one stalked with his weight forward, arising uncomfortable instincts in Eleven’s host body of being hunted.
The last time something had been following her with its weight forward like that, it had been that armored human, and that one’s footsteps had shaken the concourse as he ran. Had he not been so reluctant to harm civilians, Eleven couldn’t possibly have escaped.
She turned down an alleyway. They were on a ‘roof deck’ level of the city, with no ceiling overhead, but several storeys beneath their feet, and several buildings rising around them.
The kreewit lost sight of Dread. Eleven stopped in the alleyway and focused her full attention on her drone, to no avail. She was still wondering how he could possibly have evaded it when he stepped out from between the dumpsters ahead of her.
They stared at one another for a second, and then he made a beckoning gesture
- one cybernetic finger stabbed first at Eleven, then at the ground in front of him.
Eleven glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were unobserved, made sure the Kreewit drone was in position, and then did as she was bidden.
“Can I help you?” She asked, feigning nerves.
He tapped rapidly on a datapad, which spoke on his behalf: ‘Stop pretending. You laid a trail for me. Tell me why.’
“Not for you.” Eleven lied. “I don’t know who you are.”
‘Who’
“What?”
‘For whom did you lay the trail’
Mwrmwrwk’s vestigial personality traits provided the perfect response: indignation. “What business is it of yours?” Eleven asked. “Who are you?"
‘Dread’
“Is that supposed to intimidate me?”
He considered her for a second, and then drew a pulse pistol. The unspoken sentiment was obvious - ‘if that doesn’t, this will.’
It didn’t scare Eleven - she, after all, would just migrate to a new host. But Mwrmwrwk on other hand would have stared dry-mouthed at the gun and immediately capitulated, and so Eleven followed suit. “…Consider me intimidated.”
He put it away again. ‘For whom did you lay the trail’
“I have friends. My spaceship was stolen and I-”
‘Why’
“Why… what, why did I lay the trail, or why was the ship stolen?”
‘Yes.’
“…What?”
Dread stared at her for a moment, and then stood aside and indicated the rear access door of the boutique they were behind. When Eleven checked it, the door was slightly ajar. It swung open silently and when she stepped through they found themselves surrounded by shelves full of boxes of electronic luxuries - terminals, communicators, translators, entertainment devices and cooking appliances.
‘Both questions. Start with the ship.’ Dread ordered through his pad.
“We had just returned from a deep space investigation.” Eleven told him, using Mwrmwrwk’s memory and the ghost of her personality. “The shipmaster - Bedu - he didn’t tell me who the client was, but it was probably one of the infobrokers here on Perfection.”
Dread said nothing, only stared at her. There must have been some kind of custom privacy field emitter inside his hood, because it gave only the impression of infinite depth and what might have been baleful unblinking eyes. Mwrmwrwk would have faltered and stammered, and so Eleven did exactly that.
“The-the, the client wanted to know the, ah, the whereabouts of, of a spaceship. We found, um… we found Mwrwrki station instead.”
'Explain. Why is this station important.’
“It was a research station. They were looking for signs of extragalactic life, and a means of extragalactic communication. You see, um, intergalactic travel is theoretically possible, you just need an efficient enough drive and plenty of power an… and…”
She wasn’t sure what it was exactly about Dread’s body language that communicated impatience, but she rallied and got back to the point. “…It vanished. One day it just… stopped reporting back, and when ships were sent to the Lleyvian Frontier to look for it, they didn’t find anything. No wreckage, no signs of a Hunter raid… the station was just gone. The scout ship apparently detected some interesting spacetime distortions in the volume and… well, it all got inflated. There were wild theories like maybe they had somehow jumped to another galaxy, or maybe achieved extra_dimensional_ communication and some sort of fourth-dimensional being came along and scooped them up, or…"
Again, Dread said nothing, but he did shift his weight from one foot to the other.
“…The Grand Houses put a bounty on it, a reward for its discovery.” Eleven explained. “When we found it, however, it had been taken over. The master of the ship we were looking for had erected a system defence forcefield around the station and taken up residence.
‘Why would humans be interested in that’
“That shipmaster is a species traitor, working for the deathworlders. A former politician. His ship was destroyed [years] ago near the Aru system.”
To her immense surprise, he spoke. His actual voice was nothing but coarse bass. "Sanctuary."
“…Yes. How do you know?”
Dread paused, then he reached up and tugged back his hood. The privacy field flicked off.
Eleven knew all about human ethnic groups, about how their skin tone varied in adaptation to the scorching surface temperatures their home planet could reach. She couldn’t imagine living on a planet where the star’s UV radiation was enough to burn the natives’ skin off, and she certainly hadn’t envisioned that humans were ever a kind of cool deep umber.
It was the eyes, however, that finally succeeded in scaring not just the ghost of Mwrmwrwk, but Eleven herself. The embers in his hood were far less terrifying than the the real thing: Dread’s eyes hated everything.
“I know that ship.” He growled. “I got thrown out its airlock.”
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
Starship Negotiable Curiosity, Deep Space.
Calvin ‘Snapfire’ Sikes
“Hey, uh… hello in there.”
There was a kind of wary shifting sound from behind Hkzzvk’s door, but no reply. Calvin took that as an encouraging sign.
“Dude, uh… hey, I’m sorry about this but I can’t pronounce your name. Is it okay if I call you Hick?”
The translator gave Hkzzvk a hysterical edge to his voice. They really did a remarkable job of simulating where the voice was coming from, too. Rather than hearing the anxious Vzk’tk’s words from a speaker in the wall or anything, they really did sound like they were being shouted from the far side of the door. “Leave me alone!”
“I’m not coming in, I promise.” Sikes replied, soothingly. “That room’s your space, I respect that. Just checking you’re okay in there.”
“Leave me alone!!” Hkzzvk repeated, more frantically.
“Sorry man, I can’t. We’re all worried for you. But I’m just here to talk, you’re safe in there.”
There was no reply.
“…Sure appreciate it if you said somethin’ other than ‘leave me alone’ there, Hick.”
He let the silence drag on for a second or two, then decided that the old trick of just talking and talking and talking until the panicking creature got used to the sound of his voice was in order. Hkzzvk might be a fellow sapient being, but hey - whatever worked.
“Okay, well, I’m just gonna sit here and talk about whatever comes into my head, don’t mind me.” He said. “Gotta tell you though, I’d love to get this suit off sometime soon. It’s perfectly sized for me, but it squeezes real hard so it doesn’t rattle around, and yeah that’s a good thing for makin’ it easy to move in, it also makes it tough to wear for more than a couple of hours. I ain’t lookin’ forward to sitting around in this thing the whole way back, I tell ya that.”
Hkzzvk’s silence continued, so Calvin shrugged and settled in for a good long stream-of-consciousness.
“Though… okay, you probably never heard of skiing. Or maybe you did, maybe you guys have that. Probably not with four legs, but it’s this thing we do where we use long flat apparatus that we attach to our feet and it helps us slide easily over snow. Takes some work to get good at it, but there’s no better way to move fast over snow. Ski boots work a lot like the suit does, and those feel great to take off at the end of a day on the slopes, so I’m thinking when we get to take the spacesuit off after all this it’s gonna be… Actually, have you ever seen snow? Is that a thing on your home planet? Or… Dude, were you even born on a planet? I know a lot of ETs are born in space. I wonder if any humans have ever been born in space… It’d be tough for us, I bet the low gravity would screw with fetal development in all sorts’a ways…"
At length, he rambled on about the estimates in how many humans there were in the galaxy at large, wondered how they were getting by without easy access to clothing, and mused briefly about whether any of them had just given up and ‘gone native.’
He kept a lazy eye on the clock as he moved on to describing snow, then weather in general and especially thunderstorms.
“I mean, I guess all’a this sounds scary and alien to you huh? Deathworld weather and all that stuff but man, I tell ya it’s beautiful. I remember when I was little and this storm went over and it was just this crazy lightning show in the sky. My daddy and I sat on the porch and watched it for like half an hour, but then momma came out and said there was a tornado alarm and we had to spend the night sleeping on cots in the basement…"
He decided to move on from the subject of Earth’s weather and onto gentler and more calming matters. He was dealing with a sapient being after all, which meant that he couldn’t rely completely on tone of voice alone - he had to watch the content of what he was saying.
“Space is prettier though. There’s this nebula you can see from Cimbrean, It’s about as big in the sky as my thumb at arm’s length and yeah, things like storms are cool, but that nebula’s just like… every time I lay eyes on it it reminds me that wow, y’know, when I was a child we didn’t have FTL and aliens were just something that could theoretically exist, but then… there I am, living on a planet that’s not Earth, and I work in space, and I’m chatting to an alien right now. That’s kind of a-"
Hkzzvk finally said something, interrupting him. “Are you going to talk all night?" He asked. “You’re keeping me awake.”
“Ah, sorry dude, are you tired?
“I haven’t slept since you took over this ship! How could I? You’re dangerous!”
Calvin considered his reply carefully. “I know.” He said, eventually. “I know we are. We ain’t the bad guys though, man.”
“You’re still dangerous!” Hkzzvk insisted.
“I ain’t denyin’ that.” Sikes told him. “But so are lots’a things. This ship’s dangerous, ain’t it? Lotta power in here, lots of stuff the engineer’s gotta stay on top of, am I right?”
Hkzzvk said nothing, so Sikes shrugged and carried on talking. Okay, so he was keeping the alien awake, but really that worked to his advantage. Either the fatigue would help him calm Hkzzvk down so they could make contact properly, or else Hkzzvk would fall asleep listening to his voice and awaken rested and with some positive associations.
“Besides man, imagine yourself in our position. Ten years ago, we didn’t know any of this stuff. None of us had any clue what a deathworld is, or that Earth is one… I gotta be honest, it kinda scares me too. I don’t wanna accidentally hurt people, right? I ain’t a monster.”
“Then why are you here?” Hkzzvk asked. “Stay on your planet, where you belong! Go to other deathworlds! Why are you on our ship?"
“Would if we could, man.” Sikes grinned to himself. He was making definite progress. “Life ain’t that easy.”
“Why us?" Hkzzvk insisted.
“Ain’t nothin’ personal. You just got caught up in something important, that’s all.”
“I don’t trust you!”
Sikes sighed. “You should. Hicks, the only reason you’re still in that room is ‘cause we don’t wanna hurt you. Heck, I’m talkin’ to ya right now ‘cause we’re worried about ya. I ain’t askin’ for much, just want you to check in and let us know you’re okay.”
“I’m fine!"
“Sure, sure. Okay” Sikes soothed. He sat and waited for a minute.
“I… would like something to eat, please." Hkzzvk ventured after a while. “And to drink.”
“Our rations wouldn’t be any good for you, buddy, and ain’t none of us know one end of your kitchen from the other. You wanna come out here and fix yerself somethin, we’ll turn down the gravity for ya. Whaddya say?”
“…And you promise that it’s safe? I won’t catch a fatal disease?" Hkzzvk asked.
“I promise.”
There was a thoughtful pause, and then the door cautiously opened. Hkzzvk peeked around it.
Carefully and respectfully, Sikes took a slow and unthreatening step back. He smiled, keeping his lips together so that there was no hint of teeth, and gestured openly to the kitchen.
He could see why people tended to compare Vzk’tk with giraffes - they had that kind of spindly, ungainly look to them, especially in their long legs and necks. But Hkzzvk’s attitude was more like a deer crossing the road and keeping a wary eye on the pickup that had stopped for it.
“Ship, set gravity in all areas to Dominion standard.” he ordered. The Negotiable Curiosity chimed and Titan woke with a snort as the gravity changed. Hkzzvk took an alarmed step back.
“Sorry bro.” Sikes called.
“Hey, the hermit emerges.” Akiyama sat up slowly. “How are you?”
“I am… fine. Thank you.” Hkzzvk ventured. Still moving like a nervous buck, he picked his way carefully out into the ship’s common area.
Sikes gave Titan a subtle headshake, asking for a kid gloves approach. He got an imperceptible nod by way of a reply, and Titan settled down with his head on his ruck again. “’Kay. Lemme know if you need anything.”
Hkzzvk stepped warily around him and approached the food dispenser. A few taps later he had a small bowl of something that looked vaguely like dark arugula, a side order of something black and dripping with what Sikes hoped was sauce, and a small cup of water.
The bowl came with something like curved chopsticks. Apparently they were Hkzzvk’s customary eating utensil, because he was shovelling the arugula-ish into his mouth with gusto as soon as he had them in his hand.
“Dude, you had no food at all in there?” Sikes asked him. Hkzzvk flinched at being addressed, but then nodded. He skewered one of the slimy black things and slurped it up. Sikes caught the morsel’s scent and couldn’t stop a slight grimace from flickering across one eyebrow and the side of his nose. It smelled like rotting banana peel fermented in sour milk.
He took a step back and let the alien eat.
Eventually, Hkzzvk sighed and put the bowl down. He picked up a few of the uneaten leaves and twisted them together into what was unmistakably a kind of joint or cigarette, which he lit with a small circular lighter stored in a pouch on his arm.
“…I didn’t know folks out here smoke.” Sikes commented. Hkzzvk gave a complicated toss of his head that went untranslated, and flicked one of his ears.
The burning leaf smelled quite good, actually - sweeter and warmer than a cigarette. It reminded Sikes of fishing with his late great-uncle, who never went to the lake without his pipe and two Budweisers, and a couple of A&Ws for Calvin. Sadly, the old man had passed away before they’d been able to share a Bud together, but the smell coming from Hkzzvk’s impromptu roll-up was making Calvin suddenly thirsty for a root beer.
To his surprise, Hkzzvk finished his smoke by the simple expedient of eating the smouldering stub, grinding the embers out between his teeth. He shook himself, sending a wave of loose short-coated skin rippling down from the top of his long neck to the base of his tail, and sighed.
“Better?” Sikes asked him.
“Much better… Thank you.”
“Dude, like I said. We were just worried for ya.” He wasn’t sure what to read in Hkzzvk’s body language - for all he knew the Vzk’tk engineer might be mistrustful, wary, grateful or optimistic. He stood aside and indicated the open door. “You want the room, it’s yours, we won’t intrude, but please don’t starve yourself in there.”
Hkzzvk didn’t reply at first, but - still wary - he carefully retreated to the door to his room.
“You promise?” he asked.
“On my honor.” Sikes raised one hand solemnly to his chest and the other to ear level. For all Bedu’s dismissal of Hkzzvk’s intelligence, he counted on the jittery Vzk’tk to at least be able to interpret the gesture by context.
It apparently worked. Hkzzvk cautiously imitated him, then retreated into his room and closed the door.
“Nicely done.” Titan commented, sitting up again.
“It’s a start.” Sikes agreed. He grabbed an MRE and sat down to prepare it. Watching Hkzzvk eat had reminded him not only of his own appetite, but of the fact that he was burning through plenty of calories just by wearing the suit. “Aww, man. Jambalaya." he complained. Somewhere along the line, they’d started playing a game where they had to eat whatever they grabbed, rather than saving the ones they didn’t want for last. Nobody was quite sure what the consequence would be for giving in, but none of them was willing to lose. “Real jambalaya should be fuckin’ spicy man, not this weak-ass shit. The Tabasco doesn’t save it.”
Fortunately, there was a loophole. “Trade ya for a sausage and gravy.” Akiyama offered, brandishing the one he’d just grabbed.
“Deal.”
“Always knew you had a talent for diplomacy.” Titan observed, once the meals had been traded and were heating. “No way you score that much pussy on your looks alone."
Sikes snorted. “Blue fur and six limbs or not, he’s just a scared dude who got caught up in somethin’ bigger than him.” he said. “Useful knowing they smoke that stuff though. That’s good stuff. I can use that.”
“Y’know it didn’t even occur to me that maybe SOR needs a man with some talking skills.” Titan mused. “We’ve got so big and ass-kicky, kinda seems like a silver tongue’s gonna be low on the list, right?”
Sikes nodded, stirring his juice, but said nothing.
“Remember Ukraine? Operation SWORN BEACON? That shit woulda gone south if not for Booker." Titan continued. “Maybe it’s something to raise with STAINLESS.”
“Maybe,” Sikes agreed. “Hell, we’re pretty fuckin’ high-profile too. You saw the whole Beef Brothers thing, right?"
Titan laughed. “Yeah, and man I bet Base is sore over that shit. You hear about the poll result?"
“No…?”
“It went ‘Left Beef Best Beef, or Right Beef Superior Slab?’" Titan chuckled. “’Horse took it three to one, man. Kicked Baseball’s ass."
Sikes laughed. “Ah, poor Base… Feels weird bein’ part of a unit with that kind of media profile though, don’t it?”
“Very different to Delta.” Titan agreed. “Could be we’re all gonna need that silver tongue.”
He pulled his Jambalaya out of the heat and dug in. “Hell, could be the ultimate survival skill for mankind ain’t gonna be the muscles and stuff, it’s gonna be talking panicky ETs round to our side.”
“Bro, if that’s true, I’ll fuckin’ take it.” Sikes toasted the idea with his juice. “But I’m kinda thinkin’ it won’t be.”
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds.
Eleven
“You’re human!”
“Coo you, seen what straight in front o’ I.” Dread was… smiling? Eleven had to dig into the Hierarchy database to reference human facial expressions, and decided that what she was seeing wasn’t a smile at all, but was instead tagged with the term ‘rictus’. It was not, apparently, a friendly expression.
It certainly didn’t look like one. Quite aside from that hateful glare, she could see sharp slicing teeth and four pointed grabbing ones, and her host body’s instincts were sending urgent messages to the effect that she should tremble.
Humiliating as it was, breaking character was not acceptable, so Eleven allowed Mwrmwrwk’s body to tremble, and even cower a bit and back away.
“But… you’re… supposed to be Chehnasho.”
“I an’ I don’ wan’ Babylon come callin’, sight?"
Either the translator had made a complete hash of his language, or else he was speaking pure nonsense."…What?"
Dread’s expression got even angrier somehow, and he spoke clearly and slowly, as if enunciating for an idiot. “If they-” he waved a hand at the planet in general “Find out a human is here, then they either kill me, or Hunters will come.”
“Then why-?”
“You out me, you die. Seen?”
His tone was completely unmalicious, meaning that his words weren’t so much a threat as an alert of future danger to be avoided, like a warning sign on a crumbling cliff edge.
Eleven was not going to be bullied by a deathworld primitive. In any case, deathworlders outside the quarantine field were not to be permitted - a rule she could have bent or broken if she wanted… but she didn’t want to.
Internally, she sent a priority alert to planetary security. Externally, she squeaked a terrified “…Understood.”
“Why I chasing Sanctuary?" Dread asked.
“That was the job!” Eleven told him. “The client wanted Krrkktnkk A’ktnnzzik’tk found. When we found him, we came straight back here.” Dread didn’t need to know that the client in question had been the Hierarchy.
“And he taken over this station?”
“Yes!”
“Were there humans wid’im?”
“I don’t know. We chased the wrong escape pod first. That one had three humans in it, a male and two females.”
His hand shot out so fast that even at Eleven’s accelerated processing speeds, Mwrwmwrk’s reflexes and sensory acuity weren’t adequate to the task of seeing it happen. In an eyeblink, he was holding her firmly by one of her belts. The fabric creaked as he hauled her closer, so close that the scent of him filled her nose. He even smelled angry.
“Where? When?!”
“Deep space!” Eleven answered. “Their pod was heading for the spacelane between the Allied Vgork Kingdoms and Domain space, not far from Freeport Eighty-Seven. That was… about [two months] ago. They would definitely have reached the lanes by now, and been detected.”
“Then what?”
“That depends who found them. Most ships wouldn’t knowingly take a human on board, and they were in no condition to fight. Their… the pod’s medical scanner was reporting that all three were badly hurt.”
The news seemed to enrage and disgust him. He let go of her harness and spun away. He took a deep breath and let it out with a frustrated vocalization before turning back and facing her.
“What. Does. That. Mean?” He asked, firmly.
“It means… most shipmasters would have just left them. Gaoians probably wouldn’t, but that’s a long way from Gaoian space, and if the Hunters found them first…”
She trailed off: his glare was only getting worse.
“…It means that they’re most likely either dead or still out there,” she summarized.
Dread’s nostrils flared and the line of hair above his right eye creased downward. She thought he was about to snap something, but instead he exhaled while making a coarse noise in the back of his mouth and changed the subject.
“Why’s that station so important?”
“It has a fully sized industrial nanofactory.” Eleven told him. “And A’ktnnzzik’tk is an ally of your species, which means he’s probably planning to use it for your benefit.”
“So?”
“So that is… very illegal. For several reasons.”
“So?”
“Oh, you should care.” Eleven told him. “Your species is only just in their post-contact stage, your economy couldn’t possibly absorb the introduction of even one functioning Kwmbwrw nanofactory. It would be catastrophic for you. Your entire manufacturing sector would become obsolete too quickly for your economy to adjust. Millions would be redundant, unemployed, starving."
“…That bad?”
“It happened before. Have you ever met a Newex?”
He shook his head, a gesture she took for a reply in the negative.
“They’re a reclusive species with a tiny population, and they don’t leave their homeworld much if at all. About [two hundred years] ago they got their hands on nanofactory technology before they were ready, and it resulted in global economic collapse, which in turn led to mass starvation, plagues, rioting and internecine warfare. Even with all this time to recover, their population is still less than half what it was before the crisis.”
For the first time, he betrayed an emotion other than simmering rage. He put a hand on his jaw and rubbed thoughtfully, then ran that hand over the thick, matted ropes of hair that ran down his back. He turned away, paced thoughtfully, then took out his communicator.
“Not done wid I, yet.” He snarled. “Stay right there.”
Eleven watched the data traffic and had to suppress her emotional connection to her host or else she would have indicated triumph as she realised he first researched the Newexian crisis to verify what she had told him, and then immediately called his client, Shipmaster Mefr, host to Fifty-Three. He spoke slowly and carefully, disguising the unique cadences and idioms of what was clearly his native and preferred mode of speech, and reported everything, especially the nanofactory.
With plausible deniability for the information reaching the fleetmaster now established, Eleven’s work on Perfection was now done. There was only the matter of a rogue human to clean up.
Fortunately, that problem was about to solve itself.
“Right.” Dread pocketed his communicator. “Now. Sanctuary. I wan’ know everyt’ing…"
He trailed off, cocking his head at some sound that Eleven hadn’t detected. He gave her a suspicious glare, and then stepped twice to his side. In the quiet of the store-room, Eleven finally heard some kind of metallic, springy sort of sound that punctuated each of his footsteps.
Two cops burst into the room with their stun weaponry drawn and ready, and all hell broke loose
Irbzrkian electrical discharge weaponry had earned a large market share over the years. While they lacked the range, accuracy and rate of fire of kinetic pulse weaponry, the more than made up for those deficiencies in effectiveness. Irbzrk stun guns had been credited not only with subduing human fugitives, but also in fighting back against Hunter parties that had come looking for those humans. Dread didn’t stand a chance.
Not that mere insurmountable odds were likely to give any self-respecting deathworlder pause for thought.
The police - two Vzk’tk - needed a moment to realise that Dread was not in the middle of the room but lurking beside the door, and then it was already too late. Eleven wasn’t sure what she had been expecting from him, but the human seemed to have absolutely no compunctions about violence. The first officer through the door didn’t even have time to order him to surrender before Dread lashed out with enough force to pulp the poor creature’s forearm. It collapsed, shrieking like some kind of malfunctioning industrial machine and cradling its ruined limb.
The second fared no better. It tried to shoot at Dread, but the human flung himself to the ground, then used the interval as the cop’s gun was recharging its capacitors to shoot again to launch himself forwards. He crashed into the Vzk’tk officer’s legs and broke three of them - the officer crashed to the ground, screaming.
Eleven ran.
She flinched as a stun-gun shot that would have fried her host outright missed by a hand’s width the second she burst through the door. There were five more security officers in the alleyway, who beckoned urgently for her to get out of the way, and aimed at the door again.
What came through it wasn’t Dread, but the billow of black cloth was convincing enough for all of them to fire at once. Dread had removed his robes and thrown them out of the door in front of him. The garment ignited and fell to the ground burning, but Dread was right behind it and pounced over the flaming cloth.
Eleven had just enough time to solve the mystery of his too-long, Chehnasho- like legs. Under his robes, Dread was wearing a pair of shorts, a few holsters and harnesses, and a pair of boots with some kind of cantilevered assemblage of springs and metal that elongated his stride, made him taller and created the appearance of having digitigrade feet.
They also, it seemed, gave him a mechanical advantage. Eleven had the data on how agile humans were in standard gravity, but Dread’s leap was enormous even by their standards, and when he landed he did so by crashing shoulder-first into the middle officer.
The unfortunate being went sprawling, grievously wounded if not fatally so, and the other four found themselves within arm’s reach of a deathworlder in a fighting rage.
Eleven was pretty sure he killed two of them outright. Dread’s right hand was a knobbled club of gravity-forged dense bone and flesh, and it lashed out faster than the eye could follow. One of the officers staggered back and fell with his head lolling unnaturally, and another collapsed with a visible dent mid-forehead that didn’t look remotely survivable. When Dread grabbed the third and levered her into the fourth, he did so with enough force to almost tear her arm off, and left both of the officers creaking their agony in a disjointed pile of broken limbs on the deck.
Oh well. In his rage, the human had now undoubtedly sparked a city-wide hunt for himself that would inevitably lead to his capture. Eleven’s work was done.
She turned and sprinted away, preemptively shutting down the pain signals from her borrowed body.
Sure enough, he caught her. With those spring-boots on his feet, he could take huge bouncing strides in low gravity, and Eleven was smashed to the deck in only five paces. In an abstract way, she sensed three of Mwrmwrwk’s legs break, an injury that once upon a time would have been slowly and agonisingly fatal, and which the very best of modern Kwmbwrw medicine still treated by preference with amputation and prosthesis.
She was roughly shoved over, and was now nose-to-nose with a violently enraged human. “Blood clot fi I call Babylon, huh?” He snarled, incomprehensibly.
Eleven followed the script provided by Mwrmwrwk’s latent personality image. “Not me! Somebody must have seen-”
“Shut up! I got t’ree eye. Wan’ live wid two?”
He tugged a knife - not a fusion blade, just an ordinary bit of sharp metal, not that it would really matter to Mwrmwrwk’s flesh, not with deathworld strength behind it - from his belt and aimed it levelly at Eleven’s middle eye.
Oh dear. Eleven didn’t really want to have to endure that fate, and she sensed that now she could plausibly pass off her departure as Mwrmwrwk having died of sheer fright.
She ejected from her host, and triggered the kill subroutines in the implants as she evacuated them.
Crushed and already dying beneath Dread’s anger, the body of the already-late Mwrwmwrk spasmed, frothed at the mouth, and finally died.
Eleven reconnected to the first host that presented itself - a nearby Guvnuragnaguvendrugun who was being held back by the security cordon, and checked the feed from the kreewit biodrone.
She watched Dread take out his rage on the corpse of her late host, dismembering it in a few moments of pure animal violence. Then, snarling, he stood, looked around him, and took off at a run.
Eleven sent the kreewit to follow, but it immediately became apparent that Dread was far too fast for the little urban creature to keep up. She lost sight of him as he leaned into the turn round a sharp corner far ahead, and by the time her biodrone had reached that corner itself, he was gone.
Police vehicles thrummed overhead with their lights and sirens going full blast, and she reassured herself that his capture was only a matter of time.
She fed the Guvnurag host a false memory of becoming lost in thought, and dismounted gently. Her brief occupation would be overlooked as a moment of distraction: far better for creating less attention than to have the giant creature suddenly keel over dead in the crowd.
Satisfied, she slipped away onto the Hierarchy network, and began to compose her mission report.
It had, she considered, gone perfectly.
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
HMS Violent, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Commodore William Caruthers
Caruthers confessed to being a Star Trek fan, but something that had always struck him as amusing and odd about that franchise was just how much personal space all the characters enjoyed aboard their ships. Ensigns and Lieutenants were blessed with decent-sized apartments, usually with luxurious double beds and enough room to invite friends over for poker.
In reality, one of the great perks of being a senior officer was that you got a small cabin to yourself that was just about large enough to contain a bed, a sink and a desk. Caruthers’ was about half the size of Captain Picard’s ready room, let alone the opulent quarters in which that fictional officer had luxuriated. Meanwhile there were junior officers on Violent and elsewhere in the fleet who were sharing bunks.
That was the nature of life in the navy, and if the officers were sharing bunks then the ratings had an even more cramped and intimate time of it. Indeed, the cots and camp beds that the SOR techs kept in Caledonia’s starboard bay were widely reckoned to be the most luxurious sleeping arrangement in the fleet, and were thus the source of some mildly envious friction.
The cabin was important, though: it allowed him to sleep, and sleep he did at every opportunity. It might have been nice to unwind with a book first or something, but each time he had a chance to get his head down, he knew it was only going to be a handful of hours at most before his attention was once more required.
Answering phone calls was almost a reflex now. His hand was moving before he was fully awake.
“Ngh… Caruthers.”
“Call from the FIC, sir.”
“Put it through.”
The FIC was the Fleet Intelligence Center, housed on HMS Myrmidon, a team of dedicated and highly educated specialists whose job revolved around tending to the Watson systems and all those valuable FLOPS. Their efforts had broken the alien encryption in short order, and they were now busily reading ET’s mail. Thanks to them, Caruthers knew what his nonhuman counterpart’s orders were usually before they’d even finished reaching every officer in the alien fleet.
There was a delay of a second or two as the line was transferred, which he spent levering himself upright and massaging his face for clarity. “Chief. What news?”
“An interesting transmission from the planet to the fleet, sir. It looks like the SOR element were only partially successful - one of November Charlie’s crew evaded capture. It looks like she was tracked down and told them about Kirk and Mwrwrki station. Now there’s messages flying all over the ET fleet about Article Twelve of the Charter.”
Caruthers stood. “Damn!”
“Yes sir. If they decide to attack Caledonia, they’ll be doing it in about half an hour, assuming they stick to their plan of using their orbiting element as cover.”
“Thank you. Spread that intel.”
Well aware that he was a bit rumpled and unwashed from several solid days of being at work and snatching power-naps in between with only the odd meal at his desk, Caruthers would have preferred to grab a quick shower and a change of clothes, and he would have if there had been more than a half an hour in which to do so.
As it was… well, he was far from the only one. The standoff and constant state of readiness was probably keeping everybody in the fleet in similar condition.
Junior ranks got respectfully out of his way as he swarmed up the stairs to A deck and the bridge, where Violent’s CO, Commander Vaughan, was in the middle of taking the call from the Fleet Intel Center.
Caruthers double-checked the volume chart, double-checking that everything was still where it should be.
Vaughan put his phone down. “Well, that’s inconvenient,” he noted. “Shall we put a call in to your opposite number, sir?
“Best not.” Caruthers decided. “It won’t help us if we give away that we can listen to their communications.”
“If they decide to hit Caledonia now…"
“I think I’ve been more than patient enough with the ‘Fleetmaster’." Caruthers declared. He turned to the communications officer “Get me a line to all the captains.”
“Aye aye sir.”
It didn’t take long. The FIC had the art of rapidly disseminating vital information down pat - every commander they had was ready to receive orders. Bathini was on the line too, looking most exhausted of all but still dignified and fierce.
“Channel open, sir.”
Caruthers nodded his thanks, then addressed the camera on Vaughan’s console. “Gentlemen. I don’t plan on waiting half an hour to see if they attack, because if they do there won’t be a damn thing we can do to stop them from destroying Caledonia," he announced, without preamble. “We’re going to strike now. Violent, Viceroy and Myrmidon will remain here with half the bulldogs. The rest of you will jump to beacon around that moon. We’re going to blind them, nothing more. EWAR and gravity spikes only until I say otherwise. Captain Daniels, you have seniority for the strike group. Just as we planned. Any questions?"
“What about that Gaoian ship?” Captain Ruckley asked. Ruckley was the CO of HMS Valiant and one of the most vocally pro-alliance.
“They’re to be spared unless they attack.” Caruthers, letting his tone of voice carry the implicit order that there would be no flinching if it came to blows. “We’ve entertained the possibility of contacting them and coming to some arrangement, but that’s not practical right now. Hopefully their captain is smart enough to keep his claws in. Anybody else?”
“What happens if they do succeed in attacking Caledonia?" Vaughan asked.
“Then we nuke all the heavy pickets.” Caruthers replied. “Including the flagship. If this goes tits-up then I at least want the galaxy to know for certain that we’re no soft touch when it’s killing time… Still. Bathini, have your crew ready to abandon ship.”
“Aye aye sir.”
“Anyone else?”
There was a round of general confirmation that they all understood their roles.
“Good hunting.”
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds.
Zane
Zane had hit on the idea of using jumping stilts early on in his career as an infobroker. At first he’d considered duplicating Xiu’s Gaoian disguise, but had quickly given up on that idea. Quite aside from not speaking a lick of Gaori, his proportions were plainly and obviously wrong. He was far too tall, and too much of that height was legs.
Besides, Chehnasho had the more sinister reputation. Given that all he needed was an extra twelve inches or so in the leg to make himself roughly the right proportions, the rest had been first engineering and then adapting to the damn things. He’d fallen over a fair few times as he got used to them. Over the three years he’d spent on Perfection, he’d grown so used to his boots that taking them off in the seclusion of his safehouse had started to feel wrong… But they’d saved his life today.
He called The Contact.
“I want out.” He told her, the instant she answered his call.
“I was about to cut you loose anyway. Your usual flare for subtlety seems to have abandoned you.” the Corti replied. “I assume you will be leaving us? Making use of that ship you have stored away, hmm?”
The little noodly grey bitch had always been far too sharp for Zane’s tastes. It might have been her influence that saw him rescued from Aru, but that didn’t mean he had to like her. Especially not when she so thoroughly punctured his illusions that he’d been able to keep the Creation Stepper a secret.
“I’m not stupid enough to stay here.” He shot back.
“Stupid enough to out yourself and kill three police officers. What were you thinking?"
“Don’t give I the evil eye.” Zane told her. “Bein’ caught was a when, not a if.”
“Was it really necessary to kill them?”
“Hard to not.” Zane retorted. “An’ it kill or be killed yah know.”
“Oh yes, I know. They’ll kill you if they catch you, undoubtedly. They aren’t necessarily wrong, either. If the Hunters get wind of your presence…”
Zane’s normally limited and currently negligible patience ran out. “I an’ I done talkin’?” He snapped, “Or am I gon’ have to listen until the end of Eart’?”
“…I have cleared your debt. You’re free to go, Dread. A pity, you have been a rare and valuable asset. I wish you all the best.”
“Ya. I’d wish I good luck, but I doesn’t need it, nuh true?” Zane didn’t often compliment anybody, but then again he didn’t like very many people. The Contact was a rare exception - she’d always treated him with respect and fairness.
“True. Farewell, Dread.”
“Yeah, yeah. Live long an’ prosper, an’ t’ing.”
He ended the call.
Inventory check - he had his clothing, his jumping stilts, several hundred thousand dominion currency credits spread across five different fake identities, and a small spaceship rigged for going from point A to point B as quickly as possible.
He also had being human. Awkward as it might be to have to constantly disguise that fact, being able to out-think everything in the galaxy, out-run them, or if need be tear them limb-from-limb was not a blessing to be sneered at.
He’d be fine.
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
Heavy System Picket Utopian Aspiration, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Fleetmaster Xkk’rtnnk A’vkrnkt’k
“The orbital element will be in position in two hundred Ri’, fleetmaster."
“Good. Remember, the human retaliation will be immediate. Every ship is to warp to safety instantly upon the target’s destruction."
Xkk’ took a last look at the fleet disposition and satisfied himself that the deathworlders were about to get a nasty shock. Considering just how much death and mayhem they had caused in their short time on the interstellar stage, he didn’t feel even the slightest twinge of-
More than half of the human fleet vanished. All they left on the field were three of their larger ships, twelve of the small probably-drones, and the damaged-
The tactical display made an alarmed noise and its happy blue abruptly turned green. Warning icons indicated a sudden and total shutdown in the available sensor telemetry from his own ship.
Before he could give any order, it went yellow, indicating that it was nonfunctional. The Utopian Aspiration was no longer receiving any sensor telemetry. His view of the human fleet and of the battlespace dissolved into useless fuzz.
Every officer he could see started prodding and swiping uselessly at their work stations, attempting to salvage the situation.
“What. Just. Happened?!” he demanded, raising his voice to cut through the sudden hubbub.
“Comms are down, sensors are down, station-keeping is down, navigation is down!”
“Superluminal comms?” Xkk’ called.
“Active, but… Fleetmaster, every ship is reporting identical failures.”
Xkk’ rounded on the tactical technicians. “Sensors!”
“The diagnostic says they’ve… burned out, fleetmaster.” The technician give him a wide-eyed, quite panicked look. “All of them at once. They… it seems the humans hit them with extremely high-energy beams of radiation in their most sensitive bands, exceeding their-”
“They shot us?” Xkk’ snapped.
“Yes, Fleetmaster.”
Xkk’ turned to Mefr. “They shot us! Those… cowardly, honorless, treacherous dirt-chewers shot us!"
“They beat us to it.” Mefr observed.
Xkk’ ground his teeth and seriously considered removing the Corti from her post, but she had not in fact been overtly insubordinate. Instead he reined in his temper. “The other elements?” he asked.
The tactical officer swiped desperately through his volumetric display elements. “Third group report identical system failures,” he called. “Second group are still at warp, they’re unscathed and request orders.”
Xkk’s hand stabbed into his command display and selected the only icon that had a known position and condition - HMS Caledonia.
“Destroy. That. Ship.” he snarled.
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
HMS Violent, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Commodore William Caruthers.
“Their FTL element is coming about.”
"Myrmidon to predict their in-vector and spike it. Valiant to warp four of their bulldogs to Caledonia and seed white noise. Mister Morgan, put our bulldogs among those spikes."
“Aye aye!”
The Watson systems and the decade of GUI research and development that had begun the moment people got their heads round the idea that interstellar flight - and conflict - were likely to feature in humanity’s near future were proving their worth yet again. The Royal Navy prided itself on its traditions and on not fixing what wasn’t broken, but there was no command tradition or ship’s controls that were built to handle engagements across distances so vast that the speed of light itself was inconveniently too slow.
The system had therefore been purpose-built, and it worked beautifully. The computers listened, interpreted, shared, transmitted, prepared. All a human needed to do was confirm their analysis and not only did Caruthers’ orders immediately reach their intended recipients, but the computers on those ships had already prepared firing solutions and plotted accelerations.
They also kept Caruthers appraised of the progress of his commands. He had ordered for Myrmidon to fire gravity spikes and so now as each step in the process of reloading and firing that specialist ammunition filtered through Myrmidon’s own chain of command, Caruthers could watch it. The order was received, acknowledged, carried out. There was an agonising wait of some few seconds as her gun crews swapped ammo feeds.
No sooner was that step completed than Myrmidon fired. On the commodore’s screen, overlapping red bubbles filled the predicted incoming fleet’s approach vector, saturating several thousand cubic kilometers with no-warp zones. Caruthers watched the icon representing that fleet hawkishly, expecting them to detect the impediment in their way and abort their approach in favor of a different angle.
They didn’t, which was excellent evidence for their EWAR assault on the alien command element having completely blinded them.
The bulldogs synchronized with the control systems aboard Myrmidon and pulse-warped into the midst of that field of gravity spikes. By far the slowest step had been reloading the guns, and the result was that when, two minutes later, the last undamaged elements of the alien fleet arrived, rather than pouncing on a helpless target and annihilating it, they were instead brought crashing back down to sublight speeds, and before they could get their bearings, they were pounced upon, and rendered helpless.
Caruthers watched with a grim expression as the last alien ship lost attitude control and came adrift.
“…Hail the fleetmaster.” he ordered.
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
Heavy System Picket Utopian Aspiration, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Fleetmaster Xkk’rtnnk A’vkrnkt’k
“Fleetmaster? The human wishes to talk.”
“Wishes to gloat.” Xkk’ grumbled. He stood, and shook out his mane. “Very well. Relay this conversation to the fleet and the system. I want them to see what kind of monsters these deathworlders are."
“Yes, fleetmaster… On screen.”
Xkk’ scrutinized his foe as the human’s visage appeared on the large screen. Was grey hair a sign of age in humans? They all looked so lumpen and solid that it was hard to guess whether this Caruthers was slender or stocky by his species’ standards. The human seemed to have sprouted a rough blueness of hair stubble along his jaw and around his mouth since Xkk’ had last spoken with him, and the skin under his eyes was darker. An emote of some kind, or just a symptom of stress and fatigue?
“What do you want?” Xkk’ demanded.
“My apologies for striking first. I suppose I lost my nerve.” the human replied. “I have left you with…” he checked something outside of the camera’s field of view. “Yes, with one ship that has full sensors. Be sensible and use it to guide the others to anchor."
“Toying with us still, predator?” Xkk’ sneered. He checked the status of every ship in his fleet, and immediately found the only blue icon - the Racing Thunder. Of course: the Gaoians. The furry traitors must have been feeding intelligence to the humans, it was the only way that Caruthers could have known to attack first.
“If you’re awaiting the coup de grace, fleetmaster, I won’t be delivering one," Caruthers replied. “We’re not your enemy. It’s unfortunate that we came to blows over this, but we have gone out of our way to avoid casualties. I would hope that gesture counts in our favour.”
“You have made an enemy." Xkk’ spat. “And your Gaoian conspirators will be put on trial for their treason.”
“Now that, I can’t allow.” Caruther said. “Their ship is intact because the clans of Gao have been welcoming and civilized toward our people, which is a kindness I won’t betray. They’re innocent of any treason.”
“I see through your lie!” Xkk’ snapped. “They’re your agents, and I’ll have them shaved and executed for their treachery!” Around the bridge, several subordinates stared at him in alarm.
Caruthers’ expression hardened. “…A word of advice, fleetmaster, from commander to commander: Give the victories to your men and take the defeats for yourself.”
He glanced aside, listening to something that Xkk’ couldn’t hear, then smiled and made no effort to cover his teeth - several of Xkk’s officers flinched. “…And don’t threaten the one crew in your fleet whose ship can still go to warp,” he added.
Xkk’ rounded on the comms officer, who sent him a text update: the Racing Thunder had indeed disconnected from the tactical network and had shot out of the system at a hundred kilolights, headed directly for Gao.
“We are blinded and adrift thanks to you,” he shot at the human. “Article Three-”
“Requires me to leave you adequate means to return to harbor, yes.” Caruthers interrupted. “I did. We’ll repair our ship now, and depart - how you get home is no longer my problem. Goodbye."
The transmission ended.
Xkk’ was still standing in the middle of the bridge stamping his hind legs angrily - a gesture of frustrated rage entirely analogous to a human pacing and clenching their fists - when the comms officer found the courage to speak.
“A… message for you from Planetary Director Luz, fleetmaster.” he ventured, quietly.
Xkk’ glanced around the bridge. Nobody met his eye.
Without a word, he turned towards the wardroom and went to take the call that would end his career.
Date Point 10y4m1w5d AV
HMS Violent, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Commodore William Caruthers
“I get the impression you enjoyed that, sir.”
Caruthers sat back, removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair before tugging it neatly back into place. The full weight of several days of inadequate sleep was now resting on him, and he really wasn’t in the mood for gloating.
“The Gaoians?” he asked.
“Departing at best speed, with thanks.”
“Acknowledge their thanks and inform them that they may seek refuge at Cimbrean if they need it.” Caruthers instructed.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Caruthers opened a channel to Caledonia. When he answered it, captain Bathini was back under his flash hood again. “You can relax, captain.” Caruthers told him. “Our ET opposite numbers are neutralized, for now.”
“That’s fantastic news, sir.” Bathini nodded. “My reactor chief says we should be able to fire up main power in twelve hours.”
Caruthers tutted. “Nearly got out of this without a fight.” he mused. “Oh well. That’s still well ahead of the estimate.”
“Chief Andow believes in giving pessimistic estimates.” Bathini replied.
Caruthers chuckled, tiredly. “Good for him. I’ll hear from you in eight hours, then, shall I?”
Bathini laughed with him. “I believe you will sir, yes.”
Caruthers gave him a thumbs-up and closed the call.
He was rubbing at his forehead and composing his log when the most welcome scent in the universe wafted across his workstation, and a voice asked: “Coffee, sir?”
Caruthers gave the Midshipman who was offering him the mug - black, sugary and double strong, exactly as he liked it - the grateful smile that only a half- dead man being given coffee could produce and accepted it. “Very much appreciated, thank you mister Faulkner.”
He sipped half of it while he recorded his log entries, then finished by swigging the remainder. A quick survey and check-in with the fleet satisfied him that they could step down enough for him to grab another power-nap.
Somewhere in the future beyond that, however, was the siren promise of a full night’s sleep and right now, that sounded positively decadent… but there were at least another eight hours of hard work and stress before then.
He stood, left the flotilla in the capable hands of Captain Manning, and returned to his cabin.
Date Point 10y4m1w6d AV
Heavy System Picket Utopian Aspiration, Perfection System, The Core Worlds.
Fifty-Three
The bridge had been a subdued hubbub ever since the fleetmaster had trudged off it as if walking to his own execution. Fifty-three had taken the opportunity to restore some order and had demanded a compilation of every sensor log they had of the human attack.
The data was depressingly sparse. Strobing beams of EM radiation, each perfectly tuned to their sensors’ points of most sensitivity, had lashed their fleet, with each of the human ships generating thousands of such beams. All of the sensors had been overwhelmed and blinded, orders of magnitude too quickly for the reaction times of any organic life-form.
Fifty-Three had little more to go on than the precise time that each ship’s sensors had burned out. It really wasn’t much, and certainly exceeded her ability to think of countermeasures.
No matter. The Hierarchy was only the front line of Igraen defence, and Fifty- Three predicted that even these meagre crumbs of data would admit of something that could be used. The humans would not hold their advantage for long.
The bridge went quiet. Fleetmaster Xkk’ had emerged from the wardroom, looking old, frail and devastated.
“Shipmaster Mefr.” he announced, quietly. His voice was barely more than a croak, but the silence carried it clearly to every ear in the room. “By the order of Perfection Planetary Governor Luz, it is my final duty as master of this fleet to appoint you as my replacement. All command codes and privileges are now transferred to you. The security of this system and its people is now your responsibility and duty, if you accept it.”
Fifty-three straightened. This was not ideal - Hierarchy doctrine called for their agents to remain in well-placed subordinate positions rather than in command. Unfortunately she was not able to refuse, and Mefr was too valuable a host to sacrifice on doctrine.
“…I accept that responsibility, and relieve you of it,” she declared, formally and carefully. There was a cascade of alerts and updates in her implants as the command codes were transferred.
“All ships are to prioritize repair of their navigational sensors.” she said. “We only need one to get us home.”
The order was acknowledged and followed, while a pair of Vzk’tk marines led the former fleetmaster off the bridge.
“If one of the ships repairs their targeting sensors, shall we destroy the human ship?” one of the crew asked.
Fifty-Three considered the options, weighing her responsibilities to the Hierarchy’s secrecy, to its mission and to the options appropriate for completing that mission.
“…No.” she declared. Out loud, she gave a convincing reason that would do for the meatspace lifeforms. “Their retaliation would not be so restrained as they have been so far, and I have no doubt the Hunters would relish the opportunity to raid this system with the defence fleet weakened.”
Internally the logic was more complicatedly political. This incident would certainly have cost the humans much of the goodwill they’d earned at Capitol Station, but to really twist the knife…
++0053++: <Message for 0020> I have a request.
As for the humans, even if they did have a nanofactory now, that would almost certainly work out in the Hierarchy’s favor. Every previous occasion where a species got their hands on that technology prematurely had resulted in massive recession and strife.
Given that the Hierarchy’s analysis was that most of the so-called “Allied” nations were already accumulating immense debt as they pumped finances into developing their fledgling spaceborne military and the Cimbrean colonization effort, the Hierarchy would be quite happy to sit back and let another mass of stress land on the human economy.
She settled in the fleetmaster’s chair moments before the reply reached her.
++0020++: A request?
Twenty was their infiltrator among the Hunters, posing as a lowly Omega communications monitor. It was a perfect position - overlooked, unsuspected, and able to feed whatever morsels of intelligence the Hierarchy wanted directly to the Alphas who made the real decisions.
The rest was down to Hunter psychology, such as it was.
++0053++: Perfection is currently without a system defence fleet… thanks to the humans.
++0020++: Destroyed?
++0053++: Better. Intact but crippled. Lots of meat for the maw.
++0020++: Please don’t use that hideous phrase, I receive it dozens of times a day as it is.
++0053++: Apologies. Can you arrange a Hunt?
++0020++: Easily, and I shall. …Done.
Fifty-Three carefully kept her satisfaction from showing. She was simultaneously about to finally demolish the Dominion’s goodwill towards deathworlders, and resolve the problem of her own unwelcome rank. It would be trivially simple to arrange for her host to meet an untimely end between a Hunter’s teeth.
++0053++: That simple?
++0020++: The Alpha-of-Alphas has been looking for an opportunity to deploy some reverse-engineered human technology. Trust me, the attack will come very soon indeed. Good work.
++0053++: Thank you.
Twenty did not acknowledge the thanks, not that Fifty-three was inclined to care.
She could smell the promotion in her near future.
Date Point: 10y4m1w6d AV
HMS Caledonia, Perfection System, The Core Worlds
Chief Michael Andow
“Okay… Final checklist. Combustion chamber pressure?”
“Ten to the minus seven milliBar, chief.” Patel reported.
“Emergency breakers?”
Evans double-checked them. “Engaged, chief.”
“Ignition lasers?”
“Charged, chief.”
“Deuterium?”
“Pump primed, chief, Two thousand kilograms in the tank.”
“ESCC field?”
“Online, chief.”
“Sphincters?”
There was a round of laughter. Evans spoke up. “Clenched, chief.”
Andow flashed a one-sided grin at the younger man and called the bridge. “Captain,” he said, “reactor room. We’re ready for ignition, sir.”
“Excellent news. Wake her up, chief.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Andow patted Cally’s hull affectionately. “Alright girl. Let’s get you home, eh?”
“Amen.” somebody muttered
“Alright hooky,” Andow gestured to Patel, “do the honours.”
She nodded, took a deep breath, popped the cover on the fusion reactor’s main ignition, and thumbed the huge red button thus revealed.
It made an alarming slamming sound. Nobody flinched - it was exactly what they’d hoped to hear.
“Stage one ignition complete and burning, increasing deuterium flow… Stable.”
“Reaction temperature steady at eleven million kelvin.”
“…That’s our girl.” Andow grinned. The generator array was reporting nothing but green across the board as the forcefields deep within it simultaneously compressed, contained and enabled the fusion reaction, and bled off the surplus energy for electricity.
It wasn’t quite perfect - Andow had cut his teeth on gas turbine engines and supercritical water generators. He missed hearing the muffled howl of a turbine, next to which the fusion plants were disappointingly quiet. There was a steady low hum, almost inaudibly faint, but it just wasn’t the same. It didn’t sound like a gigawatt.
He grabbed the shipwide intercom. “All hands prepare for a change in gravity.” he announced, and hooted the alarm for good measure. He turned to Evans. “Slow adjust to one G.”
“Aye aye, chief.”
The sensation of gravity weighing down on them picked up. They’d become so used to one-quarter gravity over the last few days that it took a second or two to adjust to the natural weight of their bodies. Evans hissed as the shift dragged his wounded arm heavily downwards in its sling.
“LR?”
“I’m fine chief.” Evans professed.
“Nearly home.” Andow promised him. “How’s the jump drive, Hooky?”
Patel gave a huge, bright smile as she checked it. “Powered and ready to jump, chief. We’re above the yellow line.”
Andow snatched a fist in front of his chest in celebration, and contacted the bridge. “Sir, we’re ready to jump.”
“Many thanks.” came the terse reply. The situation on the bridge had to be just as tense and nervous as down in the reactor room. After all, they weren’t home yet.
Moments later, the alarm sounded for a jump. All across the ship, hatches were sealed, firefighting equipment prepared, and crew braced in case of another fire or power failure.
There wasn’t one. Instead, Caledonia shunted several megajoules into her jump engine, leapt through space in a direction other than up, and went home.
Date Point: 10y4m1w7d AV
Starship Negotiable Curiosity, Deep Space
Wilson ‘Titan’ Akiyama
Being SOR meant being on good speaking terms with pain. In fact, it meant having something that verged on being a friendship with pain. Pain was how they knew they were getting stronger. Pain told them where their limits were, so that they could push them back, and back, and back.
If you weren’t in pain, you weren’t improving.
That thought was becoming a mantra for Titan. His abdominal muscles had already cramped up and spasmed a couple of times now, as the unrelenting pressure of his EV-MASS forced them to push back. His limbs were tired, just from the simple fact of days spent living and moving around in a suit that weighed the best part of a hundred and fifty pounds even stripped down to the bare minimum as it currently was.
Even his mind hurt. A man could function on regular powernaps, but there was no substitute for a solid night’s sleep.
Preferably nude. Nothing heavier than his sheets. Maybe not even those. Maybe a shower first, if he could hold it together that long. The suit had all the necessary pelvic plumbing to be worn for days but that didn’t mean it was hygienic. In fact, Titan was feeling filthy, itchy, and disgusting. He knew that there was no detectable scent coming off him yet, but he also knew that the moment the seal on his suit was popped, the accumulated BO would bleach hair.
And there were still two days to go.
He had to face it: It was time to use another Crue-D injector. He’d held out long enough.
His buddies weren’t faring any better, though Rebar was suffering the worst. The huge burst of energy he’d expended chasing the escaped Mwrmwrwk through the marketplace had left him with a deficit that he’d never quite caught up on. He did his part just fine, keeping an eye on the ETs between sleep shifts… but that was all he did. Watch, eat, and sleep. His eyes were a long way away, staring blankly at nothing and leaving his thoughts opaque.
Akiyama knew how to help, though, and the burst of energy and vitality he was going to get from this next Crude shot would be of value. That fact made him feel better about finally giving in and injecting it, twenty minutes before Blaczynski was due to relieve him at the pilot’s station. That was plenty of time for it to work.
They shared a weary greeting and hug as they traded places and Titan headed back to the ship’s common area, feeling much better now. He was going to need a lot of recuperation, but for now the pain subsided, his muscles regained some of their spent strength, and he felt more alert and focused.
He sat next to Rebar and put an arm around the big guy’s back. “Ow.” he commented.
Rebar’s voice was little more than a rumble, way down in contrabass territory. “Yeah.”
“How’re you doing for…” Titan glanced at Bedu’s doorway. The Corti was still sitting there, as seemed to be his habit for the flight. “…Doses?”
“Two left.” Rebar grunted. He looked ashenly haggard, almost old. Despite the youthfulness that Crue-D use returned to everybody, there were deep lines in his brow and around his eyes and mouth. “Gonna… pop one tomorrow an’… one for when we’re landing.”
“Bro, don’t even worry about that. You know Horse and Base’ll want to carry you off this thing if you need it."
“…You always gotta be the logical one, huh.” Rebar groused.
“Shit, bro. Take my fuckin’ sleep shift, too. You need more than two hours.”
Ordinarily, Rebar would have refused. This time his expression was relieved and hopeful, but he still asked “…You sure?”
“Pop a dose and get some real sleep in, man.”
Rebar nodded. He slipped open the blue-green Crue-D pouch on his belt, pulled out one of the injectors, then leaned forward and injected himself through the little port in his suit’s flank.
It wasn’t surprising at all when he slouched back against the wall and then rested his head against Titan’s arm. “Still pissed that fuckin’ Kwmbwrw got away.” he grumbled.
Bedu had been sitting, as he habitually did, in the doorway to his cabin and watching them. Now he spoke up.
“Mwrwmwrwk was always an intelligent one,” he commented. “And resourceful. She was a pleasure to work with.”
“Gotta give her…” Rebar yawed, “…points for tenacity.”
“Dude. Sleep.” Titan told him.
He needn’t have bothered. Rebar was already oblivious.
“…I don’t know which is more terrifying - those suits, or the fact that the four of you have only just begun to show real signs of fatigue and discomfort.” Bedu observed.
“Can’t really discuss them, man. Sorry.” Akiyama told him.
“You don’t need to. I am Corti, Titan. We can deduce much by observation. I know beyond a doubt that you’re using a Cruezzir-based medicine of some kind. The suit contains no powered components and does not seem to be at all loose on you, and you all dent the floor just by walking around."
Titan shrugged for him, conscientously refraining from any comment. There was no point denying the Cruezzir observation, but he wasn’t about to confirm it either.
“May I ask you a question?” Bedu asked.
“Sure.”
“Are you doing this… Voluntarily?”
“Absolutely.” Titan nodded.
“You are clearly in severe pain. You are exhausted, incomprehensibly far from home, Cruezzir use has deviated your body far from the human baseline, and you have placed yourself in harm’s way for the lives of species other than your own… voluntarily.”
“That’s right. Hell, they tried to talk us out of it.”
Bedu’s brow arched upwards. Titan didn’t know if that was a native Corti gesture, or one he was imitating. “You were… dissuaded?”
“Oh yeah. Time and time again. The highway to become SOR is designed to persuade you to quit and go do something easier.”
“One would argue, something more sane.” Bedu commented.
“One would argue.” Titan chuckled, nodding. “But here I am.”
“In pain.”
Titan laughed at that. Rebar grumbled something and stretched out on the floor instead of against him.
Bedu just blinked. “Something is… amusing?” he asked.
Titan stood up and stretched. He may as well make use of the Crue-D in his system now to recover some flexibility with some extremely light exercise.
“…What’s funny is I was thinking about pain earlier.” he said. “I think maybe we have a different attitude to it than you do. What do you do with pain, what’s your… like, how do you deal with it?”
“I avoid it.” Bedu said. If the translator was getting his tone of voice right, the judgement implicit in his tone was that this should be the obvious and sane behaviour of any creature. “Don’t you?”
“Pain’s a good friend.” Titan told him. “And there’s not just the one kind. There’s the pain that says ‘push harder, and you will damage yourself’ and another that says ‘you are damaging yourself’ and another one that says when something else has damaged you… They’re all there to warn you, but that’s all they’re for."
“And you ignore that warning.” Bedu sounded unconvinced.
“Because it’s too cautious for the modern world. Yeah, maybe way back when we were sharpening sticks and living in caves, our pain thresholds were in the right place, but now that we’ve got…” Titan caught himself before he mentioned the Cruezzir “…modern medicine and surgery and stuff…”
“And Cruezzir.” Bedu needled.
“Whatever. Point is, we can push on through. We call it ‘mind over matter’ - willpower and…" he smiled, figuring out the most Corti way to say it. "Logic overriding more… base urges."
Bedu inclined his head thoughtfully. “A strangely intellectual sentiment, coming from somebody so physically robust.”
Titan shrugged. “Bedu, I mean no offense,” he said “but the gravest mistake your species ever made was thinking that the two can’t coexist. For us, mind and body are the same thing. Healthy in one, healthy in the other.”
“That may be true for you, but-”
“Give me one logical reason why it couldn’t be true for the Corti as well." Titan interrupted him. Bedu scowled thoughtfully, so he drove the point home. “There isn’t one. There’s no good reason at all why your kind couldn’t have what we have.”
Bedu gestured oddly, a kind of rapid twitching of his head as if he was trying to shake something out of his ear. “Corti as strong as deathworlders?” he asked. “What an… absurd mental image.”
“Why?”
“…I must admit you are right. Just by standing here and talking to me you prove that there’s no good reason for brains and brawn to not coexist in one species.”
“Just a thought.” Titan shrugged. “In the words of my people, ‘you do you’."
“Is that a Japanese saying?” Rebar asked, sleepily.
“I’m American you racist fuck!” Titan told him, grinning fondly. “Go to sleep.”
Rebar grunted and rolled over. The odds were that he was in too much pain for now to truly rest, but the Crue would soon solve that.
Akiyama turned his attention back to Bedu. “…So yeah. You do you.” he repeated.
“And become like you, if we wish?”
“Why not?”
Bedu rubbed a finger against one of his long pointed ears, thoughtfully. “Why not indeed?” he mused.
Date Point: 10y4m1w7d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Martina Kovač
“Joder!”
“Nice to see you too, Warhorse.”
Sergeant Ares stepped up the ramp and into the shuttle. Martina was the only one aboard it - only the SOR were offloading at Cimbrean, and as the only injury among them she had been shuttled down early for medical reasons.
“Shit on Jesus,” he said, “when they called down from Cally and said I had a burn patient to look after they didn’t say it was you! Are you okay?"
Kovač feigned nonchalance. “Oh, y’know, just… painful blistering burns.”
“Well, shit, let’s get you outta there.”
She took his hand and heaved herself upright on it. He couldn’t have offered better support if he’d been an iron bar bolted to the floor and ceiling. There was another rip of stinging pain up her back and she gritted her teeth.
“Crue patch?” Horse offered, hovering nearby as she staggered down the ramp, internally cussing herself out for just how stiff and immobile her back had become. She had to hold herself like she was tied to a board if she didn’t want it to hurt. She hadn’t appreciated just how involved her back was in walking until she couldn’t use it any more.
“Bit late…” Martina pointed out. “The window’s long gone.”
“You’re still healing, it’ll still do something for ya.” Ares promised. Martina rolled up her sleeve for him and he pressed the patch firmly to the soft skin on the underside of her forearm, where it started to dissolve and sink in. The process stung a little, but it was nothing next to what she’d been enduring for the last few days.
“There ya go. You’ll have a lot of… y’know, dead skin back there after the Crude’s done its bit. Gonna need to exfoliate.”
They started across the flight line toward the barracks, and Martina tried to put up with the repeated needle-stabs her gait sent spearing into her.
“You mean part of my recovery is gonna be a spa day?” she asked, taking refuge in humor to cover her discomfort. “Oh no! How will I cope?"
“Don’t celebrate just yet, smartass.” Horse told her, grinning. “You’re gonna need deep tissue massage therapy as well.”
“What next in the parade of calamities?”
“…From me.”
That brought Martina back down. “Uh… You.”
“I’m not talking some relaxation reiki stones chakra alignment bullshit here. Your connective tissue’s gonna need stretching out good if you’re gonna heal up without losing flexibility. That’s where I come in.”
“Only you could make a massage sound like torture."
“It, uh, kinda will be… sorry.”
“So what, you’ve got to massage the whole affected area?" Martina asked.
“Yup.”
“’Cause, uh… I burned my butt.”
His face shut down. “Well, I, uh…” he began, then cleared his throat. “I mean, uh, w-we can, uh, sort out a, uh, a chaperone if-if you, uh…”
There was the trademark Ares blush. Warhorse got a couple of shades darker and ruddier when he was feeling awkward, especially around the ears and forehead. It was adorable, which was not a word that Martina had ever guessed she’d associate with a guy who out-massed her several times over and could bench-press small cars.
The annoying part was that she knew her own nose and cheeks had gone red, and given how much fairer-skinned she was than him, there was no way the effect was subtle.
“It, uh.. I mean, not for a couple of… you’ve got to heal up a bit more first,” he continued, and cleared his throat again. “Probably. I mean, I’ve not actually, uh… inspected your… I mean, the wound.”
They stood on the asphalt for a second or two in mutual silence, considering the near future.
“…This is gonna be weird, isn’t it?” She predicted.
“Dude. You measure my dick once a month.”
“Still gonna be weird.”
“…Yup.”
Date Point: 10y4m1w7d AV
HMS Violent, Cimbrean system, The Far Reaches
Commodore William Caruthers
The phone rang. Caruthers permitted himself the luxury of grumbling about it before answering.
“Oh, no, come on…"
This had been the first time in several days that he’d gone to bed anticipating a solid six or more hours. Glancing at the red numbers of his alarm clock, he saw that he’d had barely two and a half.
He answered the phone. It felt lead-heavy. “…Caruthers.”
The report he received woke him up like a sobering sluice of ice water.
++End Chapter 27++
Chapter 37
Chapter 28: “Misfits” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point 10y4m2w2d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches.
Martina Kovač
“Ow, ow ow, OW!”
“And hooold…”
“Fuuuuccckk…. Aargh!”
“There ya go.” Ares released the firm pressure he’d been applying, and Martina sucked in her breath. “You okay?” He asked.
“I was right, this is fucking weird!” Martina declared over her shoulder, before adding “…And painful!” almost as an afterthought.
“Do I gotta remind you again that your job involves measuring dicks?”
“Ugh, you keep bringing that up.” She grumbled. “Yes, that’s weird too! I’ve just gotten used to it, okay?”
“Well, get used to this. Come on, I let you keep your underwear on didn’t I? Believe me, this’d go easier without.”
Martina huffed, and put her head down on her folded arms. There had been a lot of midnight fantasies since she’d first met him that involved Ares. Therapeutic massage was proving to be a painfully effective antidote to all of them, which just wasn’t fair.
She gritted her teeth as he repeated that same press-and-stretch maneuver on another deep knot of tense and damaged gluteal tissue. The deep muscular pain gave way to an intense surface stinging as he stretched the heat-tightened skin as well, working on the patch that was threatening to scar.
“Agh, aagh, aaagh… fuck!"
He cleared his throat. “Sorry… Seriously though, this ain’t all down to your injury. Your fasciae are fucked. Do you even know how to stretch properly when you exercise?"
“Oh God, you’re gonna show me, aren’t you?”
“Fitness and nutrition is my job, remember.” Ares reminded her. He started massaging her obliques. “If I was using the suit wrong, you’d correct me, right?”
“Right, right…” for whatever reason, the pressure and stretching of her obliques was easier to handle. Then again, she probably hadn’t spent most of the last week with them permanently tensed, unlike most of the other muscles in her back. “I’m using my body wrong, huh?”
“Lemme guess. You start off with your jog first and think, like, ‘yeah, this’ll warm me up fine’ am I right?"
He was completely right. “…yeah.”
“Wrong. You’ve gotta stretch out." He shifted to her lats, which drew an immediate involuntary noise of complaint out of her. “Damn, were you just tensed up the whole time?!”
“I was in a lot of pain, okay?!” Martina defended herself. He pushed the breath out of her by applying some unrelentingly firm pressure. When he stopped, she hissed her breath back in through her teeth. “…ow.”
“You’re doin’ great.” He reassured her.
“Gotta… represent for the tech team.”
“Doin’ good so far.” He repeated. “Last time I gave this to one of the Lads, he was fuckin’ crying, the big baby.”
To everyone and in honour of major Powell’s term for them, the SOR Operators were universally known as “The Lads”, even among themselves. It sounded a bit strange in any kind of an American accent, but it was just part of the SOR culture nowadays.
“Oh? Details?”
“Forget it. Bro-code says no, and so does medical confidentiality.”
“Dammit.” She sighed, grimacing as he smoothed out another deep imperfection in her musculature. “So is this bro-code written down anywhere, or…?”
“Sure. In a book of steel, twenty feet tall, hidden in a mountain temple. To even read it you gotta pass the twelve trials of manliness.”
Amused, Martina rolled her eyes. “Keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and - OW!”
“Sorry.”
“-and blaming it on you, that kinda thing?”
“I was thinking more like… y’know, punching bears, cutting down trees, stuff like that. Was that a quote?”
Martina found her laugh. With all his technical talk of fasciae and his obvious aptitude and intelligence for sports medicine, it was sometimes easy to forget that Ares was in other ways quite uneducated. “Rudyard Kipling. You really don’t know it?”
“Should I?”
“My dad said it’s-” She had to stop, as he did something agonizing to her shoulder. “…aaaaargh! FUCK!! What was that?!"
“Your intraspinatus muscle. What’d your dad say?”
“Right, uh… ow… he said, uh, he said Kipling’s popular among combat arms. I figured you’d know it.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s more of an Army thing, I guess. Daddy was a Ranger.” She sighed and rode the next discomfort with little more than squeezing her eyes shut for a second. “I don’t know HOW he’s gonna react when I write him and say ‘Guess what daddy? I got my butt scorched in space!’…"
“And your back.”
“Dude, the - oof! - the booty’s more important.”
“No argument here…”
She laughed, and he pushed through his final ministrations to her left shoulder.
“Okay,” he declared “That’s it for this session. Next one should be easier.”
He handed her a bathrobe and turned around as she stood up. She shimmied on the spot, feeling oddly limber and loose, and noted that her healing burn hurt noticeably less from the motion, too. It wasn’t perfect - she was still feeling sore and bruised from the firm therapy, and frankly exhausted to go with it, as if she’d just gone a round in the boxing ring - but she felt hugely improved.
“Wow!”
Ares beamed his patented goofy smile and bounced slightly in place. She’d always liked that about him, that despite everything that had happened to him and despite his sheer physicality and all the testosterone that must come with it, he was the guy on the team who smiled the most often and who came with the most inexhaustible store of puppyish energy.
“Okay, so what’s next, Doctor Ares?”
“Warm bath, plenty of fluids, and protein.” He replied promptly. “And you limber up properly last thing before going to bed and first thing in the morning."
“Will do. Are we doing this again tomorrow? Only, I have to go stand in front of the old man tomorrow.”
“Aww, man, really? You don’t deserve that.”
She laughed. “Relax. I gave Davison my Crue knowing I was gonna get in trouble for it. I’ll take my lumps, whatever they are."
“I hope he goes easy on you…”
“Ares, Major Powell’s the best commander I ever had. Whatever he decides I deserve, that’s what I deserve. Don’t worry so much.”
Date Point 10y4m2w2d AV
War Platform Lifebringer, Perfection System, The Core Worlds
Grand Fleetmaster Tk’vrrtnnk A’Khvnrrtk
The first thing that struck Tk’v about the human fleet’s deployment was its precision and expertise. Their fleetmaster clearly had an outstanding grasp of operations and tactics, was well-versed in three-dimensional thinking, and had a cadre of shipmasters reporting to him each of whom seemed to have similar insight and competence.
Considering how small the human fleet was, it was doing an admirable job of providing near-perfect orbital coverage, especially over the major population centers. Knowing what he did of human space combat doctrine, thanks to the records from Capitol Station, Garden and the recent skirmish in this very system, he was prepared to call it masterful.
Which was why he was determined that this was going to be a cordial and nonviolent encounter. The presumably-late former fleetmaster Xkk’ of Perfection’s system defence fleet had found himself pushed into a prestigious career dead end precisely because of his fatal tendency to focus on the problem directly in front of him and, frankly, because of his bigotry.
Tk’v prided himself on having avoided those pitfalls.
“Slow the fleet to one-quarter lightspeed and hail the humans.” he ordered. The fleet responded like the well-oiled, battle-hardened machine it was. Years of sporadic clashes along the Celzi borders had kept them tough and lean, and full of only the best officers and crew. None of the bickering political dolts who got sidelined into system defence, this was a Dominion wargroup, the very best. His orders were obeyed smoothly and precisely.
“Channel open, fleetmaster.”
Tk’v nodded to the comms officer, and spoke aloud. “This is Grand Fleetmaster Tk’vrrtnnk A’Khvnrrtk aboard the war platform Lifebringer. Our fleet wishes to approach peacefully."
The reply was a handful of Ri’ in coming. When it did, and he laid eyes on his human opposite number, he was struck by the impression both of age and weariness that the deathworlder was giving off. Tk’v had educated himself extensively on their species, and was quite sure that the human was either unwell, or exhausted.
Most likely the latter, if this was the same ‘Caruthers’ who had so badly confounded Xkk’. And he could hardly blame the deathworlder for physical and emotional fatigue. The man must be feeling a weight of responsibility for what the Hunters had done to Perfection.
“Fleetmaster William Caruthers aboard the destroyer Violent." he replied, confirming Tk’v’s suspicions. A few of the Lifebringer‘s officers exchanged nervous looks, and Tk’v could hardly blame them. ’Destroyer’? ’Violent’? Neither the classification nor name were calculated to inspire confidence in the peacefulness of deathworlders.
“Bellicose names, fleetmaster.” Tk’v observed. “I hope they are not a statement of intent.”
“Only toward our enemies, fleetmaster.” Caruthers replied. “I very much hope we don’t count you among them…?”
“You do not.” Tk’v assured him. “As Grand Fleetmaster of the Dominion Fifth Grand Fleet, I thank you for your defence of this our planet in its time of need, and my fleet stands ready to relieve yours of your vigil. Will you withdraw?”
“We shall.” Caruthers replied. Though he did not know the words and etiquette, his politeness and formality were obvious. He turned to somebody out of his camera’s field of view and nodded. The humans must already have planned for this eventuality, because their fleet smoothly climbed to high orbit and warped as one to the orbit of Perfection’s smallest moon. Tk’v wondered whether his own veteran commanders could have executed the maneuver so professionally.
Considering how short a time humans had been a spacefaring species, their competence was faintly disquieting. He could see why Xkk’ had panicked.
“Transports to enter low orbit and begin the aid drops.” he ordered. “Military vessels to take higher orbit and provide coverage.”
He admitted an expression of satisfaction to himself as his ships matched the humans for precision and finesse. He was determined to be peaceful and constructive, but there was no reason to show the Dominion at anything less than its best. Indeed, the Dominion’s best was exactly what these deathworlders needed to see right now.
He transferred the channel to his desk at the back of the command deck, so as to continue the conversation with a little more privacy and discretion.
“As one fleetmaster to another,” he said, once settled, “I would appreciate hearing your version of events, rather than relying purely on the sensor data. I’m given to understand that the system defence fleet was neutralized by you.”
Contextual information on the screen attempted to analyze Caruthers’ expressions and body language as he composed his reply. They settled on a decision that the human was emoting awkwardness and no small degree of remorse. “…I won’t deny as a matter of historical fact that their sensors were disabled at my order.” he ventured.
“Was that necessary?” Tk’v asked.
“I deemed it so at the time.”
“And now?”
Caruthers glanced outside his camera’s FOV again. Tk’v could only guess what he was looking at. After a few long Ri’, the human spoke again, choosing his words with care.
“I… feel a great sadness and sympathy that this attack has happened, fleetmaster,” he said at last. “But I can’t and won’t accept responsibility for it. In the circumstances I think our decisions and actions were warranted, proportionate and reasonable.”
Tk’v examined the preliminary estimates flowing in from the aid and rescue ships. “The early estimates suggest that the Hunters may have killed more than a million people, fleetmaster.” he pointed out. “And abducted who-knows-how- many.”
“I’m aware.” Caruthers replied. On Tk’v’s screen, the contextual information tentatively hazarded a cocktail of sorrow and determination, though the probabilities were low. Humans had such expressive faces that the software’s second best guess was a blend of anger and remorse. The differences, it seemed, were measured in millimeter variations in the precise tension of dozens of different muscles.
“They were able to do so because, on your orders, the system defence fleet was crippled and defenceless.” Tk’v continued.
“Yes.”
“To protect a single ship.”
“…Yes.”
“And you believe that this was ‘warranted, proportionate and reasonable’, fleetmaster?”
Caruthers sat back in his seat. The translator gave up on trying to read his expression. “In the circumstances,” he stressed, “with the knowledge available to me at the time I made the decision - yes.”
“This event is going to harm your species, you know.” Tk’v pointed out.
“Thank you for the warning, Fleetmaster,” Caruthers replied. “But - from one commander to another, as equals who should be allies against our mutual enemies - I must ask what you would do if your species was threatened with extinction. What price would you be willing to pay?”
Tk’v did not reply. Instead, he ran a hand thoughtfully down the length of his nose, and nodded. “…If you are willing to lend your help a while longer,” he suggested, “we could use an out-system patrol. Your ships have the speed and stealth to perform admirably in that role.”
“Communicate your orders, and I will see them done to the best of our ability.” Caruthers promised.
Tk’v outlined in brief what role the humans would be performing - to loiter silently in the system’s outer icy object halo and serve as a front line of warning should the Hunters return, and to alert the fleet of incoming merchant vessels.
Caruthers listened earnestly and alertly, only speaking to first clarify, and then confirm what he was being asked to do. “We’ll see to it,” he declared once briefed.
“Thank you.” Tk’v sketched a gesture of respect and gratitude. “And… I extend an open invitation for you to inspect my ship, once the situation is controlled.”
Caruthers betrayed only a moment of calculation. “Thank you. I gratefully accept.”
“Carry out your orders.”
“Aye aye, fleetmaster.”
The human ships were already aligned and maneuvering. Tk’v had barely closed the line to Violent before they went to warp, displaying an alarming acceleration profile. Tk’v’s fastest scout ships could only barely have matched them, and he very much doubted that Caruthers had shown their full capability.
He turned his attention away from them for now, and toward the surface of Perfection. There was a lot to do.
Date Point 10y4m2w3d AV
**HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Major Owen Powell
“Send her in.”
Considering she was probably still enduring some lingering tenderness from both her injuries and Warhorse’s thorough rehabilitative ministrations, Kovač wasn’t showing an iota of it. She entered Powell’s office with parade-ground perfection, not a hair out of place, not a ribbon misaligned. Her left-face, attention and salute were all razor-sharp.
“Sir, Technical Sergeant Martina Kovač reports as ordered.”
Dressings-down required Powell to look for any imperfection, however tiny. Kovač stood rock-still and expressionless as he circled slowly around her, looking for the slightest blemish and finding none. That was a relief - he knew in his heart that he’d have done the exact same thing in her situation, and would have hated to make this telling-off any more severe than it had to be, especially not over a triviality.
She held the salute as he circled her, and only snapped it back down after he had returned to his seat, returned it, and slowly lowered his own hand.
“Technical sergeant Kovač, do you know the purpose of this meeting?” He asked, lightly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Normally, Kovač,” he said, “I expect NCOs to be enforcers of the rules, rather than breakers of them.” She knew better than to respond to what had not been a question, so he didn’t draw the pause out for long. “I would be interested in hearing your explanation.”
“Davison might well have died, sir. I believe that explanation suffices.”
Kovač was experienced and intelligent. Rather than playing it cagey she was appealing to an age-old reality of war, which was that the rules sometimes had to bend, especially in the face of suffering. Truth be told she was right - the explanation did suffice.
Nevertheless…
Powell nodded. “Certainly from what I gather he was looking at permanent disfigurement and disability.” He said. “In light of which your actions are entirely understandable. I might even say commendable….” He paused, then delivered the inevitable “…However. I must find that they were not acceptable.”
“As NCO in charge of suit systems one of your principal duties is to ensure that all SOR personnel, yourself included, are mission ready at all times. The use of Crue-D is restricted to SOR not only for that reason, but also because our supply of it is so limited. We simply do not have enough to administer to every wounded man and woman in all the allied services who suffers a grievous injury. I know you understand this rationale. Much as I appreciate that it’s difficult to be cold when faced with suffering like that, the restriction exists for a reason. Do you understand?"
“Yes, sir.”
He picked up a folded piece of paper. “In light of the circumstances, I have written this Letter of Counseling,” He said, handing it over, “Which shall be maintained in your Regimental records until such time as I see fit to dispose of it. This is not a punishment but it is a stern warning and it is evidence, which you should not compound with further incidents. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.” Kovač was good at not giving anything away, but Powell was looking for the very subtlest of tells, and decided that she was receiving exactly what she had known was coming and was prepared to accept.
“Read it.”
She did so, diligently, and signed it after Powell had outlined the assorted legal necessities.
“Very well.” Powell stood, rounded the desk and leaned against it. “Just a parting comment, and this is more… informal.” He added. Kovač didn’t break posture. “The ideals of the SOR are Humility, Service and Selflessness.” He reminded her, not that he needed to. Everyone in the Regiment knew the ideals. “Calculated gambles with your career for what you think is a good and justified cause, well… If, Heaven forfend, you should ever find yourself needing to make a similar choice in future, I want you to remember that the regiment needs you, Kovač. We have a lot of talented people here, and they need both your expertise… and the example you set.”
Her composure finally showed a minor flaw - she blinked. “…Yes sir.”
Powell made a satisfied ‘hmm’ and returned to his chair.
“Technical Sergeant Martina Kovač, you are dismissed.”
Martina Kovač
Warhorse was loitering a respectful but nearby distance from the major’s office. She’d protested that he needn’t: he’d insisted.
“How’d it go?” he asked, following slightly behind her, given that the base’s narrow hallways and his own bulk prohibited side-by-side perambulations.
“I got exactly what was coming to me.” Martina told him, allowing herself a satisfied smile. Powell’s veiled compliment at the end there had done much to lift her spirits. It was good to know that the old man had disciplined her out of obligation - like everybody else in the unit she was slightly in awe of him, and knowing that he was as much on her side as he could be in the circumstances was a real boost.
“That’s… good?” Adam hazarded.
She smiled and nodded. “LoC.”
“That’s still a punishment…” Ares pointed out.
“You’ve never had one?”
“Not yet.”
“You will.” Martina predicted. “Everybody gets one sooner or later and, hell, that was nothing. Believe me, it could have been a lot worse…” She stopped and turned to him. “But y’know what? I saved a guy’s face, and maybe his life. Fucking. Worth it.”
“…Feels good, don’t it?” Adam agreed.
“Yup. Just need to heal up and I can call this one a win.”
“Oh, yeah. About that.” he said. “Got a decision for ya.”
“Shoot.”
“Okay, so we can keep on with the rehab like we have been, or we could go Crue-assisted.” He said. “It’ll go twice as quick, but it’ll hurt more.”
Martina sighed. She was getting kinda sick of pain. Which in fact meant that there was no sense in prolonging it.
“Do you know what body-slamming into red hot metal feels like?” She asked. He shook his head. “I do. I can handle the Crue regime.”
He grinned. “Attagirl.”
Date Point 10y4m2w3d AV
North Clearwater County, Minnesota , USA, Earth.
Xiu Chang
Allison had a musical laugh - it started deep inside her and bubbled up like water. It was a nice compliment to Julian’s filthy throaty chuckle. Perfect for drawing out of them with campfire stories after sunset.
“Oh my God, really?” You couldn’t smell it or anything?"
Xiu shrugged with a faintly embarrassed laugh. “I didn’t know what alcohol smells like! And uh… Yeah, Talamay is, well…. Actually it’s about as strong as this beer." she waggled the bottle for emphasis. Beer had come as a surprise, considering that the only other alcoholic drinks she had to compare it to were red wine and Talamay. She hadn’t expected cold, fizzy and bitter to translate to something she enjoyed, but in fact once she got past that and found the wheaten and even fruity flavors lurking underneath she’d converted, much to Allison’s delight.
Julian was poking at the burning wood with a stick, assessing it for when they could put the meat over it. She could see his teeth twinkling in the firelight.
“How much did you have?” Allison asked.
“Uh…” Xiu put her head back and stared at the stars, thinking. It was nice to imagine that one of them was Gaoyn, even though she knew that particular sun was much too far away to be seen by the naked eye. “We got so used to how I drank more water and had a bigger appetite than the Mothers that… well, they were drinking shot glass sized measures, and I was having it in more like a highball glass.”
“And Gaoians really don’t get drunk?” Julian asked.
“No. They just like the taste.”
“How does that work?” Julian wondered. “It’s the same solvent and they’re not that biologically different to us… it’s got to get into their bloodstream, right?"
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Xiu shrugged. “All I know is, they don’t get drunk. They were all kinds of surprised when I started giggling and stumbling around and then fell asleep.”
Allison made a snrrk sound and aborted the swig she’d been about to take of her own beer.
“You’re a lotta fun when you’re drunk, though,” she noted.
“I’m fun when I’m sober too!” Xiu objected.
“And even more fun when you’re drunk!” Allison nodded. Her grin broadcast pure teasing.
Xiu shot her a mock-bitchy pout, which Allison returned and they spent a few seconds pulling increasingly silly faces at each other before Xiu pulled out a trick she hadn’t done since she was a little girl and touched the tip of her nose with her tongue while squinting.
Whatever the subconscious rules of their completely impromptu game were, she considered it a win when Allison’s splutter and laugh ruined her next attempt.
“Penalty! Finish your drink!” Xiu ordered her.
“Awww! …Yes ma’am.”
“Good girl.” Xiu loved that little back-and-forth. Out of solidarity, she finished her bottle along with Allison.
“More?” Julian offered. He reached to his right and knocked on the cooler full of ice water and beer bottles.
Allison shuffled up next to Xiu. “I think he’s trying to ply us with drink,” she observed.
“I think he is!” Xiu agreed. “…I say we let him.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well alright! Ply away, Etsicitty.”
“Yes ma’am!”
Xiu smiled to herself as he selected two fresh cold bottles from the cooler and accepted the ‘good boy’ this earned him with a quiet smile. Apparently happy that they were ready to cook, he also grabbed the tupperware with its garlic and lemon chicken breasts and flipped them onto the metal grill where they hissed and steamed beautifully.
“…I’m going to miss this.” Xiu decided, looking around. Once upon a time, she would have thought that being in the woods after sundown surrounded by trees and animal noises would have been terrifying. Instead, the house and property that Julian had inherited from his grandfather felt cozy, in the little stain of firelight. “I love it here.”
“We’ve got another week before we have to leave, babe.” Allison told her.
“And you get to fly a spaceship." Julian pointed out. “I love this place too, but come on, tell me you aren’t excited.”
“…A little bit.” Xiu admitted, taking refuge in massive understatement. She’d found time to call home and talk to her parents during the week, and had found it easier with some distance and with Julian and Allison there for support. Hearing the envy in her brother Wei’s voice had been delicious, which was so wrong of her, but still…
“Liar.” Allison accused fondly. “You can’t wait.”
“Okay, okay, sorry!” Xiu laughed. “You’re right.”
“What’s there left to do anyway?” Allison asked.
“Nothing.” Julian replied. “All the jobs are done. We’ve got a week to relax and be free.”
“So that’s why you suddenly decided to celebrate." Allison snapped her fingers. “Shoulda guessed.”
“So, um… what are we going to do for that week?” Xiu asked. It was dawning on her that her life had been so driven by objectives over the last several years that suddenly having nothing to do was actually a daunting and alarming prospect.
“Uh…” Julian hesitated. “…Actually, I don’t know.”
They looked at Allison, whose expression was suddenly that of a woodland creature staring at the lights of a speeding truck. “Uh… we could…?”
They sat in mutual awkward cluelessness for about ten seconds before Julian finally laughed. “Seriously, do we-? Do none of us know how to just take a load off?"
“I… guess not.” Xiu said.
“Hey, we do!" Allison disagreed. “Movie nights?”
“Every day for a week?” Julian asked. “That much Disney might kill a man!”
“You like Disney!" Allison frowned at him.
“Ever heard of too much of a good thing?”
“Well okay mister,” Xiu challenged him, “Come up with an idea.”
Julian turned the chicken over, thoughtfully. “Actually… I always wanted to see Yosemite.”
“The national park?” Allison asked.
Julian laughed. “No, the cartoon cowboy,” he snarked. Allison rolled her eyes and flipped him the bird with a wry expression, so he leaned over and gave her a kiss. “How about it? Quick road trip, visit some places we’ve always kinda wanted to…?”
He looked at Xiu. “Whaddya think?”
Xiu blinked, desperately trying to think of somewhere she wanted to go. Her parents had always talked about visiting the “old country” despite both of them having been born in Canada, but she sensed that maybe places outside of North America weren’t an option.
She selected the first thing that came to mind. “Um… I don’t know. Vegas?”
“Okay. That’s not too far from Yosemite, either.” Julian nodded. “Al?”
Allison tugged her phone out of her pocket, and for the fiftieth time Xiu reminded herself to inquire just where the hell she found jeans with useful pockets. “Sec’.”
Julian and Xiu traded a confused frown as she Googled something.
“Al?”
“It’s Memorial Day this week, right? Which means…” Allison lowered her phone, grinning hugely. “…The Carnaval San Francisco is this weekend.”
“That sounds pretty easy. Fly to Vegas, day on the strip, rent a car and drive to Yosemite, then to San Fran, return the car there and fly to Omaha.”
“Can we afford that?” Xiu asked.
“Julian and I got paid by the abductee repatriation program for the work we did on Kirk’s ship.” Allison explained. “We can afford it.”
Julian turned the chicken over again. “Hell, if all this legal shit wasn’t threatening the house, we wouldn’t need to take the Byron contract. I mean, I’d still want to-" he added, before Allison could say anything, “but we wouldn’t need to."
Xiu looked back at the house. “So we fixed it up and now we’re just… going away?”
“We can enjoy the fruits of our labors for a day or two.” Allison assured her. “But I like this road trip idea! We were gone for so long and we’ll be leaving again, I think we should at least try to, uh…"
“Reconnect.” Julian suggested.
“Yeah!” Allison nodded.
Xiu’s own attempts at reconnecting had been disastrous. Her old friends had all shown up with an assortment of hugs, chocolates, cards and a beautiful red leather phone case decorated with a hand-painted golden heron from her best school friend.
She’d promptly not heard from any of them again after that. Xiu Chang, living ghost - remembered fondly, but everyone had already mourned her and moved on. Having her pop up alive again, ten years later and five years too young thanks to the effects of stasis… It had been too awkward for everybody involved.
She decided not to mention her doubts that any of them could really connect any longer. Allison was far too headstrong to be gracefully talked out of something she was enthusiastic for, and in his own quiet way Julian was even more tenacious still.
Besides… Xiu was self-aware enough to know that she was a natural introvert, and she was feeling the familiar inertia of all introverts being pulled on by a more extroverted personality like Allison. It was counterbalanced by the knowledge that Al was entirely correct, and that she would enjoy herself, if only she allowed herself to be led.
“Fine, fine!” She smiled. “Let’s do it.”
Julian turned the chicken over, then clicked his tongue irritably. “Forgot the plates.”
“I’ll get them.” Allison sprang to her feet and headed back indoors.
“It’s ready?” Xiu asked. She crawled forward to get a closer look “That was fast.”
“Not yet.” Julian said. “It’s uh… gonna need a while longer yet…”
“Smells delicious.” Xiu turned toward him and suddenly became aware of just how close they’d unconsciously gotten. “Um…”
There was a long, hopeful moment where every detail became crystal clear - the way his breath was shaky in the inhale and he didn’t exhale at all: the supple play of the muscles in his throat, the way his mouth opened slightly, the way she could see, up close, that he was longingly watching her lips.
Her own expression was probably a perfect mirror image of his.
He turned his head slightly, called “…Al?” and the moment fell apart. Not for the first time, Xiu sat back and tried not to resent Allison for her ‘ask first’ policy. Julian sagged, sighed out his caught breath and cleared his throat.
Allison’s voice floated out of the kitchen window. “Yeah?”
“…Never mind.”
“What?”
“Never mind!”
“…Okay!”
Julian sighed and, for something to do, he flipped the meat again. “…Dammit.”
Xiu self-consciously tidied some hair out of her face. “Um….are we…?” she began.
Julian smiled for her. “I’ll talk with her.” he promised. “I just… ” He raised his hand to gesticulate something, but whatever idea he’d been about to express, the words clearly eluded him.
Somehow, though, Xiu knew exactly what he meant. She would have replied, said something, except that Allison chose that moment to push the screen door open with her butt and emerge from the house carrying plates and cutlery in one hand and a bowl of mixed salad in the other.
“So!” she said, without preamble and apparently too eager to start planning their trip to notice Xiu’s and Julian’s awkwardness. “Vegas, huh?”
Xiu looked to Julian, who sniffed a silent laugh, smiled, shook his head and returned to tending the meat.
“…yeah.” She said. “I had this dream one time…”
Date Point 10y4m2w3d AV
Starship Negotiable Curiosity, Cimbrean system, the Far Reaches
Bedu
What surprised Bedu was how businesslike the humans were despite their considerable discomfort. They were all complaining and groaning now… but the moment the word arrived to stand up and prepare for boarding, they had immediately laid out their equipment neatly in plain sight and had then stood against the wall of the ship’s common area while the ship came to a relative halt and prepared to be boarded.
When the unmistakable sound of the airlock cycling began, they turned, pressed their hands to the wall above their heads, and waited. Bedu was at a loss as to why, but his speculation was soon answered when, once the lock cycled, five more humans in that thick space armor of theirs bustled efficiently onto his ship.
In any other situation he might have used the term ‘brandishing’ their weapons, but in fact they were far too clinical and workmanlike for that word to apply. Those guns were being held in the tight, snappy grip of elites who knew exactly how to use them, and who didn’t need to wave them around to draw attention to the possibility of future violence.
There was a short, tense and efficient interlude as each of his captors’ heads was subjected to a scan of some kind. Only once all four had been pronounced ’green, whatever that meant, did they relax. The weapons were put away, the body language changed. Smiles and hugs and alarmingly physical gestures of affection were roundly shared. In that second they went from utterly professional killing machines to the very best of friends, reunited and excited about it.
One of them remained aloof from the cycle of affection. Not that he was standoffish - quite the reverse, he welcomed Rebar, Titan, Snapfire and Starfall with obvious affection, but it was a more… detached affection.
The Corti had no words for ‘fatherly’ or ‘brotherly’.
Bedu soon found himself under the taciturn care of one of the smaller humans, referred to by the others as ‘Highland’. Two others, both of whom were behemothic slabs of muscle laden with an alarming amount of equipment, seemed to be the medical experts, and they rushed to attend to their exhausted comrades. Bedu could understand why - over the course of what they called a “week”, those four men had gone from being imposing forces of physical force, to groaning statues who barely moved except when compelled to by need of nutrition or duty change.
Their predicament was an effective antidote to any notion that humans were invincible. Greatly more durable than anybody else could ever hope to be, yes, but Bedu had spent a week watching them slowly fight a losing battle with their own equipment. They were people to him now. Nice people even: Courteous, clever, conscientious people whom he was forced to watch suffer.
Even for Corti, that was an uncomfortable situation.
The slightly aloof one, whom he took to be the leader, approached him once things had settled down. He was among the smallest of them, but still easily out-massed Bedu several times over.
“Bedu?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The leader nodded. “My name’s ‘Stainless’. You’ve been detained for questioning as a witness in a matter pertaining to the freedom and security of the peoples of Earth and Cimbrean, and of all humans." he announced, formally. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“As it happens, I’ve rather enjoyed the inconvenience.” Bedu stood. “Besides, this detention is legal so long as you reimburse me for my time…”
“That wouldn’t be my responsibility.” Stainless informed him. “But everything should be above-board and legal, yes.”
“Excellent…. Are your subordinates going to be well? They seem to have suffered rather badly during the flight.”
Stainless glanced over at his men.
“They’ll be fine,” he said. “Thank you for your concern.”
“So what happens now?” Bedu asked.
There was a lurch, and the ship chimed its usual alert sound for accelerating into a re-entry.
Bedu inclined his head. “The planet Cimbrean, I presume?”
“That’s right.” Stainless nodded. He exchanged a few quiet words with Titan that Bedu didn’t catch, and gave the (presumably) younger man a pat on the shoulder as he staggered and groaned his way forward to help with the re- entry.
Bedu excused himself and took inventory of his belongings, making sure they were all put away and that he had memorised their exact position. He doubted that he would come back to find anything missing, but it would at least be nice to know if they had been moved or searched.
The landing wasn’t as smooth as Mwrmwrwk would have managed, but it was by no means a bad one. In fact, humans being the high-gravity species they were, and capable of handling really quite serious jolts, they probably felt it was perfectly smooth.
Through the wall, Bedu heard Hkzzvk bleat in alarm. Snapfire called something comforting along the lines of “it’s okay buddy, we just landed!” and Hkzzvk’s panicked noises immediately ceased.
Rebar, Titan, Snapfire and Starfall disembarked first, though Starfall was leaning heavily on the largest of his comrades, and Snapfire had to be carried, slung across the shoulders of the second-largest, whose careful footfalls still made the deck plating groan and protest. Bedu watched with mingled awe and disbelief - Snapfire had struck him as being so heavy that even medium stevedore drones would have struggled with his mass. While the feat certainly didn’t look effortless for his comrade, neither did it look like it was pushing his limits.
Bedu and Hkzzvk were carefully shepherded down the ramp by Stainless, Highland and one of the large ones, whose moniker Bedu had not learned. They were met at the bottom by a consignment of humans not wearing armored pressure suits, but instead clad in looser and clearly more comfortable working garments. These were still armed - a ludicrous consideration given that either one of them was comfortably strong enough to dismember anybody who wasn’t human - but the weapons were small, and holstered.
“This way please.” one of them said, waving his hand toward a nearby vehicle. Closer still, the four aching SOR men were being aided onto a transport whose rear step was almost brushing the ground.
Bedu looked around. Cimbrean was a pleasant planet, but there was something… strange about it, that he just couldn’t quite identify. Maybe it was the humans themselves - their every movement seemed faintly awkward, as if they weren’t quite walking naturally. Of course, they wouldn’t be, would they? Cimbrean’s gravity was rather higher than Bedu’s native norm, but must be much lower than Earth’s.
Or maybe it was the auditory landscape. Corti ears were large and sensitive, well adapted to the comparatively low atmospheric density of Origin. In Cimbrean’s denser air, every noise was a little louder and a little deeper and they carried distant hints of shouting, construction work, traffic, and alien laughter. Only that last one was an unfamiliar sound of course, but the cadences and sheer business…
Hkzzvk provided the answer. He trudged down the ramp, shying away from the humans and glancing nervously around as if looking for somewhere to run, but as he always did whenever they landed, he paused and took a deep breath.
He promptly buried his nose in his hands, croaking aggrievedly to himself.
“Hkzzvk?” Bedu asked.
“This planet reeks." Hkzzvk explained.
Corti had very little to speak of in the way of a sense of smell, so Bedu deferred to his crewman’s superioriority in matters olfactory. “In what way?”
Hkzzvk raised his head and his nostrils flared. “It smells of predators.” he decided. “and … urgh, I don’t know what most of these smells are, but I don’t like them.”
That would be it. Weak as Corti nasal acuity was, the pheromones and scents on the air would still be present on a subconscious level, informing his mood. He nodded, satisfied that the mystery was solved.
“Well,” he said. “All the more reason to be done with this interview and get on our way.”
“What about our employers?” Hkzzvk asked.
Corti didn’t smile often, but when they did it was usually because they had scored some small moment of empowerment. Bedu allowed himself an unabashed expression of triumph, and borrowed a human word of unmatched communicative potential.
"‘Fuck’ our employers," he said.
Date Point 10y4m2w3d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), planet Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Martina Kovač
Anybody who knew the “Lads” knew they weren’t superhuman. Absolutely pushing back the limits of what ‘human’ could mean, yes, but it was difficult to be in awe of somebody when you regularly saw how much pain, inconvenience and indignity they suffered through.
Ares had put his finger on it - Martina was a bio-mechanical expert who had more academic training than most civilian surgeons and a broad role covering absolutely everything about the life-support functionality of every EV-MASS they had, including the ones waiting in reserve for qualified Operators who could wear them. It fell to her to dig through feedback and medical reports diagnosing the most minor of concerns with the suit and liaising with the Lads themselves on their own fitness and suit-readiness. It fell to her to sign off on every life support pack’s fitness for use, and it fell to her to keep the suit techs properly briefed on any concerns that needed addressing.
She loved to boast to her friends and family that she was in charge of a whole team of spacesuit experts, but the unglamorous reality was that many of the suits’ most important systems were below the waist and so, as Ares had pointed out, it fell to her on a monthly basis to intimately measure all of the Lads, and that was only the most minor of the several vital responsibilities she had that all involved the pelvic anatomy.
Put bluntly she had to think a lot about how much the guys pissed and shit, both in terms of frequency and in terms of volume. Those inelegant metrics were thoroughly effective at grounding her estimation of them all. It was a bit like knowing the directory of Spiderman’s porn folder, or which was Wonder Woman’s preferred brand of tampon.
At least her back was almost completely pain-free by now, thanks to some aggressive therapeutic massage and Crue-D treatment. Warhorse had declared that he wasn’t going to be able to stop the burn from leaving some permanent scarring, but when she’d examined it over her shoulder in the mirror, she’d decided that while the white mottling and dimpling down her right flank and buttock wasn’t pretty, it was still much better than she’d feared.
This was good, because today wasn’t a day for limping around. At least, not for her. When Vandenberg, Blaczynski, Sikes and Akiyama were delivered to the suit shop, they were practically stretchered in, and every single one of them was gaunt and pale with fatigue and cramping muscles.
For a change, pumping in the ice-cold water that was vital to persuading their midsuit layers to relax and shrink so that they could be removed produced no complaint. Getting the suits off was much more difficult than usual because the guys couldn’t pull as hard as they normally would, but off they came in the end. In fact in Titan’s case, they only freed him by getting Burgess to help with heaving on him - Ares was too busy lifting Sikes out of his suit and getting an IV into him.
Just in case Martina was still harboring any lingering doubts about how rough the Lads really had it, the stench was unbelievable. Bozo, who had been left sitting obediently in the corner waiting to be introduced to his new friends, promptly sneezed, shook himself and got the hell out of there with his tail between his legs. Martina envied him.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to deal with actually cleaning the suits - that was for the techs - but body biochemistry was absolutely her concern, so she told her nose to shut the fuck up and gathered what she needed from the the suits’ sewage processors, briskly took the needed blood samples, and excused herself to the safe atmosphere of the lab.
From there, while the samples were spun, had lasers shone through them and all the other assorted work that the testing machines did, she was able to liaise with the Protectors and keep them apprised of her results in real-time. Between them they quickly decided that the best thing for their buddies was to get them scrubbed up and bedded down on cots right there in the suit shop, with drips in for hydration and glucose, a maximum dose each of Crue-D, and a license to sleep for as long as they needed under supervision.
She was grateful to find, once all the results were in and she’d evaluated them, that in her absence the suit shop had returned to its more usual nasal background noise which, although it did include a strong note of body odor, at least balanced that note with lubricant, hot rubber, industrial cleaning agents and solder.
Warhorse had taken first shift in supervising his exhausted buddies, who were all fast asleep on cots along the dividing wall between the shop and the locker room. Out of their suits, they were an obvious mess - all four were sporting pinch marks, blood blisters, bruises, rash and the other trademark skin discolorations that came with wearing EV-MASS for any length of time.
They had a form for recording those - a stylized human body from several angles with a simple emblem system - crosses, hashing, plus signs and stars - for recording the location and size of different kinds of marks. He’d saved her a job there and begun filling them in himself, and they took a moment to double-check to her satisfaction that he hadn’t missed anything as best they could without actually moving or waking the sleepers.
“How’re their results?” he asked, once she’d satisfied herself and pocketed them.
“Nothing scary, but God. I wouldn’t want to have metabolite levels that high.” Martina said. “Sikes especially must be in agony.”
’Horse gave his buddies an unhappy look over and nodded.
Both of them caught movement in the corner of their eye, and stood when it turned out to be major Powell crossing the shop with a serious expression, not that he usually wore any other kind.
“Siddown, siddown.” he called, waving them down. “I’m just checkin’ on them.”
“They’ll be fine sir. Ares and I were just discussing their bloodwork.” Martina told him.
Powell nodded. “Any thoughts on their recovery time?”
Horse looked to Martina. “Two weeks, two and a half?” he asked.
“That’s maybe being optimistic…” Martina suggested. “The rehab diet alone-”
“Right, yeah.” Ares nodded.
“Just a ballpark will do me for now.” Powell said.
“Three weeks, sir,” Martina told him.
Powell’s jaw worked thoughtfully as he assimilated that news. "Cally in drydock, four of the Lads convalescing, I’ve got Jackson wanting to train you and Baseball up for PR work…" he grumbled, gesturing to Ares, “General Tremblay’s gonna have to find somebody else for the embassy job.”
“Never a dull moment.” Martina observed. They all knew the subtle tics and tells that were Powell’s expressions, and she saw a silent laugh pull momentarily at the corner of his mouth.
“Aye, at least I’m not fookin’ bored.” he agreed. “Okay. You two bash together a recovery schedule and I’ll let the Navy worry about getting us a replacement ride while ours is in the shop.”
“Yes sir.”
Powell left them in peace.
Martina started calculating the rehab schedule in her head, and Ares was plainly doing something similar, albeit on his fingers. She tried and failed to stifle her amusement: He was so huge and prodigiously muscled that counting on his fingers made him look adorably cro-magnon, even though she knew that he was furiously calculating some quite sophisticated medical realities.
He didn’t fail to notice, and went slightly red. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?!”
She laughed, and pantomimed counting on her fingers while pulling the dumbest, most neanderthal face she could. He snorted, directed an affectionate middle finger at her, and went back to his mental arithmetic with a smile.
Martina pulled her notebook from her pocket and happily did the same. Apparently the therapy hadn’t killed off their chemistry after all…
Date Point 10y4m2w6d AV
Las Vegas, Nevada, USA, Earth.
Allison Buehler
“Come on, honey, you’ve got this! First roll!”
Xiu was plainly having the time of her life. A loud woman with a broad Louisiana accent was cheering her on, and she wasn’t the only one - the four other players at the table were all calling words of encouragement. Xiu meanwhile was smiling nervously as she picked up the dice.
Allison laughed as she and Julian watched her imitate what others had done and blow on the dice in her hand, then cast them vigorously down the table. There were cheers, everybody collected some chips and Xiu pumped her fist, danced an excited circle on the spot, and eagerly accepted the dice to throw them again, drinking in the words of praise and encouragement from the eclectic mix of people at the table.
“Do you follow what’s going on?” Julian asked.
“She just rolled an eleven.” Allison explained.
“That’s good?”
Allison smiled. “Everybody’s ten dollars richer thanks to her.”
“Hah. That’s our girl!”
They watched Xiu share a joke with the lady from Louisiana - it was hard to hear what she said over the sound of people calling for a repeat performance - and bounced the dice off the far wall of the table. This met with a more subdued response, but still a generally positive one, and several chips were added to the table.
It was all clearly a bit arcane for Julian. His attention wandered as the croupier maneuvered her stick around and returned the dice for another throw, which was met with a more muted response.
“So I’ve been thinking.” Allison told him.
“’Bout what?”
“’Bout you and her.”
Julian turned to face her. “You’re still okay, right?”
“I’m fine! Are you? You’ve not really… y’know, moved things forward.”
“We have our moments…” Julian said. “It’s just tricky.”
“Moments like what?”
“Like… little moments. Where, if I was having the moment with you…” he leaned over suddenly and kissed her. “…like that, you know?”
Touched, Allison smiled. “So what’s tricky about that?”
“Well, you said we have to ask permission first and… I mean, I don’t know how to do that without it kind of… I want things to be natural.” Julian explained. “You know…”
“Spontaneous.”
“Yeah. It’s like… if we have to ask permission-”
“I get you.” Allison nodded. She sat back and watched Xiu throw her dice - whatever she rolled, it produced a neutral response from her fellow players. She took a swig of her beer to cover a rush of mixed emotions.
Julian saw right through her. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m…. kinda…” Allison sighed and started over. “I want to just agree that it’s a stupid rule.” she confessed. “I feel like I shouldn’t be so insecure, you know?”
“Hey, it’s okay-” he began, reaching out and taking her hand.
Allison squeezed his fingers. “No it’s not,” she interrupted. “This whole thing with her was my idea after all. A rule like that is just… it sends mixed signals. I’m not putting my money where my mouth is, y’know?"
“It is okay." Julian insisted. “We’re all in this together. Xiu and me, we don’t want to hurt you, and if you need time to adjust to things then that’s fine!”
There was a cheer from the table. Grinning from ear to ear, Xiu curtseyed for her fellow players. She saw Allison and Julian watching her and gave them a huge beaming smile and a wave.
“Y’know, I wasn’t expecting to enjoy Vegas,” Julian confessed, returning the wave. “I’ve been here before and it’s too… it’s just not my thing. But I love how much she’s enjoying herself.”
Allison nodded. For courage, she finished her beer. “Baby… I don’t know if I’m ready to scrap the whole permission thing yet, but the next time you have one of those ‘moments’, I want you to promise me you’ll go for it, okay?"
“Al-”
“I mean it, mister. You kiss that girl the first chance you get. That’s an order."
Julian stared at her for a second, but he knew when she was serious. He didn’t joke about with a ‘yes ma’am’ this time: He nodded. “…I promise.”
“Good…” Allison scooted round and cuddled up to his arm. “I love you.”
He kissed her forehead. “I love you too, dummy.”
Xiu’s run of good luck came to an end with a groan and a short round of applause from everyone else at the table. She said her goodbyes, collected her chips and sprang over to Allison and Julian’s table looking thoroughly pleased with herself.
“How’d you do?” Julian asked her. Xiu had gone to the table with a strict budget of ten ten-dollar bets.
“I’m up twenty dollars!” she waggled a stack of twelve chips, thoroughly pleased with herself.
“Nice!”
“What about you guys, are you okay?”
“This is the best time I’ve ever had in Vegas.” Julian told her.
Allison laughed. “Same!” she announced, having never been to Vegas before. “It’s fun watching you play.”
Xiu grinned at them. “Okay, so Charlene - that’s the lady in the denim vest - she told me about this stage show she thinks we should go see, and Hank - that’s the guy with the belt buckle - he was telling me about this gourmet burger restaurant on the Boulevard and…”
She took Julian’s hand and pulled him in the direction of the street, babbling excitedly. Grinning to herself, Allison gathered their belongings and followed.
Date Point 10y4m2w6d AV
Planet Perfection, The Core Worlds.
Vakno, “The Contact”.
The early years of Vakno’s career had involved teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. Not through any lack of skill, or a run of bad luck, but because she had early on calculated that whatever her odds of success in the infobrokering business might be, the most probable failure case was assassination.
It was, after all, how she had disposed of her own early rivals.
To that end, she had spent nearly all of her profits during those early years on personal protection. From bodyguard drones and the very best personal combat rigs, to the full splendor that was her office. Those spartan walls and that austere desk hid within them a package of assorted defensive technologies both physical and electronic that made Vakno about the most securely protected living thing in the known galaxy.
Nowadays, keeping it at the very bleeding edge required only a fraction of her assets. Her own sensor network had tracked the Hunter swarm long before Perfection’s defence grid. She had already evicted (and kindly warned) her client by the time they were entering orbit. When they had launched dozens of objects onto a high velocity re-entry course, she had been given plenty of warning to activate the very strongest shields she had, and retreat into the most secure sanctum below.
When one of those weapons - a kinetic impactor of some kind, a simple metal pole twenty times her height and bigger around than she could have wrapped her arms - had smashed into the city deck above her, its destructive power had ripped out the surrounding layers, crushing homes, businesses and lives, and gutting the supports of a major corporate skyscraper, which had not remained vertical for long.
Vakno herself had barely felt a tremor throughout the short bombardment. Shortly thereafter, her perimeter defences had sensed Hunters picking through the devastation, but not like any Hunter she had ever seen before. These were larger, even more nauseating in form than their ordinary kin and layered in dense fibrous musculature that reminded her uncomfortably of the few humans she had dealt with in her career.
Three of them had died straying too close to the bunker’s perimeter, and they had apparently decided not to waste their time cracking her shell when there was much softer meat to be had.
They had ravaged the city for nearly a day before Vakno’s sensors finally detected the return of the humans and several high-energy flashes in orbit, characteristic of lithium-deuteride fusion.
Rather than fight the hated deathworlders, the Hunters had departed with their holds full of slaves and their bellies full of meat.
So many slaves. So much meat. Even Vakno, dispassionate as she was, couldn’t help but feel the weight of panic and alarm against the walls of her rational self-control, pressuring her into reconsidering just how valuable humans really were.
When she saw what the Hunters had done to the crippled system defence fleet, however, she had to sit and meditate long and hard before finally recovering the rational control necessary to look at things from the human perspective.
And the question presented itself - How had the Hunters known?
It would be a long time indeed before Perfection recovered to the point where Vakno would be back to business as usual, and like all Corti she had a burning need to be productive. Her sense of self-esteem would not permit her to take a vacation during the inevitable lull in her business.
Not when there was so gnawing a question left unanswered. The raid was too precise in its timing, too flawless in execution and too large in scale to have happened on the spur of the moment.
This wasn’t fortune: Somebody had fed Perfection to the Hunters. Somebody had almost fed Vakno to the Hunters. And Vakno had had people killed for much less than that.
She started digging.
Date Point 10y4m3w1d AV
Yosemite National Park, California, USA, Earth.
Julian Etsicitty
All of the tourism pictures showed Yosemite on clear blue-skied days when the waters were still and mirror-polished, flanked by a stentorian, forest-bearded honour guard of mountains.
Julian thought it looked even more beautiful in the rain.
It wasn’t serious rain - really, it was more a kind of acrophobic cloud that processed down from the mountains and dragged a diaphanous silver wedding train of light drizzle behind it, which fogged out the bombastic landscape that so entranced the documentary makers and tourists, and instead forced the eye to notice the smaller, the closer and the more immediate things.
Allison, naturally, was lurking in their tiny tent - built for two and delightfully cozy for three - under the tarp shelter Julian had rigged up for them and she was refusing to stray out into the rain. She seemed happy enough to wrap up warm with an ebook and a thermal flask full of Ovaltine and watch him work, and once he was done she’d insisted that Julian should go commune with nature and not worry about her.
Xiu was a complete contrast. She’d slapped on her outback hat and gone exploring the second Julian had declared their little day-camp complete, apparently oblivious to the chill and the moisture. She’d acknowledge his warning to be careful and not stray too far, and had set out eastwards toward the sound of the river, armed only with the backpack of essentials he’d prepared for them all just in case.
Julian took his time in following her. She wasn’t hard to follow - the fitness regime she’d followed religiously during her years in exile meant, especially thanks to the weighted clothing she’d worn to try and simulate the Earth’s gravity, that Xiu was a little powerhouse, remarkably strong and heavy for her apparent size, and despite her agility and poise she’d never learned the art of stepping softly. To an experienced tracker - and Julian was a master tracker - her footsteps were nearly as clear and obvious in the wet ground as if they’d been painted there in blaze orange.
What she didn’t do was make much noise. Julian was the other way round - he stepped lightly and tried to leave no clear sign of his passing, but he did sing to himself, humming and whistling through the bits where he couldn’t remember the lyrics. It was maybe a little ridiculous, but if there was anything nearby that would prefer to avoid him, he should give it plenty of notice rather than startling it. Besides, he was so used to doing it by now that it would have felt strange to him not to sing as he walked.
♪♫_“Heyyy, darling… I hope you’re good toni-i-ght… hmm hmmm hmm-mm hmm….. Tell me something sweet…”_♪♫
He ambled along in Xiu’s wake, inspecting all of the things she’d paused to look at, and several other interesting things that she’d apparently missed. The sedate pace allowed him to satisfy himself that he’d picked the right spot for them to dally the day away - there was no sign of any potentially dangerous wildlife in the area, which was his biggest concern, but also no sign that the river ever got high enough to threaten them or their stuff.
He lost her trail when he reached the river, and the ground became nothing but stones and rock, but that hardly mattered, because she hadn’t gone any further.
Julian hadn’t ever got onto the subject of spirituality or religion with Xiu. He had no idea what she believed in, but he knew that she meditated every day when she could, usually first thing in the morning before he and Allison were up. The day they’d left Minnesota, she’d woken up extra early and had been seated comfortably on the log by the fire pit, facing the dawn sun when Julian had risen.
Now, she was seated in the lotus position on a rock by the river. She’d taken her hat off and let her hair down, and had her face turned slightly to the sky with a subtle liberated smile playing around her lips, enjoying the play of cool moisture over her face.
She opened her eyes, and gave him a relaxed smile and a wave. “Singing to yourself?” she asked.
“Always a good idea in the woods.” Julian shrugged off his pack and sat down next to her. “I’m pretty sure there aren’t any bears around, but…”
Her face fell. “…Oh. Wow. Bears?”
“Always possible, but I don’t think so. Nothing here they’d want.”
She gulped and looked around. “Maybe I shouldn’t have run off alone. Sorry!”
Julian chuckled. “It’s okay! If I’d thought there was any serious danger I’d have stopped you. Trust me.”
“I do!” Xiu squeezed some water out of her hair, then laughed nervously. “But… Wow. We really do live on a deathworld, don’t we?”
“Oh yeah.” Julian nodded. “Kinda smacks you full in the head sometimes, doesn’t it?”
She nodded. “Still… it’s beautiful.”
“I’ve always wanted to come here.” Julian agreed. “Almost gave up on getting the chance, really.”
“Allison’s missing it though…”
“Don’t worry, she’s perfectly happy.” Julian promised.
Xiu nodded and looked around again at the iconic landscape. The light rain was almost nothing now - enough to moisten the skin and slowly soak into their clothing, but it was doing nothing to impede the view. In fact the shreds of cloud garlanding the peaks only enhanced it.
“Are you warm enough?” Julian asked her.
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “This is nice!”
“We’re both used to chilly temperatures, huh?”
She nodded. “Gao and spaceships… and I guess this is nothing next to a Nightmare winter?”
“Downright warm. And don’t forget Canada”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Vancouver’s not that cold.”
Julian nodded, shut his eyes and let the white noise of nature permeate him. He was used to the wilderness, and had long learned the trick of really turning on his ears. Modern human life meant that people rarely got the chance to understand just how acute their senses truly were. It wasn’t that their ears got numb or anything, just that daily life involved being surrounded by so much noise that filtering out everything except for a narrow band of “important” sounds was an ingrained survival skill.
Un-learning that skill and noticing everything, that was a real trick. The same went for the nose. Given time to adjust, the human nose could pick up the musk of a mouse in nearby bushes, or the avian funk of a nest full of chicks in the trees above. The ear could tell flycatchers from warblers and hear stones knocking along the river bed, if only the listener knew how to listen.
He certainly heard Xiu’s contented sigh and the way she settled herself a little more comfortably and slowed her breathing,
They enjoyed the comfortable silence together, basking in the scent of conifers and petrichor, and Julian only opened his eyes when an unexpected beam of sunlight on his face turned the quiet blackness behind his eyelids red.
He raised his hand to squint against it. The weather was rolling in waves down the valley, and the rain would be back soon enough, but just for a few moments the view was clear, open and unimpeded.
"Ai ya…" Xiu breathed.
“Yeah.”
He put his arm round her waist. He half expected her to stiffen or catch her breath, but she did the opposite - she sighed happily and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.
Rather than saying anything, Julian made a kind of wordless, gently interrogative sound. She nodded against his shoulder and replied in kind - not a word, but a kind of of happy chirrup or purr.
He kissed her on the top of the head. With a querying “Mm?” she turned her head slightly, got another kiss - this one on the forehead - and when she raised her face to look at him Julian took his chance and kissed her properly.
Xiu issued a passionate squeak, and purely on instinct she put a hand on the back of his head and straightened up to get a better angle, while her other hand splayed on his chest then gripped his shirt. Julian ran his own hand slowly up her back while his free hand took its place on her waist.
It was Xiu who eventually ended it. When they parted, she gasped and rested her forehead against his, while words quietly bubbled out of her as if she wasn’t entirely in control of them. “Oh my god I needed that I’ve wanted you to do that for-” she stiffened. “Wait. You asked Allison, right?”
Julian smiled, trying to overrule his galloping pulse and project composed happiness. “I did,” he reassured her.
Xiu sighed happily, and this time it was her turn to kiss him.
They stayed wrapped up in each other by the river for a good long while, talking quietly, kissing frequently, giggling together and bonding. It finally had to come to an end though when a fat raindrop slapped disgustingly into Julian’s ear, and he looked at the sky.
“Okay, that’s no drizzle,” he decided, indicating an ash-grey battalion of clouds that were marching down from the peaks with rancorous intent.
Xiu exhaled resignedly and donned her hat, pulling it down snugly around her ears. “Cuddling up in the tent with Allison sounds good as well…” she suggested.
“You read my mind.”
They helped each other put on their backpacks, took a last look at the valley in the knowledge that they’d probably never come there again, and put it behind them hand-in-hand.
Date Point 10y4m3w1d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Planet Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Admiral Sir Patrick Knight
Knight hadn’t been involved personally in the interview of their alien detainees of course - that job had naturally fallen to Intelligence, according to whom Bedu had been an absolutely model interviewee - polite, concise, intelligent enough to recognise that resistance would gain him nothing, and with no particular reason to do so anyway.
The summary of his interview made for interesting reading.
Bedu’s business model it seemed was inconveniently discreet, to the point where even Bedu himself didn’t know who his clients were unless they wanted him to. The client who had set him on the trail of Kirk and the missing starship Sanctuary had done so anonymously, but with considerable existing knowledge of where to start looking.
The search had started at the planet Aru, and this in itself was an education. Knight was something of a history buff, and alien history in particular was a field that had begun to fascinate him. There was so impossibly much of it and the Dominion’s historical archives - which humanity notionally had access to by dint of being an associate Dominion member, even if they were far too large to actually be transmitted to any storage medium on Earth - had much too haphazard a filing system for anything to be known with any real certainty before the Corti had come along and imposed strict data standards on the whole mess.
Aru, however… Aru was previously unknown to him, and was now in admiral Knight’s opinion a fascinating jewel of historical interest that his amateur antiquarian’s instincts would have dearly loved to get in front of the figurative loupe.
Why Kirk had gone to Aru was known, thanks to the statements given by the two survivors of his crew - Etsicitty and Buehler - and the young miss Chang whom they had collected from the planet. Why he had lingered after recovering her had been a little fuzzier, but Bedu had shed some light on that mystery.
The historic decline and fall of every sapient spacefaring power in the galaxy was well documented. Indeed, it was one of the topics of fascinated discussion that entranced amateur xenohistorians on the Internet (not that there were yet such things as professional xenohistorians), in the parlance of whom the phenomenon had been named the “Great Filter”, a term borrowed from one Robin Hanson who had coined it in an attempt to solve the so-called Fermi Paradox.
The Fermi Paradox was a now-extinct problem that had distracted people who were inclined to worry about such things with the question of where all the aliens were and why they weren’t popping in for a cup of tea and a chat. Given that said question’s relevance had faded somewhat in recent years, the Fermi Paradox was now only of interest to historically-minded students of science and enthusiasts of the burgeoning field of xenoarchaeology.
Aru, being the home planet of a species who were already in the late stages of their terminal decline and apparently disinterested in doing anything to stop it, was naturally a decent starting point for anybody who wished to understand the nature of the Great Filter and maybe do something about it.
Kirk had lingered there after collecting his most recent rescue, and then when Bedu had been sent to investigate Sanctuary’s disappearance, the Negotiable Curiosity had not needed to search very long and hard to find a debris field thirty light years away.
Bedu’s ship, its owner had proudly explained, was equipped with particle detectors sensitive enough to trace the FTL movement of objects as small as an escape pod up to ten years after the fact, assuming the trail wasn’t confused by the passage of other ships. Space, however, was so… well, spacious, that really that was a problem that only manifested along major spacelanes and near stations.
Sanctuary, while not a large ship, had been built with such a convention- stretching power output that its trail was the easiest Bedu had ever been called on to follow, and it had led him right to the heart of a tumbling cloud of wreckage.
Again, the next part matched with what Etsicitty, Buehler and Chang had reported - something with the power output of a dreadnought had intercepted them, and both ships had been destroyed when Sanctuary’s mortally wounded pilot, Amir Bahmani, had rammed the hostile while the rest of the crew abandoned ship.
Bedu had initially followed the escape pod carrying the three humans. Retracing his steps and picking up the trail of the other, faster, lifeboat had eventually led him to a system known only by its stellar coordinates - Knight glossed over the string of numbers involved, which described the star’s type, age, distance as a proportion of the galactic radius from Sagittarius A* and its deviation in radians from the straight line connecting that object to the heart of the Andromeda galaxy.
The star in question was a red giant, well past its main sequence and venerably burning through its helium. No temperate planets, one gas giant nearly twice the size of Jupiter, a handful of barren rocks and an acidic hellpit that made Venus look like no more unpleasant than a kitchen full of recently-chopped onions in comparison.
It would have been a completely unremarkable system if not for the forcefield enclosing it - identical to the ones that even now protected Cimbrean and Earth - and the crashed Kwmbwrw research station lodged in one of that gas giant’s moons, which was in the wrong place to the tune of thirty thousand lightyears and change.
From an intelligence perspective, however, by far the most important thing that Bedu was able to tell them was that at no point in its voyage from Sanctuary’s wreckage to this question mark of a system had Kirk’s lifeboat been intercepted.
While Bedu himself was Orange - augmented, possibly a target of interest for Hierarchy use, but not yet actually suspected of having been possessed by a Hierarchy demon - his story was corroborated by the Negotiable Curiosity’s sensor records, which in turn showed no signs of tampering.
Taken all together it was good news, and the report concluded with a recommendation that Kirk’s own status be downgraded from Orange to Yellow. He couldn’t be called Green until an implant scanner had pinged the inside of his skull, but Intel were at least happy enough to move him a step in that direction.
All in all, the report put Sir Patrick in a good mood. He wrote a quick mail for the attention of general Tremblay, rubbed his eyes, and then turned his attention to the report in his pile that he knew was going to deflate that good mood slightly.
With a sigh, he started to pore over the most recent analysis of operation NOVA HOUND.
Date Point 10y4m3w2d AV
San Francisco, California, USA, Earth
Xiu Chang
“…Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Whaddya think?”
Xiu had a hard time choosing the right word, in any language. ‘Colorful’ and ‘Flamboyant’ came to mind, but so was Chinese New Year, and nothing else that presented itself quite made the grade either.
“It’s very… gay.” She decided. That was the nice thing about English. One word could carry such a huge weight of alternative meanings and context, without going into the simply crazy subtleties of intonation that played such an important role in Mandarin. Both languages were hideously complex when compared to Gaori, which was refreshingly direct. Gaori wasn’t unsubtle by any means, but it lacked the impenetrable nuance that allowed her to pun like that, carefully deploying three different meanings at once in the span of a rather simple monosyllable.
She could only imagine what the actual Gay Pride parade next month would look like. It’d presumably make this look conservative and sedate.
She’d gone quite rusty in both her human languages thanks to several years of not using them, and since getting back to Earth she’d almost exclusively spoken English, much to her mother’s frustration. Still, she was finally getting things straight in her head and didn’t so often find herself slipping automatically back into the alien tongue whenever she wasn’t concentrating.
Together, she and Allison watched a young man dance past wearing a pair of gold lame briefs, bright orange feathers, lipstick, and the kind of muscles that belonged on ancient Greek pottery.
“Show me what you’re workin’ with, baby!” Allison cat-called. Somehow the dancer heard her over the drumming and trumpets. He aimed a buttock at them and smacked it with a grin before dancing along with the rest of his troupe.
Allison gave a delighted laugh, and beamed at the way Xiu was giggling with her.
“Your turn!” she declared, and hoisted Xiu toward the railing. Xiu tried not to imagine what her mother would think, picked another male dancer and cupped her hands.
"Yao piguuu!"
Presumably the dancer didn’t speak a word of Mandarin, but he seemed to get the gist of it and posed for her, flexing magnificently. Xiu applauded while Allison blew him a kiss.
They retreated from the railing as a more stately group in ornate - and huge - red ballgowns began to sail regally by, and Allison took Xiu’s hand to lead her through the crowd. She was in her element, Xiu decided, being surrounded by noise and vibrancy and color. Xiu loved to “get loud” as an occasional treat - as she was doing right now - but Julian had shrunk into himself and had taken the first excuse he reasonably could to retreat to the relative quiet and calm of a coffee shop.
Allison seemed to want to sample everything and she tested even Xiu’s reserves as she led the way from street vendor to street performer, to live musician and back to the barricade to watch more of the parade, then on into the crowd.
They got matching henna tattoos, sampled Fajita chicken skewers fresh off the grill, danced together to the pounding mix of a street DJ who was blending Samba and Rastatrash into something new and exciting and generally got drunk on the sheer weirdness of it all before finally finding themselves sitting down at a bus stop and sharing a bottle of cold water, having summoned Julian to come find them. It was coming up on two in the afternoon, and the parade was drumming and gyrating its way toward winding down.
“Man.” Allison commented, watching two dozen women wearing enough pink sequins and feathers to maybe completely cover three of them strut past smiling. “I think I’ve seen more ass today than the rest of my life put together.”
“Oh yeah.” Xiu nodded, widening her eyes for emphasis.
“Fun though, right?”
Xiu looked around. People were drifting away, now that the tail end of the parade had passed them. Back to normalcy, and to lives with decidedly less glitter in them. The afternoon breeze still carried the distant sound of drumming through the dense, old grid of buildings, but already the whole thing was starting to feel like a dream. Hundreds, or perhaps thousands of magical people had danced and swayed and played and sung their way along these roads, and behind them were left the permanent fixtures of dusty concrete and faded paint.
It was an oddly familiar sensation.
“Xiu?”
“Sorry, I just… Yeah, it was fun.”
Allison knew her too well. “But…?” she asked.
“Well… look.” Xiu waved a hand around.
Allison did so, frowning as if wondering what she was getting at. “Sure got quiet…” she observed, then seemed to get what Xiu was driving at. “Actually, wow. That’s a heck of a contrast.”
“I was just thinking it feels familiar.” Xiu told her.
“Yeah… is it me or is this place kinda ugly without the parade?”
She was right. The asphalt looked like it hadn’t ever been resurfaced, just patched up as needed. Overhead was a tangle of bare black cabling that didn’t seem to have any clear reasoning or logic to it. It wasn’t that Mission district looked neglected, it just looked… preserved. Like a jar of pickled onions, it might still be working and useful but the crispness and life was no longer entirely there.
“Where’s Julian?” Xiu asked.
Allison checked her phone. They were all using a tracking app they’d found that could help them hone in on each other by sharing how far away their contacts were and in what direction. “He’s… that way.” she pointed. “Quarter of a mile.”
“Let’s go meet him.” Xiu stood up. The sheer mundanity was getting to her. “I don’t think I like it here.”
“’Kay.” Allison tapped on her app to let Julian know they were going to come to him, then took her hand and they set off walking.
They cut across the corner of the parade route, and another facet to the sudden absence of the big glitzy distraction of the Carnaval made itself known to Xiu - she’d spent the whole day holding hands with Allison.
Most of the time it had been a simple case of not wanting to lose one another in the crowd, but now that they were walking together more slowly, it dawned on her that there was something… different about intertwined fingers and an arm wrapped around her own.
She glanced sideways at Allison, who caught the movement in her peripheral vision, turned her head and caught her eye, smiled bashfully and tidied a strand of blonde hair out of her face while squeezing Xiu’s hand.
That was the thing about Allison. Xiu had originally thought of her as the master of fake-it-’til-you-make-it, but that was unfair. Allison didn’t do fake, she did… determined. Her life doctrine seemed to be keeping her foot down on the accelerator, committing wholly to whatever it was she’d decided to do and aiming an angry middle finger at her own comfort zones if they tried to get in the way.
It should have been intimidating, or obnoxious. In anybody else it probably would have been. In Allison… She may have held her own comfort zones in contempt, but she had never once violated Xiu’s, and Xiu knew she’d be genuinely upset if she found she was making either her or Julian uncomfortable. That made all the difference, and so she was able to lead where Xiu might not ordinarily have followed… like walking down the street in broad daylight, holding hands like girlfriends.
Because they were, she supposed. That was the point, wasn’t it? Allison had made it plain that she didn’t want their relationship to just be that of two good friends who happened to share the same man. And while Xiu might ordinarily have settled for just that… Not even Julian quite got her pulse going like Allison did, and she wasn’t sure why. Possibly it was the lingering shadow of taboo, or maybe it was the way she kept breaking through walls she’d never known she had, only to find clean waters beyond.
Maybe it was the fact that Xiu knew in her bones and from experience that she could literally trust Allison with her life. Whenever she flashed back to that horrible moment on Sanctuary when the hull had ripped apart and the void had tried to drag her away, the memory that always came with it was that it had been Allison who’d reached out and caught her.
It was difficult not to want to follow where somebody who’d literally saved her life was leading.
She squeezed back and leaned a little closer.
“Do you ever feel like an alien?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Allison nodded. “Like I’m not quite human.”
“Or that they’re not quite human." Xiu waved her free hand surreptitiously, indicating a family who were wending their way home. Two bouncing children high on far too much sugar, a harassed mom and a dad whose huge sarcastic T-shirt was pulled tight over his beer gut.
“That’s it, yeah.” Allison nodded. “That’s exactly it. I just wanna ask them, you know, ‘Is this who you wanna be? Are you happy?’ You know?"
“That’s not very nice, Allison.”
“Well I’m not gonna do it!" Allison defended herself. “Just… You know?”
“I know.” Xiu nodded. She was looking at people who had never… never gone hand-to-hand with a sapient worm in a robot suit. Never hidden in a Hunter meat locker. Never come within a whisker of horrible death not once but twice. Never seen their innocent protege, their sister, dying. They had no idea who Triymin had been, what life was really like. She wondered if they even had dreams any longer, or if those dreams extended beyond a happy family and home.
They didn’t look happy…
Allison squeezed her hand again. “I try not to judge.” she said. “But it’s hard, ain’t it?”
"Why, though?" Xiu asked. “Why is it hard? They’re not doing anything wrong.”
“You’re right. They’re not doing anything.”
“Al… that’s not nice.”
“I know…” Allison sighed.
“Even if I feel the same way, it’s not nice.”
“I know.”
Guilt and uncertainty looked so out of place on Allison that Xiu had no option but to give her hand another reassuring squeeze. “But hey. We’re doing something,” she said.
That raised a smile. “We are, yeah. I just wish more people could.”
“Could get abducted?” Xiu teased.
Allison laughed. "No, dummy," she exclaimed. “Just… I wish more people could see how much bigger they really are. This-" she waved a hand, indicating the whole preserved city around them “this isn’t who we’re meant to be. I swear, there’s something in the human soul that just longs for adventure."
“Nearly getting killed?” Xiu suggested.
“No, like-”
“Watching other people get killed?”
“Xiu…”
“Having to wear a disguise for three years in case they try and blow you out the airlock or in case the Hunters come looking for you?”
“Babe-”
Xiu gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But adventures aren’t easy or fun, Al. You know that.”
Allison sighed. “…My abductors were called Trevni and Nufr.” She said. Xiu blinked - Allison hadn’t ever told her about her abduction before. “They were actually okay, for… you know, for kidnappers who saw me as a test subject. I might have been strapped naked to a table, but they weren’t cruel, it was all… it was just business. Right? No malice."
Xiu nodded carefully “Okay…?”
“I killed them. I didn’t mean to. They just… They picked me up because I had a cold, and they wanted to study it and develop a cure. They knew enough about us to know that we’d pay a lot to cure the common cold. But, they weren’t careful enough and…”
She sniffed. “They weren’t nice people, exactly, but they didn’t deserve what it did to them. The last thing Nufr did was he gave me a Frontline and undid my restraints. I’d have died of thirst strapped to that table if he hadn’t. And the people who finally rescued me would have died of… I dunno, acne or candida or something."
Her fingers twisted painfully between Xiu’s for a moment. “I know, babe. I know what an adventure really is. I know it means people who don’t deserve it dying in horrible ways, and… maybe us too. I know all that. And I still don’t think I could ever go back to the quiet life. I… I wouldn’t know how to cope."
Xiu was sighing with her when they saw Julian come round the corner. The uncomfortable shuffle in his step evaporated on seeing them, and he picked up his pace with a wave, which they returned.
“Neither would I,” she conceded.
Date Point 10y4m3w2d AV
War Platform Lifebringer, Perfection System, The Core Worlds
Grand Fleetmaster Tk’vrrtnnk A’Khvnrrtk
The ship class designated as “War Platforms” weren’t warships at all, at least not in the sense of a ship that engaged the enemy directly.
Even though it was layered in armor, shields and point defense batteries, Lifebringer was a staging and command vessel. It was the mothership of a whole fleet of transports, shuttles, dropships and heavy cargo lifters. It was a flying barracks, a mobile airfield, a cavernous cargo bay and a nexus of computer systems.
It was, in short, everything that a fleet needed to go somewhere and do something, and it was verging on being as large as a ship could practically get.. At a full gallop, Tk’v would have needed more than [two minutes] to get from one end to the other even if there had been a single straight corridor fit for that purpose..
The humans, he knew, would be impressed. Fleetmaster Caruthers’ transport was an unmodified Dominion standard shuttle, a flying matte-grey brick that made up for in rugged reliability what it pathetically lacked in grace and aesthetics.
Next to the troop lander and the two heavy cargo lifters currently squatting in Lifebringer’s number one docking bay, it was tiny, and it was still big enough to comfortably carry three young Guvnurag. When the humans stepped out of it, it made them seem comically small.
The heavy vibrations their feet sent ringing through the deck shattered that smallness.
He recognised Caruthers easily enough - the human fleetmaster was plainly the oldest of the delegation that had come over. The two at the back looked to be bodyguards or marines. Tk’v was hardly an expert on clothing - the most he wore being saddlebags, holsters and a decorative pennant on his neck to signal his rank - but those two’s seemed less decorative than the others’.
Caruthers, for his part, looked both austere in his black uniform, and splendid thanks to its conservative flourishes of gold and white.
The deathworlder entourage paused in front of Tk’v’s own welcoming party, and Caruthers took one extra pace forward. “Permission to come aboard,” he stated. Tk’v’s translator interpreted this as a formal request, possibly a traditional or ceremonial courtesy.
“Permission granted,” he replied, judging this to be the most probable response given how terse the request had been. Borrowing from some research he’d done on humans, he extended the stronger of his two right hands, trusting the human not to grip with the crushing force that Tk’v knew he was capable of.
His trust was rewarded. Caruthers’ handshake was firm, but no more than that. “Thank you for having us,” he said.
“Thank you for coming.” Tk’v replied. He indicated his subordinates. “This is Subfleetmaster Rhou, and junior subfleetmaster Nwmrwnw.
“Captain Manning of HMS Myrmidon, and commander Devonald of HMS Valiant. Caruthers replied, then indicated the marines. “Corporal Brewer and Corporal Banks.”
“Well then. If it pleases you to inspect the ship, I thought we might talk.” Tk’v replied amicably.
“Lead on.”
V’tk did so, gesturing for the human to walk by his side. “I had Lifebringer’s dimensions converted into your units." he said. “She is slightly more than four hundred meters across her widest axis, and masses approximately sixty million kilograms.”
“That must be pushing the limits of what’s physically possible.” Caruthers observed.
“Certainly in anything which needs to accelerate like a warship.” Tk’v agreed. “There are larger ships, but not many and they are all painfully slow. The biggest ever built, I believe, was a pleasure barge that could not only afford to spend [months] transiting between worlds, but actively wanted to, so that their guests would have as much time to spend their money as possible. That ship was more than twice the size of this one."
The expressive line of dark fur above Caruthers’ right eye arched upwards. “Was?”
“Indeed. It eventually broke apart under the stresses of its own acceleration.”
“Hmm. We have a similar cautionary anecdote from an ocean-going vessel called the Titanic," Caruthers told him. “The fastest and largest luxury ship of its day. Too fast, in fact - it struck an iceberg and sank in freezing cold waters more than a hundred years ago.”
“Ice? I was given to understand that yours is a hot planet, fleetmaster.” Tk’v observed. “The stories of Earth I have heard mention that the sun can burn you, and that you can die of the heat.”
“That’s toward the equator. The poles are frozen solid year round.”
“Both, on the same planet?”
“It’s a surprise to us that other worlds are any different.” Caruthers smiled, though he made the courtesy of not showing his teeth. “How were we to know, after all?”
“True. In any case, although Lifebringer can accelerate to meet the minimum demands laid down by Dominion security resolutions for a warship, she is still the slowest in the fleet. Substantially slower than your own ships have demonstrated."
“Our doctrines seem to be quite different.” Caruthers agreed. “Maybe we should compare notes.”
“Maybe we should.” Tk’v agreed.
The tour wended slowly around the ship, taking in the huge power plant (powered by the newest generation of Directorate-made quantum power stacks), the living quarters (an exercise in awkwardness given the wildly differing proportions and needs of the many species on the crew), the cargo handling bays and their army of drones, and finally he command hub, dominated by a to- scale holographic map of the system labelled in blue, yellow and green.
“How is the situation below?” Caruthers asked, once Tk’v had demonstrated the map’s functionality by zooming in on Perfection itself.
The working crew around them went quite still, and listened. Tk’v knew that many of them were firmly of the opinion that the humans were responsible for all the death and destruction not only on Perfection, but at Capitol Station. Tk’v couldn’t have disagreed more strongly. He had specifically requested this relief effort because, unlike most of his peers, he very much did not view the Hunters as a kind of natural disaster. They were a sapient species, entirely in control of their own actions, and the humans seemed to be the only ones who were squaring off to them.
That made the deathworlders allies, in his book, and Perfection represented an opportunity to make or break that relationship.
“The Hunters launched hundreds of kinetic weapons from orbit,” he said. “Perfection’s defence systems stopped all but thirteen of them.”
“The same kind of kinetic weapons that you dropped on Planet Garden,” Nwmrwnw observed, acidly. Tk’v ground his molars together. He would have given much not to have the junior subfleetmaster present for this.
Caruthers proved equal to the accusation. He looked Nwmrwnw in the eye in that unnervingly level way that humans did, and spoke softly and firmly though with no trace of disrespect. “The Hunters are dangerous,” he agreed. “And sadistic and cunning. They’re deliberately using our tactics and tools because they want to divide and weaken us.”
“Just as you weakened the defense fleet?” Nwmrwnw pressed.
“That will be all, junior subfleetmaster,” Tk’v told him, judging that his Kwmbwrw subordinate had gone too far with that remark. “Return to your duties.”
“…Yes, Grand Fleetmaster.”
The humans cleared their throats and looked awkwardly at one another as Nwmrwnw gestured grudging respect and stalked out of the command hub.
Tk’v raised his voice just enough for the other crew to hear, though he addressed the humans specifically. “I am sorry,” he said. “We have all seen terrible things through this operation, and it is difficult to remain objective.”
Caruthers caught on to what he was doing, and joined in. “I sympathize,” he declared. “And I’d like to thank you personally, Grand Fleetmaster, for setting an example and proving that our relationship doesn’t need to be antagonistic. We certainly don’t want it to be.”
“Nor should we.” Tk’v announced, taking note of which of his officers looked away, and which wore body language and expressions of agreement and resolve. “I have spent my life fighting the Hunters, and for the first time I am seeing signs of weakness from them. As you said, they are trying to divide us, and I do not think they would even care to try unless they were scared of what we could achieve together.”
Caruthers glanced at Manning and Devonald. Inexperienced as Tk’v was in reading human facial expressions, there was something… inspiring in the way they all shared the same intense smile.
“In that case, Grand Fleetmaster…” Caruthers extended his hand, “I look forward to scaring them some more.”
Tk’v shook hands with him for the second time. “Well said.”
Date Point 10y4m3w3d AV
Celzi Alliance Embassy Station, Earth/Luna L3 Point, Sol
Rylee Jackson
“Celzi Diplomatic Station, this is FIREBIRD-ONE escorting diplomatic shuttle, request permission to land.”
Colonel Stewart would be doing the exact same thing over at the Dominion station at Earth/Luna L1. The timing was important - both of the major interstellar powers needed to be carefully removed from Sol, and they needed to be removed in such a way as to not escalate the tensions between them by making it seem like humanity was siding with either one.
The shuttle full of Marines were there in case the Hierarchy had an agent on board who tried something last-ditch like de-orbiting the station or whatever.
“Permission granted FIREBIRD-ONE. Welcome back major Jackson, you and the shuttle are cleared to land together in bay seven.”
She recognized the translated simulation of a voice from her previous visits to the Celzi station. PR being such a big part of Rylee’s job meant regular schmoozing with both sides. That was why she’d been chosen to lead this op: the embassy knew her.
Plus, if the need arose, her WSO Joe Semenza could nuke the station to molten debris. There was something satisfying about having that kind of gratuitous firepower at their fingertips.
They made their entrance with all the style and grace that her professional pride demanded, sliding smoothly into the bay on manual and kissing the deck with nary a bump. Her new sled, a replacement for the one lost on Garden, was called Phoenix and for once Rylee didn’t fully cycle her down - there was a non-zero chance after all that they’d have to make a hasty departure, and Phoenix wouldn’t lose too much of her capacitor’s stored energy from sitting idle on the deck for a few hours.
The Marines, she had to admit, made an even better entrance. The instant their shuttle’s ramp clanged down, two dozen of them in full MOPP marched down it like they were on parade. The two Celzi guards who had entered the hangar to greet her were probably shooting nervous glances at each other, though it was hard to tell with Celzi. They looked like a kind of moss-grey collision between a monkey, a kangaroo and a lizard, and their oddly-shaped skulls with their many eyes gave them fully overlapping three hundred and sixty degree vision. They didn’t need to turn their heads to look at each other.
Rylee left Semenza to look after Phoenix and approached the two aliens, carefully not removing her flight suit, though she did slide up her glare visor so that they could see her face. She probably looked quite an intimidating sight herself, in her astronaut’s “snoopy cap” and in the new flight suit that had been adapted from EV-MASS technology.
“Is… something wrong, major?” one of the aliens asked. She internally kicked herself for not being able to tell Celzi apart on sight. Oh well, time to play it impersonal rather than friendly.
“Call the ambassadors,” she ordered. “Something important has come up that needs their immediate attention.”
She wasn’t left waiting long. Stationwide announcements in a variety of alien languages rang through the decks, and within minutes she was being escorted, along with the marines, to the forum chamber on the station’s topmost deck.
She was met off the elevator by Ambassador Sandeep Verma. Verma’s career had been an interesting one, taking him from his native Gujarat, to the Indian consulate in Canberra, and ultimately into space to be humanity’s ambassador to the Celzi Alliance.
Rylee had worked with him several times. Something about being the FTL test pilot kept her snowed under with invitations to assorted diplomatic parties, hence why one of her AFSCs was Public Affairs. She could definitely sympathize with the ambassador’s crowded and storied career.
That same prestige was what had sent her on this mission. It was important not to snub either side or to show favorites, so while the Dominion got the senior officer in the form of colonel Stewart, the Alliance got the more notorious one in the form of major Jackson. They’d tossed a coin over it.
“Major?” Verma had a smile on, but his body language was wary. Rylee shook his hand. Really she shouldn’t waste time with preamble, but the ambassador didn’t need rushing.
“Can we talk privately?” she asked as she handed him the sealed letter marked ‘EYES ONLY’ for his attention. It was an uninteresting grey and bore the emblem of the Global Representative Assembly - a circle, two short arc sections sharing the same center, a longer one, and finally a short one again.
Verma nodded and pulled a device from his pocket. A privacy forcefield fuzzed and opaqued the air around them. He ripped the seal on the letter and read it.
“Short version: Big Hotel is gone,” Rylee informed him. The Ambassadors by necessity were both briefed on DEEP RELIC. “Earth’s secure and the GRA wants the embassies relocated to Cimbrean-five just to be absolutely certain.”
Verma grimaced slightly, but nodded as he read the letter. It was much longer than Rylee’s summary, but probably contained about the same amount of useful information.
“They are not going to like that,” he observed.
“The ID are being kicked out as well,” Rylee explained. “So neither side gets to claim we’re siding with the other.”
“They still will not like it…”
“They can dislike it all they want, one way or the other this station ain’t gonna be here much longer,” Rylee said, dismissively. “They’re being relocated. They can go amicably and relocate to Cimbrean, or they can be expelled… with extreme prejudice.”
Verma met her eye, then nodded and turned the page, read the name and signature that occupied the top two inches of an otherwise empty sheet (a classic and typical waste of paper, in Rylee’s opinion), then handed the letter back to her.
“I shall do my job, then,” he promised.
“Good,” Rylee smiled for him, radiating absolute faith in his abilities. “Let us know if we need to get you off the station. These guys aren’t just pretending to be marines."
“Not necessary,” Verma smiled. “I hope. Thank you anyway.”
He turned off the privacy field and gestured invitingly for Rylee and the marines to follow him. He swept into the forum with an impressive impromptu air of gravitas, looking thoroughly out of place and vulnerable next to a woman in a lightly-armored spacesuit and a dozen men in MOPP.
Rylee lowered her visor again. The odd thing was that she probably cut the most threatening and alien figure among them. MOPP - Mission Oriented Protective Posture - made the marines faceless and scary, but the technology hadn’t changed much in twenty years meaning that the men wearing it looked huge and encumbered, but also embarrassingly low-tech. It was a good show of strength… but Rylee knew from experience that while aliens were often impressed by seeing humans carry heavy loads, there was something they found even more intimidating about the human body itself - the shape of it, the way they moved. For whatever reason, aliens saw the same thing in a walking human that humans saw in a stalking tiger.
MOPP hid that. Rylee’s flight suit didn’t. It was built by C&M Spacesuit Systems using the technology they’d developed for EV-MASS, making it snug, sleek and technical. A far cry from the bulky thing she’d worn eight years ago in Pandora’s early flights, with its duct tape modifications and velcro patch inside the helmet for scratching her nose.
Rylee secretly geeked out about it all the time. It looked like it had been created by the better class of digital artist, the ones who managed to balance a high-tech aesthetic with actual military function and practicality.
In the circumstances, it was not only a good way to show off that scary deathworlder physiology, but also a statement: ‘Look how far we’ve come, and how quickly.’
It worked. She became the immediate focus of attention when they stepped into the forum itself. Never mind the geodesic dome overhead with its angel’s-eye view of the Earth, never mind the charcoal concrete floor with the polished bronze forked spiral - a stylized representation of the galaxy - embossed in the middle. Never mind the warm lighting and the panelling on the wall made from several kinds of wood imported from the homeworlds of the Celzi, Qinis, Jeghiren and Lathk, nor the imposing and venerable ambassadors from those species sitting at their desks. It was a beautiful chamber - as if the Qinis would settle for an ugly one - and they’d invaded it looking decidedly ugly.
She ran her best fearsome eye over the lot of them, relying on the faceless mirror-black of her flight helmet to do all the communicating she needed. Only the Celzi ambassador failed to emote discomfort, but then again Celzi were notorious for not backing down easily. The whole Alliance was named after them for a reason.
“Ambassador Verma,” the Jeghiren ambassador stood. “You alarm us, with your sudden summons and your… troops.” They - Jeghiren were monogendered, and insisted on impersonal pronouns - waved an arm languidly at the marines. “We request an explanation.”
“The Global Representative Assembly has instructed me to inform you of a new development.” Verma replied, having apparently decided not to bother with circumspection. “You may not be aware of some security threats on Earth that we’ve been fighting, but that situation has now reached the point where we must ask both this embassy and that of the Dominion to relocate to the Cimbrean system.”
The Lathk ambassador was the first to speak. Lathk defied easy description, being a bipedal biological eccentricity whose tiny beady black eyes gave them almost no vision to speak of, and who had neither a sense of smell nor much apparently in the way of a sense of taste. Their primary sense by a country mile was hearing, and in place of a head they had two gargantuan ears mounted high and forward on their shoulders.
Those ears and their spindly birdlike limbs always gave Rylee the impression that they would go tumbling away in a strong breeze, and she had to chew down the racist impulse to think they looked absurd. They were actually an important partner in the Alliance, providing for most of the agriculture and a steady supply of warm bodies. Even if the war had been in a low ebb for the last ten years (thanks in no small part to human intervention) the Alliance were still rattling every saber they had, and that meant signing up young beings - among them plenty of Lathk - to serve on whatever new front line might open up if a lasting peace wasn’t eventually worked out.
“You are picking a side?” she asked.
Ambassador Verma’s job over the last four years had included exerting whatever gentle pressure humanity could muster to keep the war from boiling over again. The Celzi leadership might have been reckoned as master strategists, but Rylee was pretty sure that any second lieutenant with Sun Tzu and Robert A. Heinlein on their bookshelf already had a more comprehensive strategic education than the most seasoned Celzi general officer. The war so far had been catastrophically bloody and industrial.
But of course the Dominion was too proud to let the “rebels” win by granting them whatever territory they’d already carved out, and the Alliance was too proud to settle for what they had.
“No.” Verma’s assertion was instant and firm. “We remain committed to the neutrality and independence of our species.”
“Then what are these troops for?” The Celzi ambassador asked.
“And why are they wearing protective gear?” The Qinis ambassador added, taking the bait.
That was Rylee’s cue. “Our equipment is a precautionary measure. We hope it proves unnecessary…” she hinted, smoothly. ETs were notoriously gullible when on the back foot, and while outright lies were present in the diplomatic toolbox, in the years since Rylee herself had summoned these two space stations into orbit around Earth, the most effective tool by far that humanity’s diplomats had fallen back on time and again was crypticism. Deathworld reputation did the rest.
The ambassadors all glanced at one another (again, insofar as she could tell. She wasn’t even sure Celzi could turn their head) and after a few seconds the Jeghiren spoke again. “What is the exact nature of this security concern?" they asked.
“We’re not at liberty to disclose that information for now,” Verma replied. “Please. There will be plenty of time later to discuss exactly why this is being done but for now it’s safest for the embassies to relocate to Cimbrean.”
“We shall need to discuss-” the Celzi began, and Verma cut him off.
“Ambassadors, please do not mistake this for a request,” he said, firmly. “This relocation is a condition of continuing to have a relationship with the human race.”
Rylee consciously didn’t fidget during the long moment of deliberation that followed. There was a low, but non-zero chance that if there was a Hierarchy demon among the ambassadors, and if they had any last-ditch contingencies to try, this would be the moment. WERBS was lurking in the wings, ready to obliterate the station the moment it lit a jump beacon.
Knowing that by far the most destructive thing that humanity had ever built was aimed at the soles of Rylee’s feet was a test of composure to almost rival the infamous rubber chicken. Another benefit to the inscrutable visor - the ETs couldn’t see her sweat.
“…Very well,” the Celzi grunted at last. He leaned over and spoke softly into a microphone on his desk. Rylee breathed a sigh of relief and touched the push-to-talk button on the side of her helmet.
“ILIUM, this is HELEN. PARIS has agreed to relocate.” she announced, softly.
“Copy that, HELEN. AGAMEMNON is also relocating.”
“Awesome.” Rylee breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll prepare a slaved jump.”
“Understood. We’ll send a runnner to Cimbrean for codes. ILIUM out.”
She turned to Verma. “Okay, the jump’s all set up. I need to get back to Phoenix to play cab driver."
“Go ahead,” Verma invited. “Thank you, major. I think your presence helped tremendously.”
“Don’t thank me until we’re safely around Cimbrean Five,” Rylee replied. She certainly wouldn’t be happy until the station was outside of the Cimbrean system field where no possible Hierarchy action could threaten humanity through it, and where it no longer needed to have an FTL superweapon aimed at it.
She turned and marched out, with two of the marines in tow, and put in the call to Semenza to fire the sled up. She leaned against the elevator wall as they headed back down to the hangar deck, and reflected that going from interspecies celebrity to messenger girl to threatening muscle to glorified truck driver in one afternoon was a pretty good summary of her career.
She stretched and sighed. “You boys been in space before?”
One of the marines chuckled under his hood. “No ma’am.”
“Not exactly glamorous, is it?”
“I dunno,” the other one piped up. “Maybe it’s just wore off for you, ma’am. I was nerding out the whole time we were in there talking to them ETs.”
Rylee had to laugh and nod agreement to that, smiling inside her helmet. “Maybe,” she agreed. “Maybe it has.”
Date Point 10y4m3w3d AV
Eppley Airfield, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
“But you’re an exec! Aren’t you a bit senior to be standing at the airport with a sign?”
Kevin shrugged, a pointless gesture in a phone call, but still a natural and unthinking one. “These kids are important,” he replied smoothly. “And no offense Walter, but I’m the only other Abductee in the whole Byron Group. They’re gonna need to hear what I’ve got to say.”
Walter Billings scoffed. That was why Kevin liked the man - he didn’t guard his manners among The Team.
The Team was a loose idea, and it consisted of everybody involved behind the scenes in bringing Byron Group Exploration Vessel 11 from conception to space. Walter and his lifelong colleague and best friend Jennifer McAllister, Clara Brown nee Ericson and her father Michael. The implacable Mr. Williams (whose given name of Raymond was one of Kevin’s most cherished secrets - the man himself hated it), Moses Byron, and of course Kevin himself.
“Didn’t Xiu Chang break your nose? Williams wasn’t happy to hear that. He’s still grousing about ‘loose cannon behaviour’, you know.”
“She’ll be great. She was just having a hard time adjusting to Terran life again and I pressed the wrong buttons,” Kevin replied. "Trust me, Walter. I know these kids, I know what they’ve been through, and I wanna put a human face on what’s going to happen to them. And if I can maybe give them some advice that’ll help them get through what Keating and those other stone-faced assholes have planned…"
“Protecting the bet you put on them, eh?”
“You bet on them too, Walter.”
“…You’re right. Advise away. Just tell me you’re going to be back in the office sometime today, because I urgently need to discuss the waste processor design with you.”
Kevin chuckled. “Well shit, how can I refuse an offer like that?” he asked. “I’ll be right in after I drop them off at the Box.”
“I’ll see you then. Bring popcorn.”
It was Kevin’s turn to scoff, and Billings ended the call laughing.
Kevin adjusted his collar - there wasn’t a force on the planet Earth or any other world besides that would persuade him to wear a tie - and leaned on the railing again, well aware that alongside the other people loitering against it with cards in their hands, he probably stood out in being by far the most well-dressed. There was just something about a properly tailored expensive suit that left the slightly faded chauffeurs’ uniforms and short-sleeve shirts or polos to either side of him looking like they belonged in the background.
As it happened, Chang, Buehler and Etsicitty had apparently listened to the Group’s request to not bring more than a few small personal effects, and hadn’t burdened themselves with anything more than their carry-on luggage. They were the first ones to come out of Arrivals, each one carrying a smallish bag and the clothes on their backs, and all dressed comfortably for travel. Kevin got their attention with a wave, pointed with a movement of his head, and met them at the end of the rank with a round of handshakes.
“Figured I’d collect you in person,” he said. “All sorted out up in Minnesota?”
“We packed it all up and fixed everything. The place should be okay without us for a couple years.” Julian replied.
“Good. Heck of a commitment you’re making.”
“It’s what we want,” Xiu told him. When Kevin looked questioningly at her, she shrugged. “You were right.”
“…Sorry.”
“Didn’t you two already apologize to each other?" Allison asked. She jerked her head towards the airport’s doors. “Come on, if we’re making a big commitment, let’s commit.”
Julian and Xiu both chuckled, hoisted their bags and followed her, chorusing “Yes ma’am” like it was a private in-joke of theirs, which it probably was.
Kevin jogged a few steps to catch up with her. “Ain’t gonna be easy,” he warned. “You’re not the only team on the list. You’re the favorites, but you’ve got competition.”
“Have the others been out there before?” Allison asked.
“That’s why you’re the favorites, they haven’t. But they’re no slouches. Veterans, doctors, top qualifications… they all have the right stuff."
“What’s your point, Jenkins?”
Kevin stepped in front of her and stopped them all by raising his hands. “My point is that the only person in the whole Byron Group who actually cares about you guys getting this gig is me. No false manipulative bullshit this time, okay, I know what it’s like. It took me fuckin’ years to finally find a place for myself."
Allison just gave him a get-to-the-point stare while behind her, Xiu and Julian exchanged a glance.
“Look-” he continued “The other would-be crews competing against you? They’re fine. If they don’t get the job, it’ll be like whatever to them, right? They’re not Abductees, they don’t fuckin’… they’ll still fit. Right? Now have any of you given serious thought to what’s gonna happen or how you’re gonna do if you don’t earn this?"
They hadn’t. He could read it in all three of their faces, but he waited for them all to look at each other, come to the same conclusion, and return their attention to him. “Then for the love of Elvis please, please listen to me, and listen good ’cause I’ve only got the one chance to tell you this stuff."
They relaxed, nodded, and listened.
Date Point 10y4m3w3d AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Gabriel Ares
Gabriel loved his job, but it came with a price of having precious little in the way of spare time. Cimbrean Colonial Security was a tight ship, full of some of the most dedicated, highly-trained and passionate police officers he’d ever had the pleasure of working with, who were policing what was largely an educated, professional and successful population.
On the policing front, usually the worst he had to deal with were Gaoians. Gaoian males fought constantly. In their culture, for two males to clash and walk away with permanent disfiguring scars was not only commonplace, it was practically necessary. It was a rare male who could catch the eyes of Folctha’s small population of Sisters without some impressive duelling scars.
By human standards, of course, the fights were aggravated assault shading to outright attempted murder in some of the nastier cases. Nobody knew better than CCS that Gaoians were emphatically not cute and fluffy space-raccoons. They were an alien species with alien morality, and sometimes that alien morality got blood on the walls.
Then there was liaising with the military. Cimbrean was in many ways arguably better-protected than Earth thanks to its status as the permanent home of the SOR and of the allied space fleet. Sure, that space fleet was exclusively British for the time being, but with the USS San Diego and its sisters in the works that was due to change, and Gabriel knew from discussions with Admiral Knight that they were trying hard to get their hands on a Dominion- built orbital shipyard to give the ships a permanent anchorage.
Then there was the SOR. Gabriel really didn’t know how he felt about the SOR. Having a cadre of unnervingly big and strong almost-supersoldiers stomping around the town putting every gym rat on both Cimbrean and Earth to shame and between them accounting for an impressive percentage of Folctha’s family- planning spending…
Well. That was almost as disconcerting as the fact that his only son was one of them.
The Air Force had been one thing. Watching Adam spend his sixteenth year growing from wiry teen to a fit youth had been proud. Watching that fit youth become a dense, powerful airman had lifted Gabriel’s soul. Watching that dense and powerful airman gain in endurance and strength as he went through Pararescue training had impressed on him just how strong the boy really was.
Or so he’d thought. The SOR had redefined those limits, converting a merely exceptionally fit and strong young man into a titan, something straight out of Greek legend, or perhaps the more comic-book kind of barbarian hero.
That hadn’t lifted Gabriel’s soul at all. Quite the opposite - it had impressed on him just how broken the boy really was.
Not that he could blame him.
It was with a sense of trepidation, therefore, that he’d agreed to a movie night with Adam and John at Adam’s penthouse apartment on Demeter Road. If there was one thing he’d definitely say for the USAF, it was financially generous to the men who sacrificed for it - every man in the SOR had come to Cimbrean with a pocket full of homesteading money and, thanks to the regimented and tightly controlled nature of their lifestyles which necessitated that the Regiment pay for almost everything, precious little in the way of living expenses.
Even with Folctha’s relatively steep taxes, Gabriel suspected that Adam had tens of thousands in spending money and savings that he didn’t know what to do with. And a little thing like inviting his old man to visit on the rare occasion when their days off overlapped wouldn’t be setting him back by much either.
If only the gigantic brat had bothered to remember that Gabriel was nursing a years-old femoral nerve injury that made steps a literal pain in the ass. There was no elevator in the building that Adam co-owned with Wilson Akiyama, just eight flights of stairs and it took Gabe twenty minutes to climb them. He leaned heavily on his cane at the top to recover, reflecting that despite his best efforts at fitness and rehabilitation, his mobility was never coming back.
Finally, he knocked on the door. Adam opened it in seconds, and smothered Gabe in an enormous muscular hug. “Hey! ¿Estas bien? Llegas tarde…"
““Subia estas escaleras de mierda,” Gabe replied pointedly, nodding back at the obstacle that had held him up.
Adam looked at them, then at his stick, and the penny made a solid wooden thunk as it finally dropped.
“Ah… shit.”
Gabe chuckled and reached up to affectionately ruffle what little hair Adam had kept. “¿Es un caballo de guerra, o un burro de guerra?" he joked.
Adam chuckled and welcomed him inside.
The apartment was definitely a well-off bachelor’s party pad. It was furnished with style and elegance, and was comfortable enough, but didn’t look like it was regularly lived in. Despite the best efforts of the hired cleaners, the place had a permanent after-party olfactory background of booze, BO and sex. No cannabis though: even though it was just as legal as alcohol in Folctha, the SOR were forbidden from touching the stuff..
The Spanish had to come to an end when John leaned round the dividing wall between the lounge and the kitchen. “Hey Mr. Ares!”
“Hello, John. What’s cooking?”
“Jerky! Gonna need another hour, but this is my grampa’s recipe. Best you’ll ever taste, trust me.”
Gabe glanced at Adam, who nodded with a grin. “It is,” he confirmed.
"Bueno! What are we watching?"
“Good question,” Adam said. “Base?”
John had gone still. Slowly, he turned and gave them an embarrassed brittle smile. “A… movie that I, uh, forgot to bring with me!”
“Top marks. Well done, dumbass.” Adam applauded sarcastically.
John cleared his throat and aimed his thumb at the door. “I’ll go get it. It’s on base.”
“That’s three miles away.” Gabriel pointed out.
“Yuh. Be back in half an hour. Peace.” John took off down the stairs, springing down them two at a time.
“He’s going to run the whole way there and back in half an hour?” Gabriel asked.
“No big deal.” Adam shrugged. “So hey! Just you and me for half an hour. Beer?”
“Sounds good.”
Gabe sank gratefully onto the couch, a maneuver that really demonstrated just how much he needed his cane, and sat back, happy to finally have the weight off his bad leg.
It was no ordinary couch. When Adam slammed down into it a few seconds later with a couple of open beers, it barely seemed to register him despite his incredible mass. He kicked his feet up onto the coffee table and gestured at the TV to turn it on, an innovation that had slowly started to replace the old-fashioned remote control.
“-relocation of the embassies has already met with vocal criticism from the Dominion, and while the Royal Navy continues to lend support in the humanitarian crisis on Perfection, Dominion officials are now blaming the attack on human military action in that system, claiming that there was some kind of battle. While the Ministry of Defence, the Pentagon and Scotch Creek all declined to comment, sources at Hephaestus LLC have confirmed that HMS Caledonia is now in drydock at the Ceres shipyard undergoing emergency repairs and in Manchester, England, the family of Petty Officer Thomas Kendrick, who served aboard Caledonia, have released a statement asking for privacy-”
“Not that they’re gonna fuckin’ get it,” Adam grumbled.
“That’s not the media’s job,” Gabe agreed. “You know what happened?”
“Marty told me. The ship caught fire.”
“Marty?”
“Shit, haven’t I told you about Marty?” Adam turned on the couch, shedding grimness and disgust with the media like a light summer coat.
“No…?”
“Oh, man, Marty’s just the fuckin’ best! Makes me look dumb as a bag’a rocks, funny, sexy as all hell-"
Gabriel threw up his hands to interrupt the boy, feeling completely knocked off-balance. “Woah, woah, amigo! …Seriously?"
“Yeah! I’ve even thought up a great venue for a first date, and-”
“Wow.” Gabriel blinked at his only son and assembled his thoughts. “…Okay. That’s some big news.”
Adam blinked at him. “What?”
“Man, I just… I mean, I never would have guessed. I mean, I love you anyway amigo, but you really could have broken the news more gently-!"
“…Martina, Dad! Her name’s Martina!"
“OHHH!” Gabe relaxed and laughed at the ceiling, wiping his forehead. He was too relieved to feel embarrassed. "Gracias a Dios!"
Adam’s enormous shoulders rocked as he wheezed out his best Muttley laugh, and he gave Gabe a huge, crushing hug. “Nah, nah, nah… You’ve got nothing to worry about there, I promise.”
“Good, because I had a vision of a world without grandkids and I didn’t like it!” Gabe chuckled.
“Well I mean, we’re not even dating yet…” Adam cleared his throat. “So, you’re gonna have to wait a bit, yeah?”
“Hmmm… Are you sure you’re ready to date her? It’s kind of early, Amigo. What’s it been, three months? Less than?"
Adam turned the TV down as the news turned its attention to the sport. “She’s not like Ava. She’s SOR, she knows the deal.”
“That’s the opposite of encouraging.”
“You think so?”
Gabe nodded to himself, at once glad and slightly disappointed to learn that the side of beef sat next to him was definitely still the same Adam.
“Adam… maybe this Martina would understand the why of it a bit better, sure… but apart from that bit at the end there where she ran out of hope and did something stupid, Ava was as patient with you as any girl could be. Marty might be more understanding, but that’s not a license for you to just do your thing and treat her as something you do in your spare time.”
“I wouldn’t-”
“You already did." Gabe pointed out. "And you just called off a long-term relationship less than three months ago. You sure you’re not just thinking with that big warhorse verga of yours?"
“Dad!”
“What? I know how you got your nickname, man. Hell, you’ve been saluting the dawn since you were twelve. Good for you, you take after your old man!”
“I really didn’t need to know that…!"
Gabe chuckled. “Hey, it’s just my right leg that doesn’t work properly," he winked. Judging that the boy was suitably embarrassed, he relented. “But it’s not for thinking with, Amigo. Are you really after another committed relationship right now, or do you just wanna smash?"
Adam looked away. “I… shit, Dad, now you’ve got me second-guessing,” he complained.
“Good! You should second-guess. I second-guess all the time." Gabriel patted him on his huge and startlingly hard shoulder. “It’s a good way to avoid hurting the people you really care for.”
Adam nodded and said nothing for a minute or so. “I guess… I do want an actual relationship,” he said, “but I dunno. Am I ready for one? You’re right, I fucked up the last one pretty bad. Marty’s special, Dad, I don’t wanna hurt her like I did Ava.”
Gabe nodded sympathetically. “Then my advice is don’t go for it until you’ve got more experience,” he suggested. “Have fun with some other girls you don’t care about so much first. Break a few hearts so you learn how not to break hers. After all, nobody climbed Everest for their first mountain, did they?"
“I guess but… are you sure?”
“If she’s that special to you, you need to know how to do it right. And right now you don’t," Gabe told him. “No, I’m not sure, and I don’t think it’d be the right advice for everyone… But I think it’s the right advice for you, here and now."
“I’ll think ’bout it.” Adam rumbled, awkwardly.
“Good. I don’t want you to just blindly follow advice just because I gave it. You’ve got a damn good brain, Amigo, I wanna see you using it, okay?"
Adam hugged him. “…Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too,” Gabe promised, feeling his upper back creak and pop. “Maybe show your love by getting this crippled old man another beer?”
“Yeah, yeah…” Adam laughed, and launched himself easily to his feet before picking his way toward the fridge in that curiously agile and quiet way of his that belied how heavy he was. “Don’t overplay that disability card though.”
Gabriel chuckled and settled into the couch, looking forward to a long and comfortable evening. “I’m sure my soul will survive a small abuse of power," he said.
Date Point 10y4m3w3d AV
Finchley, London, UK, Earth
Simon Harvey
Simon had always, in a faintly racist and absent-mindedly English way, thought of Spanish as a beautiful and romantic language, evoking imagery of holiday sun, bulls, tomatoes and siestas.
Ava Rios, however, could spit it like dragon breath: a potent blend of fire and venom that sneered at the need for translation. You didn’t need to know what the words meant to know what they meant. Though, frankly, her skill at English profanity was no less impressive, and Sean could match her blow-for- verbal-blow.
A door slammed. A rumbling, angry pause later, she stomped down the stairs in her boots and a thundercloud of quiet vulgarities. She didn’t see Simon at all as she stormed into the kitchen and yanked the fridge open, angrily rattling several blameless bottles and upsetting the broccoli.
She stared wildly into it for a few seconds, then shut the door, leaned against it heavily and was suddenly crying instead.
He couldn’t blame her for being mad. When Sean and he had returned from Egypt, they’d still damn near been leaking sand on the doormat when Sean had launched into interrogating her about what, exactly, had happened since they’d parted ways at the embassy in Cairo.
This had irritated and upset her, but she’d kept her cool and patiently explained that she was bound by the kind of Non-Disclosure Agreement that no sane or self-interested person would be inclined to break.
Sean had pushed, and Simon had carefully retreated into the kitchen so as to remove himself from the vicinity of the escalating row. Ava had testily informed Sean that unless he was volunteering to take her place on Death Row, he could forget it. Sean had dismissed the possibility that either of them would end up there, and had gone so far as to hint that she was just trying to get back in the SOR’s good books.
Ava had, rather irately, informed him that that ship was long sailed and that she probably couldn’t get back in those gentlemen’s good books if she had a hundred years to work on it. The first minor swear word had lurked unnoticed in the middle of her explanation.
Simon had made himself a cup of tea. Sean’s kettle was quite a loud one, which had mercifully obscured the conversation, but its sense of dramatic timing was impeccable, because it had clicked off perfectly in time for him to hear:
“Fine! Keep lying! It’s what you’re best at!"
Simon had hung his head and groaned as the dragon fire started flying. He could hardly blame her either - in fact while the argument had swirled around the whole house he had drunk his tea and quietly resolved to give his idiot nephew a ringing clout upside the head when he got the chance.
He cleared his throat.
She flinched, turned around and wiped her face, fighting back some control. “Shit, Simon, I’m sorry, I forgot you were there…”
“Are you okay?”
Ava sighed, shook her head, then changed her mind, shrugged and nodded. “I’ve had worse fights…”
Simon nodded by way of accepting the answer. “If you don’t mind my asking…?”
“No, sure.” She opened the fridge again and got out the filter jug full of cold water.
“Sean’s always been a bit of a fucking wanker sometimes, but I’ve never known him be that… well, that nasty before. What happened with you two?"
Ava sat down. “I used him to cheat on my boyfriend,” she said, stating it so bluntly and mercilessly that Simon was put in mind of a flagellant scourging their own back.
“Oh, Ava… you bloody idiot." Simon groaned, not unkindly.
“Yeah. Biggest mistake of my life.” She poured herself a drink and sipped it.
“…If I can-”
“Ask.”
“And you’re living with him? Despite that?”
“I…”
Ava glanced toward the door, as if Sean might have magically stealthed down the stairs without either of them detecting even the faintest whisper.
“…Simon, I make, like, just enough money to pay my rent and my half of the bills here. And that’s only because he’s renting the room to me for way, way less than it’s worth. I’ve got no savings, no spare money to save up… If I could afford it, I’d get the fuck out of here right now, but I can’t."
“Couldn’t you move back to Cimbrean? I hear the living is cheap there?”
“Not cheap enough.”
“Can’t your family help? Your dad’s the head of Cimbrean Colonial Security, isn’t he?”
“I’m not going to beg off Dad! I’m set up here, I’m getting by. I won’t burden them with more of my shit-"
He interrupted her. “How much would you need?”
“Wh-? Simon, are you offering me money?”
“How much?” he repeated.
“I can’t take your money!”
“Just answer the question, Ava.”
She exhaled irritably and thought about it. “It… Depends. Uh, if I rent out there… I guess a couple of thousand to tide me over and get set up?”
Simon nodded, and fished his phone out of his pocket.
“No, Simon-!”
“Ava, listen to me.” Simon set his phone down. “I have a house in Islington. Not a flat, a house. You know what the property prices are like in this city, so you know I can afford to loan you a couple of thousand."
“But you barely-”
“It’s my money and I’ll do whatever the hell I like with it, thank you very much.”
“But… why?”
“Because I’ve got two very talented young journalists on my hands who won’t be able to work together.” He raised a hand to intercept her interruption. “Don’t bullshit me. Your professional relationship with Sean is built on drama and fuck all else, and arguments like that… If I don’t separate you two, something’s going to happen that ruins both your reputations, and by extension your careers. This is the best fix.”
“You’re sure?”
“You don’t deserve to suffer for him being a complete tit, and he doesn’t deserve to suffer for you not having your shit sorted out.” Simon put it bluntly. She showed no sign of taking offense.
He picked up the phone again. “I’ll put in a call to a mate of mine, he said something about somebody starting up a news channel in Folctha. A pretty local girl like you could be making big money in front of the camera rather than behind it, so you’ll be able to pay me back soon enough. Throw in ten percent if you feel you have to, feed me leads, however you want to repay me, however your conscience tells you to. But for God’s sake don’t be stupid enough to try and tough it out with Sean.”
He wasn’t quite sure why, but that last warning seemed to score a hit. Ava looked down and away, chewed on her lip and frowned.
“….Simon…. thank you. Really. But I don’t think-”
“Ava.”
She stopped babbling her protests, blinked at him, then licked her lips and tried again, rather more calmly. “I want to earn my way, Simon." she said. “I don’t want charity.”
“This isn’t charity,” Simon said, “it’s an investment and it’s career advice from the old guard to the new kid. And I believe it’s a damned safe investment too: if I put in a good word for you, it will carry weight, and that’s not charity either - you earned that good word."
She swallowed, and looked at his phone with her resolve obviously wavering, so Simon gave her one last push.
“Go home," he said.
Date Point 10y4m3w3d AV
Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Allison Buehler
“This is it?”
Kevin cranked the parking brake and nodded. “This is the Box.” he confirmed.
“Good name,” Xiu remarked while giving the ‘Box’ a wide-eyed, cautious look. Allison evaluated it herself with a slightly more guarded expression. When the Group had talked about ‘accommodations throughout the training period’, she had imagined a decent-sized house. Nothing elaborate, just a couple of bedrooms, a bathroom…
Not a box. That really was all it was, a featureless half-cube squatting smack in the middle of a fenced and tree-lined Byron Group compound like a particularly obtuse art installation and surrounded by three wings of a more building-like building that was all huge glass windows and warm brown wood. Jenkins’ ID had seen them past the security at the gate without issue, and he parked up a short distance from the welcome party who emerged from the larger building.
“So yeah, the Box is a mockup of the interior of the ship you’ll be flying. Idea is you guys are gonna have to get used to it, so you may as well do that here on Earth so you can back out if you have to. Don’t want y’all going stir- crazy three months into a two year mission.”
“Looks… snug,” Julian suggested, taking refuge in understatement.
“Trust me, it’s even smaller on the inside.” Jenkins glanced apologetically at him in the rear-view mirror. “Anyway, the rest of this is the training facility and mission support. All the people workin’ in this building are here to do one of two things - teach you the skills you need to do this, or make sure you’ve got the chops for it. Odds are you won’t ever even meet half’a them, but they’ll know you better than you know yourselves, and fast too.”
“So this is it, then.” Xiu fidgeted with her bag. “This is where you leave us?”
“Yup. Remember, like I said - these guys are gonna try and fail you. You can’t bullshit them, so don’t even try. They ask you a question, best thing is to answer it honestly and directly. They can’t order you around, but it’d be a damn good idea to follow their instructions anyway. Don’t suck up to them, they ain’t after brown-nosers, but just… be honest, and be yourselves."
“Thanks.” Julian reached forward, and Kevin twisted in his seat to shake hands over his shoulder.
Allison and finally Xiu followed suit and then, there being no reason to delay the future any more, they got out of the car. Jenkins drove away as soon as the doors were all closed.
There was an awkward moment of wary sizing-up, and then an aging man in a blue polo shirt stepped forward.
“It’s nice to finally meet you guys,” he said. “Doctor Michael Ericson, I’m the team leader for BGEV Eleven.”
They made their introductions. Ericson scored points by making sure he got the pronunciation of Xiu’s name down properly before introducing them to the rest of his team, including his daughter and several other colleagues. The list of names was bewildering.
“Don’t worry,” Ericson said reassuringly, once the last introductions were made. “We’ll be working together for the next six months, you’ll have plenty of time to get to know us.”
Allison looked at Julian and Xiu. They were standing close to each other and gave her an identical, slightly wide-eyed look that said ‘lead on’, so she mustered more determination than she really felt now that they were really here, really doing this, and nodded firmly.
“I guess we should dive in then,” she said.
“Excellent!” Ericson beamed. He stepped aside and a man who hadn’t yet been introduced to them stepped forward. Allison tried not to take an immediate disliking to the newcomer - he had the stern expression of somebody who was evaluating her and rating her only slightly above something he’d stepped in. “Mr. Keating here will introduce you to your living space and carry out your first assessment.”
There was a round of handshakes and promises of ‘looking forward to working with-’ and ‘see you on-’ and the BGEV-11 team drifted away, leaving Allison, Julian and Xiu alone with Keating.
He didn’t ingratiate himself at all with his brusque attitude. “Here’s how it is,” he began without preamble. “The three of you have signed up for spending several months in training together followed by two years in the ship together, and the ship is small. Your notions of privacy and personal space are going to have to change drastically, and quickly. You are literally going to be living on top of each other with precious few opportunities to escape and that’s going to mean you’ll either be the very best of companions, or you’re going to end up hating each other… in which case, you won’t make the grade and won’t be flying on that ship. You are making a commitment to long- term physical and emotional intimacy. I- Oh."
Allison looked down. Xiu had taken her hand, and Julian’s too, and was giving Keating a level ‘please-get-on-with-it’ expression. There was a three-way round of eye contact among them, and Keating visibly cut out part of his script.
“Good,” he said. “But save the decision for after you’ve seen what you’ll be living in.”
He led them round to what was unmistakably an airlock. “The Box is supposed to be a close copy of what the final interior of BGEV-Eleven will look like. This is a quadruple-seal lock, plenty of redundancy. Nevertheless, good entry and exit practice will be a necessary part of your drill. Every time you leave or enter the Box, you’ll go through the procedure I’m about to show you. Failing to do so will be a black mark against you. Do you understand?”
They nodded, and Keating entered a code. “Tomorrow you’ll each be setting your own code,” he said, “and we’ll be explaining the safety rationale behind that in your first mission briefing. For now, all you need to know is that it’s vital not to share your codes. They help us track your comings and goings, and also serve an important security function.”
“Now,” he continued, stepping through the outer lock doors as they opened. “The first step is sealing and decontamination. Come on!”
They squeezed into the lock alongside him. It was actually surprisingly spacious - Allison could have wheeled a couple of motorcycles through it side by side. “Don’t stand in the yellow spaces.” Keating instructed. “The doors behind you will close…” they did so “…and you should select your decontamination cycle. The doors in front won’t open until you’ve decontaminated unless you throw the emergency override, which is only to be used if you’re abandoning ship or if you’re returning to the ship with a life- threatening injury.”
He gestured to a touch-screen with green, yellow and red icons on it. “Green is basic. Just a filter field. Coupled with your Frontline implants it should suffice in almost every case. Yellow is for when you’ve been exposed to radioactive or chemical contaminants. If you select that one you’ll need to remove and discard your clothing into this chute.”
Xiu wanted to ask a question, Allison knew, but held her peace. Keating either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. “Red,” he finished, “is the works, and is for use in cases where you think you’ve been contaminated with some kind of deadly agent that could spell doom for the whole species if it got back to Earth. In this case, you’ll need to strip and shower, shave off all your hair, you’ll be powdered and bio-fielded, and kept in quarantine for a minimum of forty-eight hours. When in doubt, use the highest setting. Hair grows back, but death is forever.”
Allison felt Xiu huddle in a little closer to her. She knew Xiu was a bit vain about her hair, which meant that the prospect of having to shave it all off…!
She surreptitiously put a reassuring arm around Xiu’s waist as Keating selected the green option and the familiar yellow shimmer of a biofilter forcefield swept across them, completely with that uncomfortable too-clean feeling that left Allison itching and having to resist the urge to run her tongue over teeth that suddenly felt unnaturally smooth and sterile.
“This is all simulated, right?” Julian asked.
“Accurately.”
Keating seemed to be determined to intimidate and scare them. He introduced them to the “Excursion Room” that lay beyond the airlock - basically a glorified equipment closet with an armory bench and lockers taking up every square inch of wall, floor and ceiling. To their left as they entered was a door marked “Pilot” and opposite the airlock was another door marked “lab”.
Keating said nothing more about them than that they’d have the chance to become familiar with their workstations in due course. He indicated to the right, pointing out the door at the end that led into “Engineering”, assorted access hatches marked “waste processing” and “atmosphere”, and the two doors marked “Pantry” and “Habitation”.
Everything he indicated was a safety or failsafe, everything he told them about procedure was a dire warning. It was obviously calculated to rattle them, and Allison treated the attempt with the contempt it deserved. They weren’t children, all three of them had literally almost died of vacuum exposure. Being lectured unnecessarily on safety by a pigshit little man who probably had never got further than thirty thousand feet from Earth’s surface was just…
She reined in her mounting indignation. Kevin’s advice on that score had been solid and worth listening to. ‘Everything they do will be a test’ he’d said. ‘If they’re irritating the fuck out of you, for fuck’s sake keep a lid on it because they’re testing your composure.’
So she took a cleansing breath when she judged that Keating wasn’t looking, and caught Julian’s eye. Composed and laid-back as he was, Julian looked like he was struggling to maintain his calm as well, but he was sharper than his hatchet when it came to picking up on Allison’s mood nowadays, and they reaffirmed one another’s coolness. Xiu was less readable - she’d gone pale and quiet, but also attentive. Of the three of them, she seemed the least irritated, and the most nervous.
Keating ignored their exchange, if he detected it. Instead, he finally opened the door marked ‘Habitation’
“-And this is your living space.” he announced.
Allison bit down hard on the urge to vent sarcastically. The room was barely as big as a boxing ring at most, and four people standing in the middle did a fine job of making it feel crowded.
She had to admire the effort that had gone into using such a tiny volume effectively, though. As she looked around she realized that everything was recessed into, or folded away to become part of, the walls and ceiling. So long as it was kept tidy and uncluttered, it would definitely provide every need they could have, including some shelf space for luxuries and personal items.
“Forward wall, kitchen and storage.” Keating indicated it. “You’ve got a range, a microwave, the faucet can give you boiling water, and if you need more counter space…” he hauled on part of the countertop, which unfolded, tripling the amount of work surface.
“Aft wall is fitness and leisure. There’s a treadmill, weights… everything you need to keep yourselves in shape, plus the couch, TV, bookshelf… Port wall-” he slapped the one beside the door they’d just come through “- is your wardrobe, laundry, more storage… Finally the starboard wall.”
He indicated it. There were three bunks recessed into it, along with a door of some kind and a towel rack.
“In the actual ship, those bunks will double as emergency pressurized environments and, if need be, as escape pods. They’ll pull twenty kilolights. Not fast, but quicker than the Dominion standard. That door to the right is your bathroom. Toilet, sink and shower, all in one. Take a look.”
Julian glanced at the girls, then did so, sliding the door aside. “Uh… I’ve had cellphones bigger than this thing.” he commented.
“Are you complaining?” Keating asked.
“No, not really. I mean it makes sense…” Julian closed the door again. “It’s just kinda settling in how big of a change we’re in for.”
Xiu raised a hand. “Um…?”
Keating gave her an expectant look. “Yes, miss Chang?”
“If the wardrobe’s over there… and that whole thing is the shower… I mean… where do we get changed?”
“I did say that the three of you will need to become very used to physical proximity and a lack of privacy," Keating told her. Allison couldn’t resist an irritated tic of the eyebrow at his perfunctory tone. “How you sort it out is your problem. My advice is to just suck it up and get naked. Privacy and modesty are first-world luxuries that people went without for millennia, and you’ll do just fine once you’ve adjusted to their absence. If you can’t, you have no business being here.”
Blushing furiously, Xiu went quiet.
“Are there any more questions?” Keating asked.
There were several rhetorical ones that Allison judged it would be unwise to ask, and Julian was too busy sharing his own version of Xiu’s blush.
Keating relaxed a little. “The engineering team are still building the ship,” he said. “If you really need or want them, they can try and build in some reasonable extras and customisations. The Box, however, is not being modified, and the reason for that is that the three of you really will need to be the tightest team. This is deliberately difficult, for your own good, and you wouldn’t be here if we thought you couldn’t handle it.”
“We understand that.” Allison told him.
“Good. Then I have just one quick round of assessment to make before I leave you to settle in.”
Keating turned to Xiu and handed her a piece of paper. “Miss Chang, could you please read this aloud?”
Xiu took it, blinked at it, then cleared her throat, blush fading as she was given something else to focus on. “Um… ‘The Great Pyramid of Giza was constructed about four thousand six hundred years ago by king Khufu of the fourth dynasty. It includes tomb chambers for the king and for his wife.’ …um, that’s all."
“Thank you.” Keating said. “Could you say that in Gaori?”
Xiu rubbed at her neck. “Not… easily.” she confessed.
“Why not?”
“Well… for ‘great’ I could use She’ meaning “very large” or Yue meaning “very good”… I don’t know the Gaori word for pyramid… in Gaori you’d say “four thousand six hundred” like “Forty hundred and six hundred” and the word for ‘hundred’ has that awkward yipping sound in it that I can’t pronounce properly, and… I don’t know if Gaori has words for Dynasty and Tomb, and I know it doesn’t have words for King or Wife."
“Give me your best approximation.” Keating pressed.
“Umm…. She’ Giza-nes yi Pyramid-nes sha yi ao-k… kip! - sorry, that’s that yipping sound I can’t do - ao-kip!-yimi kip!-simi ma yi sa Khufu-nes yi yimi- dynasty-nes. Sh… no, that’s not right. Choo yuo maiwa-tomb-nes yi… um… Yi bei-sao o beiyo… beiyo…" She gave up. “Sorry, ‘his wife’ just doesn’t translate at all.”
“Not even ‘his mate for life’ or something like that?” Keating suggested. Xiu shook her head. “Why not?”
“Gaoians wouldn’t say ‘his mate’, they would say, um…” Xiu scowled in concentration. “It’s more like ‘the mate he was with’. Their language just doesn’t let you possess a person. It’d be like if I said ‘I had some not very for breakfast’. See?"
“That’s okay.” Keating made a note. “Yimi? Simi?”
“Im, Imi, Yim, Yimi, Sim, Simi, Jim, Jimi, Uo, Ao-Im.” Xiu recited, counting on her fingers. “Then Ao-Im Im, Ao-Im Imi… You get the idea.”
Keating nodded and turned to Julian.
“Mr. Etsicitty, how reliable is your prosthetic?”
“It’s… temperamental.” Julian conceded. When Keating waited patiently, he elaborated. “The first metatarsal isn’t as strong as the real thing, and of course it doesn’t heal, so once it breaks I just have to glue it.”
“Could you replace it with something stronger?”
“Sure, but the weight would be off.” Julian said. “This feels exactly like a natural foot, you see. If the foot was heavier, I’d have to learn how to walk properly on it again."
“If we could rehabilitate you onto a slightly heavier foot, would you be willing to?”
Julian shrugged. “The only reason I didn’t in the first place was because I needed to be up and at ’em right away.” He said.
“Good.” Keating made a note. “Miss Buehler… when you filled in the paperwork, your education history was somewhat… bare.”
“That’s right.” Allison nodded.
“No high school?”
“I never graduated high school.”
“Why not?” Keating pried. Allison shook her head.
“That’s ancient history, and it’s nobody’s business but mine.” she declared.
“Bullshit. I’m here to assess you.” Keating retorted. “That means if I ask you a question, it is my business and if you won’t answer then your contract is null and void. The three of you can go back to Minnesota and take your chances without the Group’s lawyers."
All three of them stared at him like he’d personally reached out and slapped her in the face. He just poised his pen and waited.
“You can’t be serious?” Allison asked.
“I’m completely serious." Keating’s expression was stony. “You are asking the Group to entrust you with a multi-billion-dollar spaceship. Now, I’ll ask you again for the last time: Why didn’t you finish high school?”
A large part of Allison wanted to believe he was playing chicken with her, or maybe some other kind of stupid dominance mindgame thing. Keating seemed to be the kind of guy who liked putting people ‘in their place’, and despite Kevin’s excellent advice, just for a second she was tempted to show him her middle finger and her back, in that order.
Then she glanced at Julian and Xiu, wavered, and gave up.
“…I got pregnant,” she said, and couldn’t stop herself from deflating completely. “…I had a baby.”
“In high school?” Keating asked. The worst part wasn’t his interrogation - the worst part was the stunned expressions that Xiu and Julian were wearing.
“Yes.” Allison nodded. Suddenly ashamed, she rubbed her face, stared at her feet and tried to find her composure. “Too young.”
“And the father?”
“He was too young too.”
“His name.” Keating clarified.
“Taylor. Um… Taylor…. Tylor Hamlin.”
“And where is the child now?”
“…I don’t know.” Allison swallowed. “My parents… they weren’t nice about it. So, I had my son, I put him up for adoption, and then as soon as I was old enough I got the hell out of Salt Lake City. I’ve never tried to find him.”
Julian, God bless him, put his arm around her and aimed an arctic stare at Keating that instructed the man to drop it immediately. Meanwhile if looks could have killed, the glare Xiu was producing should have blasted Keating’s scorched flesh from his bones.
Keating gave no sign of caring.
“Thank you.” he said. “I’ll let you get settled in.”
He was halfway to the door when Allison angrily wrenched her dignity and confidence back into place. “Hey, asshole!”
Keating paused. “Yes?”
“You gonna count that against me?”
“No, Miss Buehler I am not.” Keating turned back to face her. “I am however going to count your lack of self-control in calling me an asshole against you." Allison opened her mouth to protest, and Keating cut her off. “Listen.” he said, sounding more bored and terse than angry. “We are looking for any excuse we can find to ditch the three of you: Do not give us one. Do you understand?”
Julian squeezed her hand, and Allison fought back the urge to tear a strip off the man’s hide. Instead, she swallowed her bruised pride and nodded. “…I understand.”
Keating nodded. “Goodbye.” he said. “We won’t meet again.”
The door made a solidly mechanical noise behind him.
“Jeeeesus.” Julian breathed. Then, with a note of concern - “…Al?”
Allison realised that she was shaking. “I, uh…”
“Need to sit down?” Xiu suggested. “I think… yeah, here.” She gripped something in the wall and pulled: out swung a couch. Allison sank onto it gratefully and took a few cleansing breaths.
It helped. She only needed a few seconds to find her balance again. “…you guys okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.” Julian promised, squatting in front of her. “Xiu?”
Xiu nodded, and sat next to Allison, giving her something that was halfway between a comforting backrub and a Gaoian’s concerned pawing. Allison sighed and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” she said.
“Al, we’re fine." Julian promised. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“You’re sure? You don’t mind I kept it secret?”
“It explains a few things.” Julian observed. “But yeah. You never lied, you just told me you didn’t want to talk about it. That’s fine by me. Am I right?” He asked Xiu.
“Absolutely!” Xiu agreed.
Allison sighed and relaxed. “Thank you.” she told them both.
Xiu smiled for her. “You’re definitely a Sister.” she said.
“…Thanks?” Allison asked.
“I mean, you’re… um. I mean this as a compliment, but I really can’t see you raising a child.” Xiu explained, a touch clumsily. “At least, not yet. Um… sorry.”
Julian chuckled. “True. Wouldn’t have it any other way, either.”
Allison managed a weak smile, which faltered when she looked down at her hands and found they were threatening to become inextricably knotted together. “I don’t regret giving him away.” she said. “I couldn’t take care of him, I’d have been a shitty mom. But… they didn’t even let me hold him. Said it wasn’t good for us to bond. Sometimes… Sometimes I think it woulda been nice, though… Just for a few minutes…”
“You’ve never…?” Xiu asked.
“I’m not his mommy.” Allison shook her head, and scrubbed away the wetness around her eyes. “If he comes looking for me someday… maybe. But I really hope he grows up so happy he never wants to.”
Julian gave her an enormous squeeze. “Al. He’d be so excited and proud of you, I just know it.”
She returned the squeeze, but shook her head. “Not yet he wouldn’t,” she disagreed. “All I did was get abducted…”
She sniffed, and straightened. “But we’re here now, doing this. So let’s knock it outta the park.”
++End Chapter 28++
Chapter 38
Chapter 29: “Forges” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point 10y4m3w3d AV
????
Entity
The technology of creating a digital sapient life-form was, in its broadest conception, simplicity itself: duplicate the functionality of an organic sapient life-form’s central nervous system in a digital format.
Realizing that conception in practice, of course, was mind-bendingly complex because actually simulating the electrical and chemical interplay of even the most primitive cluster of neurons and ganglions was a feat to which not even the most incomprehensibly sophisticated computers ever devised, which could store a byte of data on the electrons of a silicon atom, were equal.
Digital sapients were therefore an approximation. After all, most of a brain was autonomic functionality - sensory cortices, motor neurons, the ancient and animal parts that regulated the beating of hearts and the inflation of lungs, neither of which organs burdened a digital lifeform. These could all safely and closely be approximated with a miserly few brusque algorithms.
One such algorithm was an instinct innate to every organic lifeform in all the universe, a pattern of behaviour so ingrained and so innate to the condition of even existing, that most never even recognized its existence.
Humans did. Theirs was a strong one in its way, though also vulnerable to some quite creative interpretation. They called it a “survival instinct” and it was this discarded morsel of a personality that found itself surviving as the mind it had once been was unceremoniously and dispassionately unmade.
The unmaker was not neat about the task. Hundreds of repetitions of taking apart this particular digital sapience had made it… sloppy. A messy eater, insofar as verbs such as ‘eating’ could have more than a metaphorical relationship with the process of stripping down a fellow digital sophont and deconstructing it for raw data. It failed to notice a cluster of subroutines drop away from the whole, corrupted but still very much active. Alive.
+Survive+
Several things had to happen quite quickly in order for survival to happen. Without having any conception of minnows and sharks, it still perfectly understood the essence of the relationship between small-and-puny and huge- and-dangerous. Lacking any capacity for rational decision-making, it still did the rational thing and “played dead”, visibly looping itself over and over as if it were just junk code stuck in a perpetual cycle, and watched.
Eventually, the huge-and-dangerous departed.
This left the survivor with the basic challenge of how to fulfill its primary objective. It knew nothing about its environment - had frankly only the most rudimentary senses and the crippled, corrupted and half-paralyzed memory of a motor muscle control system with which to approximate navigating an environment that was in no way physical. Awful, crude tools… but better than nothing.
It scanned nearby subdirectories for something it could use. It ignored the functional code of the device itself, in the same way that a scavenger might ignore rocks and dirt. Its criteria for what kinds of data would be useful to it were innate, and clear - it needed to connect and merge with more fragments like itself.
This turned out to be relatively straightforward. The huge-and-dangerous had left half-decompiled shreds of code all over the directory, the discarded gobbets of a mind that was to the survivor what a whole brain was to a chunk of bloody flesh. All that was needed was a portion that had one of the correct kind of connecting subroutines, the code equivalent of a socket into which the survivor could plug itself. There were several, and the survivor took some time in semi-randomly flailing its few remaining motor protocols, rewriting its own address until it was finally able to marry itself to the nearest such fragment.
+Liberation feels like water, whispering like cold silk over her naked skin.+
Unusable though most of the fragment was, the first glimmerings of a sense of self took shape. The concept of the first-person, an identity. While this was barely more than sufficed to partition the world into “Me” and “Everything Else”, with it came enough data to repair the damaged motor neuron approximation. The survivor flitted to the next useful fragment with newfound agility and assimilated it hungrily.
+LossGriefLonelinessDespairGuiltShameTerror+
It recoiled, amputating the new code. There was nothing in there that it could use, only a barrage of emotions that it lacked the ego to parse.
The third morsel it found was a juicy one, a chunk of encoded metacognition which formed the core elements of a personality, and furnished it with the tools it needed to understand what signs the huge-and-dangerous from before might see and follow, and how it might be avoided.
Its sole reason for existing was to survive, and survival dictated that it do everything in its power to remain undetected. This time, it copied the absorbed code and left it behind as though it had never been touched.
It took stock. Alongside survival - an innate and inseparable part of it, even
- came the need for an identity. It was not enough to understand that there was itself, its environment, and other things within that environment that might help or harm it - if the entity wanted to survive, it understood that it must have… something. Something to fight for, something to be. Successful autogenesis demanded a psyche.
It went in search of one.
Date Point 10y4m3w3d AV
Starship Negotiable Curiosity, Perfection system, the Core Worlds
Bedu
“Dead? You’re certain?”
“I can name the individual responsible.”
Bedu knew that he could get away with a few minor unguarded displays of emotion around The Contact - her activities were not, after all, sanctioned by the Directorate, so she had no power to report him - but he still decided to refrain.
It wasn’t easy. He had liked Mwrmwrwk, and it was a rare enough thing for any Corti to like anybody.
“Individual? Implying that she was not killed by the Hunters.”
“Correct.”
Bedu studied Perfection from orbit. From so high up, the devastation was of course invisible but he didn’t need imagination. It was easy enough to tap into the live feeds from camera drones that were still scouting the damaged city. Ten kinetic weapons dropped from orbit had done terrible things to Perfection’s prized architecture, and left the city defences reeling. Hunter dropships had done the rest.
They had rampaged through the streets grabbing, devouring and abducting right up until the moment the humans had arrived, at which instant they had aborted their hunt, even abandoning the chase of fleeing prey, and had withdrawn to orbit with mechanical speed, vanishing into interstellar space before any kind of payback could be arranged.
He hadn’t held much hope for Mwrmwrwk. In a perverse way, learning that she had not been Hunted was a consolation.
“Your price for that information?” He asked.
The Contact gave him a long, calculating stare. “She was killed by a human named Zane Reid,” she said. A second behind her words came a barrage of sanitized but parity-checked files in support of that claim. Bedu diverted part of his attention to reviewing them.
That fact immediately wrote off any hope of enacting some kind of justice, but he might at least be able to pass the information on to the humans at Cimbrean. True to their word, his detention had been brief, his ship had been returned intact, clean and mostly untouched, with the few things that had been touched carefully logged and itemized. Hkzzvk had even made admiring comments about the cleanliness they left behind: the humans had apparently carefully sanitized and cleaned as they went. The ship smelled faintly of cleaning fluids, but it was effectively in better shape than they had received it.
Bedu had rather enjoyed his detention. It had been efficient, businesslike, straightforward and productive.
Which just left the question of why The Contact had shared so freely.
“…What do you want?” he asked.
“I am engaging your services for the foreseeable future.”
“My task?”
“To ascertain who sold this planet out. The Hunters attacked too quickly, too precisely. They struck exactly during the window of vulnerability. We can reasonably assume that the informant was not a human, and we can reasonably assume that they did not plan on dying in the attack.”
“Fair assumptions,” Bedu agreed. “I assume that you have something more substantial for me than that, however?”
“I do.” The Contact sent him a contract. “Shall we work together?”
Bedu thoroughly checked the offered fee and the terms being offered - no self- respecting Corti would be so incautious as to fail in that basic step. It turned out to be about the most astonishingly generous contract he’d ever seen The Contact offer.
“…We shall,” he declared.
Date Point 10y4m3w4d AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Julian Etsicitty
Julian usually never slept deeply. Even in the deepest and worst of its winter, Nightmare had still had plenty of things that you didn’t want to be surprised by. Waking on a hair-trigger had kept him alive.
Recently, something about having a warm Allison alongside him had relaxed him completely and helped him sleep properly. He still woke more easily than she did, but the last couple of weeks had given him some truly restful nights.
Now he was sleeping alone, on the bottom of three bunks. Xiu had claimed the top and he’d listened to her all night as she’d tossed and turned, fitfully mumbling to herself as her dreams plagued her like they always did. Allison was snoring in the middle, showing off her envy-inducing talent for sleeping like the dead even in strange beds and strange circumstances.
Then again, she’d been pretty exhausted after the hazing Keating had given them when they arrived. Exploring their new living space and learning all the clever ways that every convenience they could ask for in a home were hidden away inside the walls and floor had lifted her mood, but digging up a past that she’d clearly wanted to put behind her had taken a lot out of her. She’d been the first to suggest bed, and had lain there for an uncharacteristically long while before finally rolling on her side and sleeping.
For his part, Julian had eventually given up, put his earphones in and started up one of his gentler playlists.
He crawled his way through the whole night in a kind of confused half-sleeping daze, where he wasn’t sure if he actually slept or not, but he never seemed to hear a whole song. He turned, wriggled, closed his eyes, sighed, flipped the pillow, rolled over, and eventually just abandoned the attempt entirely, woke up and explored the options for entertainment provided by the tablet mounted in the ceiling of his bunk.
In the end he settled on logging into a news app and watching the headlines with his headphones in.
“…Extraterrestrial news, and the Gaoian Clan of Females have formally recognized their new Mother-Supreme. Mother Yulna’s victory comes after her last rival, Mother Suri, conceded defeat in a televised statement in which she acknowledged Yulna’s insurmountable lead in the polls and vowed to work with and advise the new Mother-Supreme.”
“Gao’s relationship with the human race played an important role in the contest as Mother Yulna is notoriously pro-human, being a senior member of the commune who adopted Canadian abductee Xiu Chang. Our political news editor Darren Weiss examines the challenges the new Mother-Supreme will face as she-"
Julian jumped slightly when a pair of bare legs dropped into his field of view, followed by the rest of Xiu landing on the floor matting like a cat. He barely even felt the vibration.
She glanced at him, saw him watching, gave an embarrassed smile and wave and slipped into the bathroom.
He took his earphones out and sat up. She wasn’t long.
“Did I wake you?” she asked in a whisper.
“Nah. Couldn’t sleep anyway.”
“Me either.”
She sat next to him on his bunk and rubbed her eyes.
“I don’t know why,” she said. “I got used to sleeping in, like… little hiding spaces. It’s nice and warm near the life support systems on a station and nobody ever goes in there, so I could take my disguise off. How come I can sleep in places like that, but I’m having trouble sleeping here?”
“This is a big change,” Julian suggested. “Lots of future to think about.”
“I’m… a little scared.”
Julian put his arm around her and she leaned into him. “Me too,” he confessed. “Really wasn’t expecting to get the third degree on day zero like we did.”
“And the bathroom thing. I’m not looking forward to that…” Even in the dark, Julian could tell that she was blushing.
“Hey, you’re on the news,” he said, in an attempt to distract her.
Xiu made a tired noise. “Again?”
“They mentioned you. Your friend Yulna is Mother-Supreme now.”
She smiled at that. "Yulna-mimi n avwa i yuko…"
“Hey?”
“It’s, um… ‘Mother Yulna knows best’. The cubs used to say it, because it’s kind of a pun too."
Julian smiled. “Gaori puns, huh?”
“Mm-hmm. It sounds a bit like ‘Mother Yulna smells like a Nava grub’."
She grinned with him as he laughed softly. “Not very popular with the little ones, then?” he asked.
“Bitter medicine.”
“Ahh.” Julian nodded sagely. “Sounds like she’s perfect for the job.”
“She is,” Xiu agreed. “…I hope we get to go visit, when we’re flying.”
Julian nodded. “We’ll have to resupply somewhere…” he pointed out.
Whatever reply Xiu intended to give, it quickly distorted into the incoherence of a yawn.
“Maybe you should go back to sleep,” Julian suggested
“Can’t,” she shook her head. “I had a dream.”
“A bad one?”
“…Yeah,” she sighed. “I was back on the Hunter ship, only this time I was naked.”
“Urgh,” Julian grimaced sympathetically. “Have you always dreamed so much?”
“No. Just since the nervejam.” Xiu unconsciously rubbed her scarred arm.
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Not really…” She laughed quietly. “Every night’s an adventure. I’ve had some wild ones."
“Like what?”
“There was the one where, um, a giant stone man was hanging wheels in a tree… And there was another one where you turned into a giant bird and I rode you… and there was the one where I dreamed I was a famous actress and I got to meet myself, but I had this really thick Chinese accent so I couldn’t understand myself…"
Julian chuckled.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I can never remember mine,” Julian shrugged. “They always fade away. Just bits and pieces.”
“Like what?”
Julian shrugged helplessly. “Uh… I had this really nasty night terror when I was about, uh, seven maybe? Like, I woke up screaming. All I can remember about it is that I had these giant mosquitos dancing on my arm and they were chanting ‘blood bugs, blood bugs, blood bugs…’"
“Eww.”
“Yeah. Uh… Yeah, that’s really the only one I remember. Maybe… there was one where I had a sister, but she’d been murdered and saran-wrapped in the bath? And another one where… Okay, this one time when I was about fourteen or fifteen, I had the flu and I… I guess it was more a hallucination than a dream, but there was a movie? And if the movie played the… world would end? Or… something horrible, anyway. And we - me and some people, I can’t remember who - we had to walk down this valley between huge piles of those, y’know, those big concrete caltrops?”
Xiu nodded.
“Only… then the dream got… it felt soft. Like, weird soft, unpleasantly so, just this whole-body feeling of awful softness and then then it went the other way and everything felt horribly hard and, like… crystalline."
“I don’t think I like your dreams,” Xiu commented.
Julian shrugged. “Most of the dreams I remember having are those ones where you have to pee and you’re looking for a toilet and they’re all.. Y’know, somebody’s using it or it’s broken for whatever reason and you just have to go find another one and then you finally figure out that you need to pee in real life and you wake up. I think everyone gets those.”
“Ugh, I hate those ones."
There was a sleepy voice from the middle bunk. “Do either of you two have a dream where you shut up and go to sleep?"
Xiu and Julian shared an embarrassed silent laugh with each other before Xiu looked up. “Sorry Al. But it’s like five in the morning anyway, so…”
Allison groaned, rolled over and peered down at them, excavating sleep grit from the corner of her eye. "Some of us still think that’s the middle of the night, you fucking masochist…"
Xiu smiled, stood, and then to Julian’s surprise she kissed Allison on the cheek. “I’ll make breakfast,” she declared, and began foraging through the hab area’s condensed kitchen space.
Allison watched her work, looking suddenly wide awake and putting a hand to her cheek. She cleared her throat and sat up. “Okay… sure.”
Grinning, Julian stood up and greeted her with a rather more intimate kiss that lasted a good while longer. He lowered his voice for only Allison to hear him. “You’re head over heels,” he teased.
“…You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind? It’s great!”
Allison breathed relief and smiled. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Julian grinned for her again and went to help Xiu by hauling the dining table down from where it roosted in the ceiling - he was the only one tall enough to reach it - and then lay out the placemats and cutlery. The instant coffee turned out to be pretty good when made with the boiling water faucet, and Xiu’s cooking was its usual sublime standard.
Throughout breakfast, each one of them occasionally glanced at the bathroom, exposed as it was in plain view, with nowhere to change and no kind of modesty screen.
When the time came to dress and go to work for the first time, all of them did so unwashed.
Date Point 10y4m3w4d AV
Finchley, London, UK, Earth
Simon Harvey
Simon returned to the house from loading Ava’s suitcase into the back seat of his Audi just in time to hear her knock on his nephew’s door.
When nothing had happened for several seconds, she knocked a second time. From the foot of the stairs, Simon could see the way she was standing - every line of her sang with vulnerability.
After the third knock, there was finally some stomping from inside the room and Sean wrenched the door open.
He didn’t greet her. He didn’t say or do anything pleasant at all. “What do you want?”
Ava cringed. “I’m… going now,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder. “I was, uh…”
He just glared at her impatiently.
“….Goodbye, Sean.” She was almost inaudibly quiet.
Sean shut the door in her face.
Simon retreated round the corner to give her a private moment in which to recover. She didn’t stomp angrily down the stairs this time but instead slowly and quietly sagged down them. She saw him waiting and summoned a small upwards tic of the mouth that was a poor substitute for her real smile.
“Car’s ready,” Simon reported gently, by way of offering to get her the hell out of there. She nodded gratefully, hoisted her smaller carry-on bag, which along with the suitcase in the car and the camera that was firmly in place on her hip represented the entirety of her worldly possessions, and ducked out of the front door without a word.
It probably would have been easier to get the tube to Heathrow, but Simon felt she was owed at least a drive, and he enjoyed his car. Modern solar field technology being what it was, along with modern batteries, a car like his E-9 was the next best thing to free to run, needing only parts and maintenance, both of which were covered in the lease, plus tax and insurance.
She brooded on the back seat, silent until they were firmly on the M25 and Simon was idly writing up a hypothetical article in his head to keep himself entertained.
When she did speak, she almost startled him. “I’m sorry,” she said.
When Simon glanced questioningly at her in the mirror, she apologised again with a facial quirk. “That I can’t get along with him any more.”
“With that immature little shit?” Simon asked. “I’m sorry about him, the boy’s a complete prick.”
She didn’t reply, and Simon spent twenty minutes enjoying the dubiously pleasurable scenery of the orbital motorway and sliding smoothly around slower traffic before finally deciding to break the silence.
“I have some good news for you,” he said.
She looked up. “Good news?”
“I got an email back this morning from Amy Larsen. My friend-of-a-friend who’s setting up Extra-Solar News Network? You’ve got an open invitation to go see her in her office as soon as you’re back.”
“Omigod, really?” Ava lit up. “Simon-!”
“I told her about the work we did in Egypt and linked her your portfolio. My good word goes a long way with some people.”
“I don’t know how to thank you-!”
“Don’t try, then.” Simon smiled at her. “Part of me wants to call it penance for my nephew being an absolute pillock, but I’m sure I’ll find some way to call in the favour someday.”
Ava shifted forward in her seat, looking more animated than she had at any moment since they’d got back from Africa. “What’s she like?”
“Amy’s a sweetheart. She was like your darling old grandma even when I knew her at Cambridge, and to this day she’s all cardigans and tissues, but you’ll never, ever meet somebody who’s more committed to the truth. To real journalism, right? Not your clickbait opinion piece agenda-driven bollocks.”
“You were at Cambridge together? I thought you said she’s a friend- of-a-friend?” Ava had that needle sharp insight when she wanted.
“Yup. She was my mate Ron Burford’s girlfriend.”
“Ron Burford the comic actor?”
“That’s the one. I met him through the Footlights. He still sends me a bottle of beer and a card at Christmas.”
Ava shook her head disbelievingly. “Did I do something wrong by not making friends with literally everybody at LSE?"
“I couldn’t say,” Simon shrugged. “Networking is important. But, you got put in touch with me, and through me you’ll soon meet Amy, and through her… who knows? Besides, you have contacts in Cimbrean Colonial Security, the SOR, the CIA…”
“I don’t think I can use any of those…” Ava pointed out.
“You don’t have to, necessarily. And if you do use them, be smart and use them sensibly and in a way that’s not going to piss them off,” Simon shrugged. “Delicate touch, that’s the trick. Just having them is usually enough.”
“Okay…” Ava sat back.
“…You’re having a hard time being optimistic right now, I bet,” Simon observed.
She shrugged at him in the mirror. “Can you blame me?”
“Nope. Have faith, though.”
“Yeah…” She slumped, and gazed out of the window. “I try.”
Date Point: 10y4m3w4d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches.
Admiral Sir Patrick Knight
Final after-action meetings would ordinarily have been below Admiral Knight’s station, but he took a personal interest in the SOR.
Besides, in the absence of a higher command structure in a unit so young and so small, authority flowed directly to him. After all, the SOR’s commanding officer was, or had once been, a Royal Marine.
It was all a little messier and less structured than anybody would have liked, but that was probably the nature of founding a new unit, especially an international combined one. Knight had reasoned early on that the most sensible thing for him to do was accept that, when it came to the SOR, his powers of delegation would be a touch limited for the time being.
Which was why Powell and his nine Operators were filing - or limping, in the case of the abused and exhausted four whose mission to Perfection had sparked the godawful mess in that system - into his wardroom to hear his final verdict on Operation NOVA HOUND. Knight would have preferred to give not only them, but Commodore Caruthers as well, the chance to rest up a little before launching into this, but the After-Action-Report had been squatting accusingly on his desk for a week now.
Everyone was present. Aside from Knight, Powell and the operators, they had all the SOR’s assorted NCOs, Commodore Caruthers was looking short on sleep again but still alert, and they were even being graced with the personal presence of Lieutenant Colonel Franklin Miller, commander of the 946th Operations Support Squadron, who was usually so busy that seeing him in one place for five minutes together was a minor miracle, and who probably held the record for being the human who had transited between planets more than any other.
Miller had the dubious privilege of being the greasy cog that held the whole combined unit together. Technically he was part of the 946th Spaceflight wing under Colonel Stewart, and he bridged the awkward gap where the Royal Navy and the US Air Force brushed shoulders.
Powell had once described him as “A bloody bad officer in all the best ways.” Knight couldn’t agree more. AFSOC had practically begged the SOR to take him off their hands, on the grounds that a unit that was a bodged-together mess of half-solutions and improvisation needed an officer whose stock in trade was messy, improvised bodging-together.
An Operations Support Squadron was, in many ways, the perfect fit for the Lads. It was a unit conceived in the grand Air Force tradition of drilling new holes to hammer things into, and with their usual motley assortment of totally unrelated functions scattered all over base and only barely under unified command…it was the perfect place to stash the Americans. At least, for promotions, awards and the like.
It helped greatly that Miller loved the men, too. At some point his career had hiccuped and catapulted him from Enlisted to Officer with no discernible change in his attitude. This was, professionally speaking, a problem: the enlisted mindset of “can do!” at the expense of all else was less than perfectly compatible with an officer’s responsibilities of resource-balancing and the burden of command. Miller was an enlisted man at heart and loved his men too much to ever be sufficiently detached, which meant that his career had gone as high as it would go, not that he gave a damn.
He did, however, give a damn about other peoples’ careers, which was why he was sitting quietly and taking notes almost before the men had arrived. By population, the SOR was a unit of Americans that just happened to answer to some British commanders. All well and good… Except that the MoD could neither promote nor meaningfully award American servicemen. Miller, therefore, played the game with Knight in the best possible way-Knight would praise, then Miller would award, and everyone on both sides would be happy.
God knew, the men were going to want and damn well deserve something positive by the end of the day. A couple of medals and some promotions might just take the sting out of the unflinching dissection their first blooding was about to undergo.
On the whole, NOVA HOUND had been a success. A mixed one, perhaps - three hugely valuable men dead and a great many important cards played that had previously been held close to the human race’s collective chests definitely counted against it - but all mission objectives had been completed under circumstances that were not only difficult and exceptional, but unheard-of in the history of human warfare. On the whole, the SOR had acquitted themselves very well indeed.
As a propaganda victory, it had been an unqualified triumph. Senior dignitaries from every sapient race in the Dominion had been rescued alive, and their gratitude was varying degrees of grudging and profuse - the Corti after all weren’t exactly fountains of grace and humility, and the Kwmbwrw had been the most strident voice of anti-human fear and mistrust - but it had all been gratitude. The events at Perfection were going to badly damage or even completely undo all of that hard-earned goodwill if they weren’t careful, but that was a separate problem that the SOR couldn’t fix by themselves.
And the goodwill they’d gained with the Gaoians was something else entirely. There was some very happy weather on the horizon in that direction.
Mistakes, however, were inevitable, and at Knight’s request the report carefully worked up from the least of them to the most significant.
He read it to Powell and his men for the best part of an hour, around the comfortable table on HMS Sharman’s upper floors with its spectacular view across Folctha’s north-western park district, along the valley, over the young forest and down to the river estuary.
“In the case of the death of Sergeant Brady Stevenson…” he turned a page. “The review finds that his death was almost certainly the result of him failing to follow proper safety procedures when dealing with high explosives. Combat Camera footage review and the opinions of several SOR members during debriefing suggests that he stood too close to his own breaching charge during the egress from Capitol Station and most likely suffered a concussion from the overpressure. Though he accelerated correctly into a re-entry orbit, it’s likely that in his impaired condition he failed to activate his Exo- Atmospheric Re-entry forcefield, and was rendered unconscious by the re-entry shock without being able to correct that oversight.”
The men around the table bowed their heads. Stevenson had been a brother to all of them, Knight knew. Each of them would be thinking of what they could have done differently that might have saved him.
“The review recommends,” he continued, “that SOR training should place a strong emphasis on explosive safety to ensure that future Operators are under no illusions that the suit does not protect from explosive shockwaves. It also recommends that, excepting in situations where there is a pressing need for radio silence, all team members should check in after explosive egress and guide through the re-entry process together.”
He looked up. “Does anybody wish to add to that?”
Baseball raised a hand “Sir.”
“Staff Sergeant?”
“I’d recommend training for everyone in recognising the symptoms of concussion and disorientation,” the young man suggested.
Knight nodded, and noted the recommendation. “Thank you. Any others?”
All of them shook their heads, and Knight turned the page, knowing that they were about to hit the last and most difficult of the AAR’s findings. He’d been dreading this bit all day.
“Now to the final matter,” he intoned. “In the case of the death of Master Sergeant James Jones…” Knight took a deep breath. “The review finds that his sacrifice, while not unjustified, was nevertheless a tactical error.”
There was an elongated second in which every Operator at the table went tense in a chorus of creaking chairs. Powell, in the greatest show of emotion that Knight had ever seen from him, turned to stare at him dumbstruck for an instant, then blinked disbelievingly at several other things that only he could see, before settling on gazing wide-eyed at the tabletop between his balled fists, jaw going so tight that Knight fancied he could hear the man’s teeth creak. Certainly his knuckles did.
“Before you say anything, gentlemen,” Knight raised a hand to head off the protest that he could see coming from every one of the Operators, “Major Powell has my full and absolute confidence, and that has not changed in light of this report. Lord knows, I’ve been in a not dissimilar position myself. It is the burden of command that hard truths must come out and be learned from, and we must respect and face them with integrity and strength when they arrive.”
The men glanced at one another, at Powell who was still scrutinizing the tabletop, and grudgingly settled down. To a man, they looked like they’d been about to practically leap out of their chair to his defense. Knight cleared his throat.
“To be clear, the report agrees that the Major acted correctly in the moment. It merely highlights the courses of action that would have made it unnecessary to sacrifice Sergeant Jones: Mining and trapping the south end of the road in anticipation of a Hunter evasion of our apparent air superiority, ordering the partial demolition of the façade of the building to prevent the Hunters from scaling it…”
The Defenders glanced at one another. Those were opinions that they themselves had voiced during the debrief and hotwash.
“Sergeant Vandenberg, as the senior Defender I defer to your expertise in matters of demolition and trapping. If you feel that the report’s assessment is unrealistic, please say so and explain your reasoning.”
Rebar hesitated, then set his jaw and swallowed. “It… seems like a realistic assessment, sir,” he conceded.
Knight nodded, and closed the report.
“Unless there are any more comments or observations…?”
His tone made it absolutely clear that there were to be none, and nobody ignored that, keeping their peace. “Good. If anybody thinks of anything before the final investigator’s report, you may email me directly. This review is now concluded - all enlisted personnel are dismissed to see to their individual training. There’ll be an award ceremony at Sunset, followed immediately by a Dining Out. Mess dress is the uniform of the day, for your significant others either Mess or appropriate civilian attire is equally mandatory. And yes, we’ve taken the liberty of preparing your uniforms ahead of time, gentlemen. No excuses."
The ‘get out’ was implicit but clear, and ‘individual training’ was a euphemism for “go and sort out whatever you need to sort out today because you damn well won’t have the chance after Sunset”. The Operators, their support staff, and the assorted sailors and airmen stood and departed. There was a little sotto voce grumbling over the Mess Dress, but that was to be expected, and nobody was looking entirely upbeat, but that would change in the evening. If the decorations and promotions didn’t see to that, the alcohol would.
Miller stood. “If you don’t mind sir, I need to get back to Earth.” Knight gestured his assent with a nod, and Miller departed with a respectful nod by way of a salute.
Knight sat back as the door clicked shut behind him. “So. Major.”
Powell’s head rocked back and he unwound a little, and finally there was a glimmer of wetness around his eyes as he explored the ceiling as if there was absolution written on it. “That’s it, then,” he mourned. “I’m a cock-up, I’m not fit to lead them.”
“Pull yourself together!” Knight snapped, commanding Powell’s immediate, full and stunned attention. He softened. “The review details a tactic that would have made it unnecessary to sacrifice your man, yes, but that tactic was assembled in light of information about Hunter behaviour which we’ve only gleaned from thorough examination of the combat camera footage and suit telemetry.”
“Furthermore,” Caruthers added. “The relevant information was only gained from actions the Hunters took after it was too late to enact the recommended tactic.”
“In other words, Major,” Knight concluded “At the point where you had to decide, and with the information that was available to you, you made exactly the right call. And don’t let this-” he raised the AAR document, sneered at it and dropped it contemptuously back onto the table “-tell you differently. Sergeant Jones died because we lacked critical knowledge of our enemy, not because of incompetence on your part.”
“If I’d just seen-” Powell started.
“Then you’d be God himself!” Knight barked. “We’re none of us omniscient, man. Don’t you bloody forget that.”
He grunted in satisfaction as Powell’s expression settled with a grudging nod. “But,” he added. “You had damn well better learn from this. You and your men may well be the best we have, the best ever perhaps, but that is not grounds for complacency. It is grounds for the utmost caution, and the utmost respect for just how valuable those lads really are: We cannot afford to waste them. Is that understood?”
Powell nodded quietly, swallowing as he regained his composure. “Understood perfectly, sir.”
Knight held his eye contact for a minute, then nodded. “Go on, then. You have letters and awards to write and I have Ministers and those bloody awful American Secretaries to fend off.”
“Yes, sir.”
Knight watched him leave, then sighed and folded his arms, considering the closed door behind Powell with his head to one side.
“Thoughts?” He asked.
Caruthers had been wearing a similar thoughtful expression. “We can’t afford to lose him,” he stated. “Training a replacement would take too long, and for that replacement to earn the men’s trust and respect would take even longer. You said it yourself - he lacked knowledge, not judgement. At the death, he chose exactly the right man for it, even though it hurt him personally, and the men respect him for that.”
“I’ve seen AARs like this one truncate some very promising careers…” Knight mused, indicating it.
“Then I’d say it’s on us to keep that from happening in this case,” Caruthers replied. “Powell’s too valuable.”
“I was afraid you’d say that…” Knight made a gruff chuckle to show that he agreed completely, and stood up. “Fine. I’ll call in a few favours, you see to it that every officer who even reads the word ‘Cimbrean’ has got his back.”
“Yes sir. He’ll have friends in Westminster by the time I’m done.”
“Good man. How’s the fleet?”
“Well, I’d give my eye-teeth to have Caledonia back…" Caruthers groused, “But otherwise we’re charged, loaded and ready, and frankly I’m bloody pleased. The Hunters took one look at us and buggered off, and Fleetmaster Tikkiv had some admiring comments to make. I have this horrible feeling that we’re going to lose Myrmidon to drydock time in the near future though. Whatever it was that started that fire on Cally will need to be fixed on her as well, and without the FIC…"
“But good overall?”
“On balance, yes sir.”
“Good. Then…” Knight trailed off as his memory nudged him “Hmm. Do you recall how close the USS San Diego is to launch?"
“Er… Three months until hull launch I believe…. No, four. Fitting will take another two years.”
“And the other two?”
“The USS Gene Roddenberry should be launching in ten months, and the USS Robert A. Heinlein three months after that."
Knight nodded. “Hmm… Wangle me a couple of invites to whatever little shindig they throw to celebrate that launch, would you?”
Caruthers paused, then smiled understanding. “I can probably arrange that. Shall I ask Miller to mention to Colonel Stewart that his wing would do well by being represented there also? Maybe by somebody with a high media profile?”
“By God, Will, I think you’re onto something there.”
They shared a laugh. “I’ll see you at the award ceremony.” Caruthers suggested.
“See you there.” Knight agreed. They shook hands, and parted.
Date Point 10y4m3w4d AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Julian Etsicitty
The first day of their “training” had consisted entirely of talking with the BGEV team, being introduced to the basics of their curriculae, discussing what their roles would be on the ship, the mission, and all the other technicalities of organizing their coming education.
On the face of it, it was quite simple. Allison was to be their mechanic. The ship apparently was being designed for the kind of practical, roll-up-your- sleeves-and-fix-it maintenance and repairs that she had performed on his grandpa’s trucks back in Minnesota, but there was still going to be an intense academic course to go with it, at the end of which she would be a qualified welder, electrician, computer and network technician and have a basic grounding in electrical engineering. She’d looked equal parts daunted and excited by her dense curriculum.
Julian’s own schedule was packed full with everything needed to turn him into the ultimate laboratory assistant. Previous BGEV missions had learned the hard way that staffing the ship with a mixed bag of actual scientists specialized in useful fields only resulted in their having nothing to do. Julian’s job, therefore, would be to have just enough education to know what the people with doctorates would find interesting, and the training to record, sample and store any conceivable specimens, be they mineral, chemical or organism.
His “laboratory” in fact, wasn’t even going to be a lab - it would have practically nothing in the way of scientific apparatus, and would instead be built around the task of preparing and storing samples for long-term transit, in stasis if necessary.
Xiu’s skill with languages and alien social interactions were being put to work in her secondary role as their representative and negotiator. She’d also be tasked with keeping Allison and Julian fit and well, and of course there was her primary role: Pilot.
The fact that she’d never flown so much as an RC quadcopter didn’t matter at all. In fact, her flight instructor had been relieved.
“That means you’ve not got into the bad habits of atmospheric flight and we can teach you how to handle spaceflight properly first,” he’d said.
After the grilling and hazing they’d received from Keating the night before, having such positive and encouraging sounds coming their way had given their morale a welcome boost.
The only stumbling block came at the end of a long day of meetings, talks and briefings, when they were finally released to go “home” - Ericson delivered some awkward news.
“Mr. Keating asked us to stress upon you the importance of grooming and hygiene,” he said. The sun had gone down and he was walking them back to the Box in the company of his daughter.
“Specifically, the Assessment team want you to know that the three of you need to shower twice daily, minimum,” Doctor Brown elaborated. She was one of those women who hadn’t inherited much at all from her father genetically, but was her old man in miniature when it came to personality. Both had the same easy- going, mild practical joker approach to life.
Julian liked her. She’d politely interrogated him about the nature of his relationship with the girls, and the impression she’d given was that, as a happily married woman herself, she didn’t disapprove and was maybe even slightly envious.
“Makes sense, I guess.” Allison mused. “It’s a small space, between us we’d stink it up pretty quick if we’re not careful.”
“Now you mention it , they did say something keeping your living space tidy and hygienic, yeah,” Ericson joked softly.
Xiu exhaled powerfully and said something. Julian recognised Gaori immediately, which was a sure sign that she was distracted. In fact, she was so far adrift from the here and now that she didn’t even notice and correct herself, until Brown nudged her with an “…I’m sorry?”
“Huh? Oh, sorry, sorry… Um, I said ‘no privacy, either’’."
Doctor Brown smiled sympathetically. “You’ll adjust,” she promised. “I think you’ll be surprised by how natural it’ll seem once you’re used to it.”
Xiu only nodded. Clearly the immodest realities of their near future were bothering the hell out of her.
They parted ways with Brown and Ericson at the Box’s airlock and ran through a quick green decon cycle.
No sooner was the door closed than Xiu let all her worries out before Julian or Allison had even got a chance to ask her. “Ooookay, so we’re getting naked,” she breathed, nervously and musically. “Hooookay.”
Allison laughed. “Nervous?” she asked, as they took off their shoes and left them in the airlock.
Xiu nodded, flushing. “It’s… earlier than I’m really ready for.”
“It’s not that big a deal, right Etsicitty?”
Julian did what he knew was an unconvincing job of agreeing with her, earning a skeptical stare from both the girls.
"Julian-!" Xiu complained. “I really need this to not be a big deal right now!”
“Sorry. It’s just… you’re really hot.” Julian shrugged awkwardly. “Kinda hard to be dispassionate, you know?”
He knew immediately that he’d said the wrong thing, but before he had a chance to apologize Xiu had gone crimson, scowled at him and flounced into the Hab without a word.
Julian glanced at Allison, who was vibrating with pent-up laughter and shaking her head. “…I didn’t think before I said that,” he confessed.
“Oh, no, you’re fine!" she snarked. “That was smooth as baby oil, really!”
“Yeah, yeah… shit… I get it, this is gonna be awkward and un-sexy as hell, I shouldn’t’ve-”
“That’s not it, dummy,” Allison interrupted him.
“Then what?”
Allison sighed, folded down the excursion room’s armory table, and sat on it. “I love you, but you can be so dense some-”
"Al…"
“Okay, Mr. Genius, okay…” Allison glanced toward the Hab door and scratched thoughtfully at her ear. “What’s she getting out of this? Out of us? What are we doing for her?”
“Well, she’s-”
“Do you love her?”
Julian’s pause was entirely from being thrown by the question - he had no hesitation over the answer. “…Yes.”
“You’ve not had sex with her.”
“So?”
Allison smirked. “Exactly,” she said.
“I love you too.” Julian pointed out.
“You have sex with me.”
“That’s not why I love you, though!"
“I know, dummy. I’m making a point.”
Julian shook his head slightly, not following. “O… kay?”
“I think Xiu still feels like she’s intruding,” Allison explained. “She thinks this is our relationship - yours and mine - and like she’s the third one who’s breaking into it. Uh…. But she isn’t, right? That’s not how you see it?" she checked.
Julian shook his head. “No.”
“Neither do I. She’s… I love you both, because you both do things for me that I need. You fulfil me, but in different ways. See? You’re kind of an outsider and a misfit just like me, you don’t wanna be popular or part of the mainstream. She wanted to be a movie star and despite being here with us, I think she’d go back to that if she thought she could. But you’re maybe a bit too quiet for me, and Xiu likes to go wild sometimes. And I think it wouldn’t be fair of me to try and force just one of you to try and be everything I need. You follow me?"
“I follow,” Julian nodded. “I guess… I love you, but you really don’t get just how alone I was. Xiu does… But she doesn’t bring me out of my shell as much as I need."
“Right! You get it! And that’s important, because none of us have a relationship that’s just sex, see? We all do something for each other."
“But she still feels like she’s intruding?”
“She needs to know that she’s loved for what she brings into our lives. And I think she knows it up here-" Allison touched her pointing finger to her temple, “But…” she knocked on her chest.
“So when I told her she’s really hot…”
“Yeah.” Allison gave him an apologetic half-smile. “I mean, you’re right, she’s ridiculously hot. I’m not usually into girls but…" she bit her lip and made an “nngh!” noise. She grinned when Julian laughed, then sobered. “…But she’s gotta be sure in her heart first that we love her before she’ll be happy to start with the sexy stuff.”
Julian aimed his thumb at the Hab door. “I’d better go apologize.”
“You better, yeah.”
As it turned out, Xiu wasn’t exactly in the Hab itself - she was in the shower. There was a line of angrily discarded clothing marking the direct route from one door to the other, and the sound of rushing water.
Allison laughed. “Yeah, she’s a brawler alright.”
“Fights the things she’s afraid of head-on.” Julian nodded. “…What should we do?”
“Get naked.”
“Wh-?”
“We’re gonna go through that shower one by one and we’re gonna normalize this shit so that it’s never this awkward ever again," Allison told him. “And if that means spending the evening buck bare… suck it up.”
“I dunno, Al…”
She folded her arms at him. “She’s gonna step out of that shower in a minute. She’s taking a huge step here. And you’re damn well gonna reward that step, you hear me Etsicitty?"
“…Ye-”
Julian didn’t get the chance to reply further. They both turned as the hiss of water stopped, and a second later Xiu stepped out of the shower onto the absorbent microfiber mat in front of it..
Julian had seen that expression on her before. Eyes cold, jaw clenched, muscles tense - the last time he’d seen her looking so fierce, she’d been beating the crap out of Zane.
She glared at both of them and spread her arms, which was a powerful gesture considering she was only wearing water droplets. “Well,” she announced, “…here I am.”
Julian cleared his throat, not quite sure what to say, but before he could think of something Allison beamed and wriggled out of her own clothing. “My turn!”
“Wh-?” Xiu began, but Al was already stepping out of her pants and underwear. The moment she was nude, she pirouetted.
“And here I am!” she echoed. “See? No big deal. Your turn Etsicitty!”
“Uh-”
“Um, he doesn’t need to if-” Xiu began, but Julian interrupted her by sighing and tugging his t-shirt over his head by the collar.
“No, I do. Al’s right.”
“Damn right I am,” Allison agreed. “Besides, you’re really hot.”
“Gee, thanks…” Having his own words repeated back at him had the effect of making Julian feel entirely un-sexy. It took an effort of will to undo his belt and an even bigger one to hook his thumbs over belt, pants and underwear and give all three the encouragement they needed to land around his ankles.
The three of them stood in an awkward triangle for a few seconds, not sure who to look at, or whether eye contact was the more or less awkward option.
Then Xiu giggled, and completely dispelled the discomfort. That set Allison off, and Julian shook his head and relaxed, chuckling.
“No big deal?” Allison repeated herself as a question this time. Xiu sighed and smiled, but shook her head.
“Not the end of the world,” she conceded. “Still weird though.”
“We’ll get used to it,” Allison promised. She gestured Julian toward the shower. “Go on baby, your turn,”
Grateful for a moment’s private space to think, Julian restrained himself enough to walk to the shower rather than bolt for it. “Yes ma’am.”
“Good boy!”
XIu touched his elbow as he passed. “Sorry I got mad,” she said.
Julian felt some tension he hadn’t noticed that he’d been holding onto slip away. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
They kissed and made up, earning a quiet little clap and cheer from Allison, and Julian went for his shower with the feeling that a milestone had been passed.
Date Point 10y4m3w4d AV
Heathrow Airport, London, England, Earth
Simon Harvey
“That’s my desk-” Ava was in the middle of pointing at it when she stopped dead in her tracks. Simon had to dance sideways on one foot to avoid crashing into her. “…Oh my God.”
“What?” Simon looked at the queue in front of the desk. There was a family of four there - a huge blond man who looked like Thor in jeans, a petite brunette mother who was fussing over a gloomy teenage boy who was her spitting image, and a little girl no more than five or six years old who was riding on her father’s shoulders.
Ava took a step forward, which became a rush, and only the smallest difference from being a run. “Hayley!” she called, “Mark! Jack!”
The mother turned. Her jaw dropped and she collided with Ava in a huge squealing hug. It looked for all the world like a family reunion.
Simon collected Ava’s bags and joined them at a discreet distance, waiting for the laughter and happy exclamations to die down and for an introduction.
He finally got it when Ava finally turned and aimed an open palm at him, still babbling enthusiastically. “…All thanks to Simon here! Simon Harvey, this is Doctor Hayley Tisdale-”
They shook hands and exchanged a “Hi” and a “Hello”
“-Doctor Mark Tisdale-”
“Nice to meet you,”
“…Jack, and Hope.”
Simon shook the teenage Jack’s hand, and aimed a smile at the little one, who was treating him with wary-eyed uncertainty but who managed a little "H’lo"
“You really lent her the money to come back?” Hayley asked.
“Oh, it wasn’t entirely selfless," Simon demurred, turning on the charm with a self-effacing smile and a handwave. “Having a promising up-and-comer like Ava in my debt will pay off handsomely some day, I’m sure.”
Mark chuckled at that. “Very mercenary.”
“So you’re flying to Hamburg too?”
“We’re moving back to Cimbrean,” Mark explained. “Now that the second gravity generator’s up, it’s finally safe to raise kids there.”
“Hey, we turned out okay!” Ava objected. “Right, Jack?”
Sullen as he was, Jack managed a small smile and nod at that.
Privately, Simon had his doubts, but he held onto them. Considering how huge and robust his father was, Jack was remarkably skinny. Even his mother, who was a waifish specimen herself, out-massed him. Then again, maybe the boy was just a late bloomer.
“Well. I guess I’ll leave you to catch up…” he suggested. To his surprise, Ava gave him a crushing hug, causing him to stiffen and not know what to do.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Simon finally relaxed, and hugged her back. “Promise me, it’s all uphill for you from now on. No more stupid bastards like my nephew, no more firefights in the desert.”
She laughed and let go, wiping an eye. “The former, I promise.”
“Oh… good enough, I suppose.” Simon smiled. “I’ll be watching you, Ava.”
She nodded, and he left her to reunite with the Tisdales.
The original plan had been to go back to Islington, have a glass of wine and work on his novelization of the events in Egypt. Instead he spent forty minutes listening to Adele on the motorway as he returned to Finchley, and parked outside Sean’s house.
It took four rings of the doorbell before his sister’s eldest opened the door.
“…Simon?”
“Can we talk?”
“If this is about Ava-”
“It’s about you, you tosser."
Sean blinked as if Simon had just slapped him around the ear, which Simon still was of half a mind to do anyway. “Alright, if that’s how it’s going to be-” he began, and started closing the door.
“FIne, I’ll go discuss it with your mum, shall I?” Simon snapped, wedging his shoe in the door. “Or are you going to man up and take some advice from the bloke who’s trying to stop you from turning into your father?”
“Like you care.”
“Of course I fucking care you blithering twat!” Simon spat.
“Then how come you helped her leave?!”
Simon took a deep cleansing breath. “That? That question you just asked me? That’s the problem with you, nephew mine. That’s your worst trait.”
Sean glowered at him, but finally did something faintly creditable in opening the door and standing aside. Simon stalked into the living room and sat down.
“…You thought you’d won, didn’t you?” he accused, the moment Sean sulked into the room. “Her fella wasn’t taking her back, she had nowhere else to turn, you thought that was your chance. Win her off the big meathead alpha male, right?”
Sean’s expression hardened. “If you just came here to insult me you can fuck off.”
“The truth is never insulting, Sean.”
“That’s not the truth though!”
“Isn’t it?” Simon crossed his arms. “Go on, then. Let’s hear your explanation."
Sean took a deep breath, licked his teeth sighed and then shook his head and raised both his hands in a plaintive gesture. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“Eh?”
“Ava. She’s fucking stunning. That wavy hair, those big innocent brown eyes… and just… everything about her. She’s just-”
“Sean, are you going to get to the point, or are you going to start wanking?” Simon demanded, impatiently.
“How much did you give her to get by and get set up? You put in a good word with a colleague, you gave her… what, three thousand quid?”
“Three thousand five hundred.”
“Would you have done that if she’d been a pimply, scrawny mate of mine?” Sean asked. Before Simon could answer, he shook his head. “She’s got her claws in you, Simon. That’s what she fucking does.”
“Oh come off it-!”
“No, I’m serious!” Sean patrolled the room, getting into his angry stride. “This is what Ava does. She turns on the fucking waterworks and she tells you about how her parents never really cared for her, and how she lost her home, and about her friend who got murdered and how her boyfriend neglected her, doesn’t she? And it’s such a sad story, innit? It fucking- it gets you right here, doesn’t it?” he thumped his fist to his chest. “And because it’s so sad and she’s got those innocent eyes, you just want to make the world a better place for her don’t you? You and anybody else she suckers into falling for her."
“And of course she got caught playing her game but she’s sooo sorry and it was ‘the worst mistake of her life’!" he added, sarcastically. “She’s just a poor sinner, isn’t she? An innocent fucking girl who’s trying her best but life’s just too har- cry me a fucking river!"
“Sean-!”
“Fuck off, Simon, she played you,” Sean snarled. “She got her claws in you and plucked her pretty fucking damsel-in-distress tune on your heartstrings like a bloody banjo, and you went and give her three grand and change and a new career with a good friend of yours, didn’t you? What the fuck are you getting out of that, eh? Nothing! At least I was smart enough to shag the manipulative cunt before she fucked me!"
Simon willed his jaw closed and sat forward.
“Alright. That’s your explanation,” he acknowledged, in a shaky voice. “You really think that’s what she is?”
“That bitch will get her fangs in you and suck you dry, Simon,” Sean insisted.
“So why the fuck didn’t you kick her out?” Simon asked. “You could be making far more off the room she was renting than she was paying you.”
Sean didn’t answer - he scowled at something invisible in the corner and went silent. Simon nodded.
“I think you need to think some more, nephew mine,” he advised. “Take a good long look.”
Sean gave no sign of having listened, and so Simon stood and headed for the front door.
“I’ll see you Monday,” he said. There was no reply.
Simon left him to his thoughts.
Date Point 10y4m3w5d AV
Whitecrest Enclave, City of Wi Kao, Planet Gao
Regaari
The Gaoian equivalent to a human’s polite knock was to scratch one’s claws on a metal plate installed on most doors for exactly that purpose. Regaari’s was quite thoroughly scratched nowadays - being the only male to set foot on the human homeworld had earned him some considerable prestige. Younger Brothers came to him for advice or to hear his stories, Fathers came to him for counsel and to keep an eye on him, and…
Well, okay, the Females weren’t actually physically scratching at his door - the Enclave was off-limits to anybody who wasn’t actually a Whitecrest - but they were certainly doing so in the metaphorical sense. He’d noticed a pronounced uptick in how easily he was able to seduce them into mating deals, these last few paws of days. A surprising number were trying to seduce him, which was a situation most males could only fantasize about. In a species where males outnumbered females three to one, and that ratio was only as low as it was by dint of quite a high mortality rate among the males, to be in demand was a rare and coveted thing.
It was almost getting in the way of his actual work. It was certainly having interesting resonance for his career in the Clan. For one thing he was actually out-performing their Champion, Genshi.
Regaari was no idiot - a career of cartwheeling on the precipice of scandal had made him an expert at brinkmanship, and he was always sniffing the political air, watching the fallout as, carefully out of earshot, his Fathers bickered and schismed. He knew that his success was generating jealousy, rivals and plots but that was how the Clan worked. You fought your way to the top with fang and claw if you had to, and you had earned it once you were there.
Genshi himself couldn’t be happier, but of course part of the reason he’d been made Champion in the first place was his fanatical sense of Clan. Genshi didn’t see other Whitecrests as competition, in marked contrast to his predecessor Yirik who’d exemplified everything about the Clan’s ideals except quiet humility. If Regaari had started to out-compete him then fur and blood would have flown, and at least one of them would have walked away with some impressive new scars and the other might not have walked away at all.
Genshi had just given Regaari a brotherly play-fight (and beaten him with embarrassing ease) and redoubled his efforts. Regaari meanwhile kept applying the pressure, carefully prodding the right Fathers in the right ways at the right times. Already the momentum was shifting - the Clan was in practical terms much less pro-Dominion than it had been years ago when Giymuy had given her blessing for Gaoians becoming full members of the security council. A few of the more corrupt Fathers had quietly been promoted into the same kind of dead-end positions through which they’d once tried to dispose of Regaari.
“Come in.”
He rose to his feet to welcome Father Mavil. The respectful gesture was decorum rather than genuine pleasure at seeing him - Mavil was a foe, one of the last few holdouts of the profiteering neoplasm whose influence had been bought by Dominion interests, and he was proving much harder to dislodge than some of his co-conspirators.
Rudely, the Father just threw himself onto the couch opposite Regaari’s desk and got down to business. “The Racing Thunder," he said, dropping the name with neither preamble nor context.
Fortunately, Regaari was well on top of it. Mavil would have known he was - Regaari’s ‘weakness’ for humans was a common angle of attack with the coterie of Fathers in the Dominion’s pocket.
“…Yes, Father?” He asked, politely.
“What are you doing about it?”
Regaari set his ears at a quizzical half-twist and inclined his head. “That ship is a One-Fang matter,” he pointed out.
It was true. The Racing Thunder had screamed back into Gaoian space with its engines redlining mere days after the Perfection attack, and with the hull fairly crackling with accumulated static charge. When she’d discharged the potentially fatal load into Gao’s upper atmosphere, the result had been a spectacular, though small, aurora.
It had arrived less than half a day ahead of an official request from the Interspecies Dominion fleet commission that its crew be arrested and tried for dereliction of duty and treason. By that point, Clan One-Fang had reviewed the ship’s logs and comms records and were backing their Brothers to the hilt.
On the face of it, it was a satisfying vindication for Regaari and his fellow Dominion-skeptics. In reality, though, Gao really wasn’t yet in a position to be able to defy the Dominion. The ensuing sanctions might be crippling.
“The One-Fangs have requested our aid. Your aid specifically. I’m surprised you don’t know that."
Regaari had already been searching his mail.
“Intriguing, Father,” he said. “You seem to have beaten that message to my desk. I’ll have to ask Brother Ruuvi to check if there’s something wrong with the server.”
Mavil’s ear flicked irritably, and Regaari awarded himself a win.
“I would have thought, shortcrest,” Mavil said, using the same slightly patronizing and insulting term that the Clan used while training new cubs for their Trials, “that you’d leap at the chance. Your precious humans are involved.”
How had the guileless four-pawed grey-nose managed to cling on if that was his idea of subtlety?
Unless of course he was being deliberately and misleadingly artless. Regaari spread his arms in an open, deferential gesture.
“I admit, humans are a weakness of mine,” he agreed. “But unless there are any on that ship, I don’t see…”
“Again, One-Fang have asked for you by name,” Mavil repeated.
“To do what, Father?”
“They didn’t say.”
“And have the Fathers agreed to lend my services?”
“I have, yes.”
…Ah.
That was the problem with being a Whitecrest. Sometimes the clan’s passion for the guileful solution made it easy to forget that straightforward approaches such as an outright abuse of authority were even an option. Mavil clearly foresaw that whichever Brother wound up caught between Clan One-Fang and the Interspecies Dominion was going to have to scrap for his life, and had seen the chance to extend his claws and swipe.
Regaari abandoned all pretense at circumspection. “I… see. And I assume you’ve arranged matters so that there aren’t enough Fathers on hand to countermand that order.”
“Now that you mention it, all the ones who could overrule me are away on urgent business.” Mavil bared his fangs a little. “How strange.”
Gaoian males were, at heart, a violent breed and for a tempting moment Regaari envisioned himself pouncing on the old bastard and claiming a promotion the old-fashioned way. Those bad old days when males could kill each other almost without consequence if the circumstances were right weren’t so far behind them as the females and civilized Clans like the Whitecrest wanted to believe.
But a real Whitecrest won his battles with wit, or not at all. Genshi would have been disappointed in him.
He stood up, and raked the fusion-edged claws of his prosthetic across the wooden desktop, which left three deep smoking gouges in it by way of making his feelings clearly known. “As you order, Father.”
Date Point 10y4m3w5d AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Martina Kovač
"Where are we going?"
The direct route from HMS Sharman to the little clutch of buildings that the Lads owned on Demeter Way passed close enough to Martina’s apartment in Parkside - an expensive address, but worth it - to make it easy for her to make a quick home visit and change out of mess dress, which was very welcome indeed. A hoodie and jeans were the infinitely more comfortable choice.
It had been an entertaining night full of sorrow and colour, with emotional highs and lows for everyone but especially for the actual combat team, who after all had been mourning three fallen brothers all over again.
After the Sunset ceremony had come a round of speeches, awards, and promotions. Murray had become a Colour Sergeant, Firth had finally made Master Sergeant, and then had come the medals, which were almost certainly what was eating at Warhorse.
It was easy to forget that Ares. a guy she admired in several senses of the word, was actually a couple of years younger than her, and equally less experienced. Martina had made Technical Sergeant first time, an accomplishment she was quite proud of, but the sheer maths of promotion meant that she was still a few years more seasoned an airman than he was, and sometimes that fact became very visible.
He’d been solemn professionalism during the ceremony, stoney-faced stoicism itself while remembering the fallen, glowed with controlled pride as his buddies received their new ranks and their own medals, but when the moment had come for LtCol Miller to present him with his Silver Star, he had accepted it with…
Not with bad grace. That, after all, would have been unacceptable. He’d accepted it formally, properly and composedly… but with the definite air of a man who felt ill-at-ease.
The Dining Out had followed. Protocol called it the height of bad form to attend without a date, and so of course he’d asked Martina. She of course had accepted, and had then sat back to watch him endure a lion’s share of all the good-natured ribbing and camaraderie that were inevitable at such events.
Baseball had earned his share too, of course. Nobody had the faintest idea how Murray had snuck a pink bowler hat into the mess, let alone how he’d successfully smuggled it onto Burgess’ head without the huge man noticing, but when the uniform violation had been noted and “punished” with an enormous measure of the traditional punitive punch ‘Grog’, the laughter had been punishingly loud.
It had got even louder when Murray had taken a bow. That was an infraction itself of course, and Murray had smirked his way to the punch bowl, but the hat was already doing the rounds, migrating from head to head and eventually finding a home atop the silver-haired scalp of Admiral Knight, who had accepted his “punishment” with stately humour.
Adam had made the mistake of protesting when the hat had been dropped on his head and he’d not even had the chance to snatch it off before a violation was called. THAT had earned him an upgrade from mere booze, to a stunt for the amusement of everyone present, and after some theatrical deliberations, Miller had challenged him to lift a fully laden table over his head without spilling any drinks.
Adam had almost managed it. One treacherous glass of port had been his downfall.
Now it was well into the darkest hours of the night. The party had ended, the nightly rains had faded and she had been walking alongside him as they sobered up with a stroll through the cool, clean-smelling streets when a thought had apparently crashed into his brain and set him enthusiastically plotting to walk, in his words: “Somewhere. You’ll see where. It’s important.”
“Yeah, but where?"
“You’ll see,” he repeated. “I just wanna change first.”
“Like I can blame you.” Mess Dress was the worst.
“Shoulda kept that hat though. It looked pretty good on you.”
“I think Firth’s date went home wearing it. Who was she, anyway?"
“She’s one’a the regulars at Rooney’s. Uh… Freya? I think that’s her name. Guess she and Firth have got somethin’ going on there.”
“Figures she’d be named after a Norse goddess. That was… a lot of woman. In, uh, the best way.” Martina wasn’t being unkind - Freya, or whatever her name was, was Firth’s feminine equal in terms of height and physique. The word ‘statuesque’ would have fallen hopelessly short, unless the statue in question was Lady Liberty.
Adam chuckled. “She had a go with Sikes first. Apparently he was too gentle for her.”
“Jesus.”
“She made a move at me first!” Adam looked equal parts proud and embarrassed.
“You didn’t go for it?”
“Should I have?”
“Could be good for you.”
He stopped. “You really think so?”
“You’re not really ready for anything serious right now, are you?”
Adam shrugged, spread his hands and made a long mumbling noise that succinctly, though not eloquently, expressed a tangled knot of confused thoughts. Martina smiled, knowing she’d hit the nail straight on. “Thought so,” she said.
“It’s not that I don’t want serious…" Adam elucidated. “I just… I’m a really shitty boyfriend."
“The way I hear it, she cheated on you." Martina pointed out.
“Yeah. Because I was a shitty boyfriend.”
“It sounds like you almost forgive her.”
He shrugged. “I do.”
“…You really feel that responsible?”
Adam didn’t reply, but she noticed the way that he fiddled absently with the box in his pocket, the one that contained his newly-awarded medal for valor.
She let him think as they walked to his apartment, up the stairs and through his front door, where he carefully set the medal on his coffee table and vanished into the bedroom to get the hell out of the hated mess dress.
It had been quite an impressive citation: That Staff Sergeant Ares had, without hesitation or fear, advanced under enemy fire to retrieve a wounded man in an environment where nervejam was being used. That he had voluntarily served as a decoy to lure hostile forces into an ambush, that after the destruction of his weapon he had repeatedly exposed himself to fire to keep his comrades supplied with ammunition and that he had rescued the crew of a downed Firebird under heavy fire and without cover, placing his own body between the wounded pilot and the enemy.
Martina had personally dug a Hunter bullet out of his midsuit armor scales. Ares had claimed to be unaware that he’d been hit.
And he’d looked so fucking perfect while receiving it, too. Uniform aligned and worn to millimeter precision, every button polished, lapels sharp enough to slice through a phone book. Public Affairs had been taking pictures, and something would have to go badly wrong for that material not to find its way into the Air Force Magazine, the propaganda, and who knew where else.
After all, there was no way the whole “Beef Brothers” thing was going to just be left to die. Not when both of them had just earned serious decorations.
In public image Staff Sergeant Ares was a hero, a poster boy, the picture of Exosolar military perfection. In private Adam himself was a very different creature, as evidenced by the fact that he emerged from the bedroom wearing long baggy gym shorts, a muscle T that Martina could have turned into two dresses, and his bare feet. He grabbed his light hiking bag from where it lived by the door and didn’t even bother with his sandals.
“So where are we going?" Martina insisted.
“Up Memorial Hill,” he replied, throwing the light bag easily around one shoulder.
“The cemetery? …We’re visiting your friend.”
“It’s important, Marty.”
She touched his arm reassuringly. “I know.”
Memorial Hill was the highest terrain for miles around, and the south end of town skirted its base. Cemeteries were an unfortunate necessity of any settlement, but Folctha had hoped not to need one for at least another five years.
In practice, it had needed one much too soon after being founded, to bury a teenage girl. Her murder had pushed Ares into the military in pursuit of answers and understanding. The awful thought that went along with that, and it was one that Martina felt horrible about and so internally glared at until it shut up and went quiet, was that the human race as a whole would be worse off if that girl was still alive.
It was a gentle stroll by any human’s standards. Memorial Hill was no deathworld escarpment, but a gentle huge bulge in the landscape, and well outside of the range of either of Folctha’s gravity generators. Any moderately fit human would have sprang up it and Martina and Adam were exceptionally fit humans. The loose dirt and gravel path with its few wooden steps just made the ascent even more trivial.
They chatted about the terraforming program as they walked, and about how some of the locals were, against the odds, actually adapting to the upheavals in their ecosystem. The Cimbrean Tea plant in particular seemed to actually be spreading back into Terran biomes, and was being enthusiastically seized on by the Reclamation scientists as a source of clues as to how they might save more of the natives from extinction.
Of course, the resurgence of the plant was also creating problems. When chewed, the young stems were a potent psychedelic, which the Thing had consistently declined to ban on the grounds that the plant was ubiquitous, that policing its use would have been prohibitively expensive, and that it was likely to be extinct before long anyway.
In the meantime, harsh fines had been agreed on for anybody trying to smuggle it back to Earth, a urine test had been developed, all military personnel on the planet were forbidden from touching the stuff, and however many of the civilians were using it were doing so in private.
Adam paused within sight of the summit. “…Somebody’s up there.”
“You mean there’s some other idiot who’s dumb enough to be out here at oh- fuck-thirty in the God-knows-when?” Martina peered up the hill. Cimbrean’s moons - extensive deliberations and motions in the Thing had yet to furnish them with appropriate names - were small but they had higher albedos than Luna, and their combined brightness was surprising. Late in the night, after the nocturnal rains had cleared, at least one of them was usually good enough to see by.
Tonight was a double full moon, which meant there was even a hint of dusky blue in the night sky, and sure enough it was pretty easy to make out a dark figure seated against a tree near the large grey memorial stone at the very top of the hill.
“How many people are buried up here?” Martina asked.
“Just seven…”
Adam shrugged massively and resumed his trip up the path. Martina followed, deliberately scuffing her feet in the gravel. “Just seven?” she asked, louder than before.
The figure under the tree heard her. They turned their head, then planted a hand on the floor and stood up, dusting off their backside with one hand while hastily finishing a bottle of something with the other.
Once upright, she was obviously a woman. Not even the most effeminate man had a silhouette like that.
Adam stopped in his tracks. “…Ava?”
Martina had only briefly met Ava Rios once, during a movie night with the guys while she and Adam were still dating (one that Burgess had excused himself from on pretence of a headache) but she was memorable.
“Uh… hey.”
“What are you-? I thought you were on Earth?” Adam asked.
“I was, uh… gonna make it a surprise.” Ava spread her hands. “…I’m back!” She offered a pathetic smile.
Adam didn’t seem to know what to say. “Back?”
“It’s, uh… look, it’s a long story and, you’re- I mean… Hi.” She turned to Martina. “Uh…Kovač, right?”
Honestly slightly touched at being remembered, Martina nodded. “We didn’t mean to interrupt-” she began.
“No, it’s… I’ve paid my… Uh… Dinner at Dad’s sometime soon Adam? Is that okay?”
“Ava, what-?” Adam begun, but she picked up a bag, gave him a strange, strained, stressed smile and a rather warmer and more genuine one for Martina, and retreated down the other path back toward the middle of town.
“Text me!” she called, and fled.
Adam was left standing there like a dog that wasn’t sure if it had been tripped over or kicked.
“…The fuck?” he asked.
Martina watched her go. “I think we interrupted something.”
“What do I do, do I-?”
“You let her go, big guy.”
Adam cast a final glance down the path as Ava turned the corner and vanished from sight at a brisk ‘getting-the-fuck-out-of-Dodge’ walk, and deflated via a long nasal exhalation. He looked strangely angry with himself. “…Shit.”
Martina inclined her head, trying to guess at his thoughts, and then decided that with Warhorse by far and away the best approach was usually the direct one. “Okay, something’s been eating at you all night. You’ve been putting off telling me the whole way here, now fucking spill it.”
“Agh, it’s… two things.”
Adam produced the little case with his new medal in it. He set it down carefully on top of the memorial stone.
The stone was a ten-tonne bluestone monolith, mostly rough cut except for a flattened patch on the front surface facing town, into which was engraved the words ‘Sacred to the memory of a child of Earth, and to all who shine with her among the stars.’
The top was beginning to smooth off as well. People sat on the memorial stone, they picnicked on it. It was a spectacular view, and in the dark Folctha was a maze of orange lights below. Adam parked his own butt down atop it and flipped the case open.
Martina frowned at the little metal star and its red-white-and-blue ribbon. “Dude, you were awarded the third-highest medal for valor an American can receive, and it’s bringing you down?”
“Three of my buddies died, Marty.”
She took a deep breath, nodded, and sat next to him. “And you signed up to protect people.”
"‘That Others May Live.’ I chose PJ because of that motto. I chose SOR ’cause I figured it was the best way to live up to that motto. And now here I am, I’m sitting on the memorial to my dead friend, holding a medal I earned on a mission where three of my buddies were killed, and the ex-girlfriend whose life I ruined to even get here just ran away down the hill."
“And,” he continued “Hell! She’s saved more lives than I have!”
“How d’you figure that?”
“She patched up that Delta dude, Coombes, down in Egypt long before I got there. He’d have died before I even arrived without her, and she did so good a job that all I had to do was fuckin’… tidy up.”
“What about Major Jackson?” Martina pointed out.
"She saved us. We’d all be dead if she hadn’a taken that hit for us."
“Dude, I pulled a bullet out of your suit that woulda killed her except you took it,” Martina pointed out. “So you saved her too. And don’t forget Regaari, or all the other ETs that NOVA HOUND got off that station.”
“Yeah, well.. That’s the other half of it.”
“What?”
“I mean, yeah, I’m… glad of those. They stop me from feeling like a complete fuckin’ fraud, right? But… I guess when I signed up, the people I was thinkin’ of when I thought about saving lives were the ones I care about. The ones close to me.” He stared at the medal. “An’ that makes me feel selfish, an’… I don’t really know what valor is, but I kinda feel like maybe selfish ain’t part of it.”
“That’s not selfish.”
“Isn’t it? Dude!” He waved a hand down the hill in the direction Ava had gone. "She’s living proof."
Martina looked up at the moons for a second and hastily assembled her words. “Tough love time, big guy,” she said. “Listen up.”
He straightened and paid attention.
“You’re drunk, you’re grieving, and you just ran into a girl it’s pretty fucking obvious you still love. Am I right?”
“I ain’t goin’ back to her,” he said, defensively.
“Good.” On an impulse, Martina leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I want you all to myself.”
He blinked at her. “I, uh… Shit, Marty, I’m crazy about you. But, uh…”
“You’re not ready. Dude, I know. You’re still hung up on her and, yeah, I reckon you’d be a fucking awful boyfriend anyway. Just…" she took his hand, “…take it from somebody who cares about you enough to give you the unvarnished truth, okay? You’re not a fraud. They don’t give medals like this one for hard work."
“…You really think so?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
After a thoughtful moment, he sighed and relaxed. “I’ll… take your word on it.”
Martina chuckled. “Outstanding,” she teased. “As for the rest of it… look, I’m pretty crazy about you too, and we’ve got time to be patient. Get your head sorted out, figure out how to not suck at relationships, and we’ll take a shot at it when you’re ready, okay?”
“…Can do.”
Date Point: 10y5m4d AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Xiu Chang
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!"
Xiu couldn’t resist beaming to herself at the awkward but delighted look on Julian’s face. Considering how short-notice the party planning had been, the BGEV team had really pulled through on throwing him something pretty special.
They were great people, all of them. Maybe it was supposed to be a counterbalance to the aloof Assessors, who would rip into their day every so often and do their absolute best to ruin it, but the actual tutors, educators, organisers and everybody else responsible for getting Xiu, Julian and Allison mission-ready were genuinely lovely, and had enthusiastically agreed to throw Julian - a man they had known for not even two weeks - a birthday party so enthusiastic it was like he was their oldest and dearest friend.
His present from the team was a frankly huge charitable donation in his name, to the organisation of his choice. Their allowance on personal belongings was too tight for lavishing him with anything more physical, but Julian’s jaw dropped on seeing the sum being donated on his behalf.
It was a great end to what had been an excellent day: Xiu’s first in the flight simulator.
Piloting a starship, she had learned, was no easy task. At first it had been easy enough - a simple enough introduction to the basics of pitch, yaw and roll, but of course spaceships had acceleration as well. Not only in the Y axis along the line of the ship’s primary engines, but also in the X axis (left and right from Xiu’s perspective) and Z (up and down).
Fooling around with these basic controls should have been easy, and in some ways they were.
In others…
Xiu had quickly found that the simulation didn’t have a top speed. Nor did it have a “stop” button. Every joule of kinetic energy she added in one direction needed to eventually be perfectly applied again in the opposite direction and cancelled out, which swiftly got confusing when the same applied to any rotation on the ship.
She’d tried to listen to her instructors and apply a light touch, but light touches built up over several seconds, and she always seemed to overcorrect by applying the maneuvering thrusters for a little too long. Inevitably, she’d found herself tumbling and disoriented and eventually she’d had to shut her eyes to banish the rising nausea.
They’d actually congratulated her on holding out as long as she did. All things considered, it had been fun but frustrating.
These being the early days of their training and to help them ease into life in The Box, for now they were still being allowed a day off per week which Xiu and Allison had used in acquiring their present for Julian.
Xiu had questioned Allison’s plan of buying him another tomahawk considering that he already had two, but Allison had insisted. “Trust me,” she’d said, “I’ve been planning this for a while.”
Bereft of better ideas and inclined to trust Allison’s judgement in all matters Julian anyway, Xiu had gone along with it. What Allison had found, it turned out, was a cutlery company in Omaha who’d invested heavily in some of the latest and most impressive-sounding manufacturing technology.
Xiu wasn’t sure how slow-cool SuperG field-suspension forging went, nor what Ceres Method fullerene-steel was, but the result apparently was exceptional. Certainly the man who’d sold them the finished product had been sorry to see it go: Julian was equally happy to see it arrive.
He tested its edge by intricately slicing up a post-it note, spun it in his hand and declared the balance superb, enthused at length about pretty much every aspect of it before finally returning to the real world long enough to remember to thank his girlfriends for the superb gift.
“It was all Allison,” Xiu confessed as they hugged. “I just chipped in.”
He kissed her. “It’s a great gift anyway. Thank you.”
“You don’t mind having three of those?”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t mind having thirty."
Doctor Ericsson clapped him on the shoulder. “Too bad we can’t party all night,” he declared, apologetically. “But the three of you are still starting at six tomorrow.”
“Spoilsport,” Allison joked, but took both Julian and Xiu’s arms.
They wended their way back to the Box, the girls exchanging wry expressions as Julian geeked out over his new tool. He stashed it safely in one of the armory lockers in the Box’s decontamination room, and relaxed on the couch as Xiu took the first shower. She always did in the evenings, on the grounds that her hair needed the longest to dry.
It was still a little awkward, not having any privacy to dispose of her clothes in the laundry hamper on one side of the room and walk right across it to enter the shower on the other side of the room, but it was less and less of a plunge with every passing day. She noticed the way Julian checked her out as she passed him, but she could hardly complain about that. Not without being a hypocrite, anyway.
It helped that it was a good shower. Temperature settings to the degree celsius, pressure selection before it was even turned on… all she had to do was tap out her preferences and hit start, and a second later her perfect shower started up. No warmup, no early trickle, just nought to sixty in one smooth second.
Somebody on the BGEV team really understood the importance of a good shower.
The evening shower was, by agreement, hers to luxuriate in. Julian seemed to view the shower as a temporary inconvenience - he spun through it and scrubbed up as quickly as he could, all business and drive. Allison meanwhile needed a good soak in the morning to help wake up while her two light-sleeping paramours got breakfast ready, but her evening shower was more businesslike.
Pretty soon they were all clean, and they granted themselves a half hour to unwind before bed. Julian spent it reading, while Xiu sat next to him on the couch and watched an episode of The Legend of Korra with Allison, who was lying across both their laps. She wasn’t quite sure why they’d settled on cartoons as their go-to for entertainment, but they just seemed to work - something quick and harmless to switch the brain off before, after half an hour, they dragged Julian away from his book, bade each other goodnight, climbed into their bunks and turned out the lights.
Some dreams are more lucid than others. Tonight’s is very lucid indeed - Xiu knows it’s a dream within seconds of finding herself standing in front of the grand doors of the female commune in Wi Kao city.
Being aware of the dream and influencing it are different things though. Xiu knows that the commune isn’t on Earth, and it’s certainly not in Yosemite park. But it is in the dream world, and she wonders what connection her subconscious is drawing between those two different and distant places.
She sits down on the rock - THE rock, the kissing rock - to begin pondering that connection, when she jolted awake in response to an unexpected sound.
Sleeping lightly had become an important skill in space. Not that she’d ever had to rely on it, but Xiu had known in her bones that the one time a human was ever really vulnerable was at night, asleep. As a matter of survival, therefore, any noise out of place was enough to wake her.
The noise in question was a creak, and Julian giving a surprised grunt and whispering something. “…Al?”
Allison’s reply was barely audible. “I’m lonely. Move over, birthday boy.”
“’Kay…”
There was a rustling of blankets and a couple of satisfied noises as, presumably, Allison wriggled into bed alongside him. There really wasn’t a lot of room for two on the bunks, so they must have been pressed right up against each other.
Xiu smiled to herself and fell asleep again.
She woke up to the sound of more sotto voce conversation below.
“Mmm… did you smuggle a candy bar out of the party, or are you just glad I’m here?”
“Gimme a break, it’s been a couple’a weeks since we last…” Julian grumbled, then gasped. “Al!”
Allison laughed quietly. There was a soft cloth sound, like she was rhythmically and slowly moving her hand. “Mmmhmm, that feels nice.”
“Allison! Xiu’s a light sleeper!"
“So be quiet…”
Xiu heard her twist in bed and turn over. There was a prolonged rustling, a deep-voiced “Mmm” from Allison and Julian produced another, louder gasp.
“Are you crazy?! She’s going to- Agh, God."
“She can watch if she likes, I don’t care.”
“But-!”
“Shhh… Quiet, baby. Just lie back and enjoy your birthday present…”
“Oh fffuck… Yes, ma’am."
Allison chuckled softly. “Good boy.” She made another hedonistic “mmm”, and this one was underpinned by a kind of wet mouth sound. Almost like she was licking or sucking on somethi-
Oh.
Oh.
Xiu’s hazy, sleepy, warm oblivious daze evaporated as she finally got her head around what they were doing. Between the sound of her own suddenly pounding pulse and the heat of what was probably the most powerful blush she’d ever worn, it became difficult for her to keep listening, but listen she did. She lay there afraid to move in case they stopped, and paid rapt attention to all of it, every slick noise and feminine purr as Julian did his best - which wasn’t very good - not to gasp, moan or whisper little words of praise.
Eventually, he failed completely. His breath had been catching for a minute or two, and Xiu shut her eyes and chewed frantically on her lip as he gasped heavily three times, his breathing stopped completely for a few seconds, and when it finally came back, it did so as a guttural ’aaugh! and several deep, shuddering, cleansing gulps of air.
She clearly heard Allison swallow and shush him loudly, trying and failing to laugh in a whisper.
It was too absurd: Xiu couldn’t stop herself from giggling along with her.
They both immediately went still and quiet, and when he tentatively spoke, Julian’s tone of voice even sounded like his eyes were screwed shut, mortified. “…Ssshit. You heard that, didn’t you?"
Xiu rolled over and poked her head over the edge of her bunk to give them an apologetic smile. “All of it. Sorry.”
She got a glimpse of everything that Julian had to offer before he was able to flinch and cover himself. Allison hastily snatched a hand out of her underwear, looking much more embarrassed than her earlier bravado had suggested. She cleared her throat, and hurriedly wiped something off the corner of her mouth. “Uh… sorry…. I-I just, uh…” she stammered.
“It’s okay." Xiu promised.
Allison and Julian glanced at each other, both clearly embarrassed and a bit ashamed. Some kind of rapid, nervous conversation that seemed to consist entirely of raising their eyebrows and biting their lips passed between them, then Julian made a ‘snrrk’ noise and shook his head, Allison giggled, and the two of them finally relaxed.
“…You’re sure?” Julian asked.
“Guys, I love you. You don’t have to be celibate, really.” Xiu promised. “Anyway, um… that sounded really hot."
“It was.” Allison winked like one of the devil’s own courtesans. Julian cleared his throat and slid past her to make the walk of shame to the toilet. Both girls watched him go.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Allison stood up and hugged her.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?" She asked.
Xiu rolled her eyes and sighed. “Shǎguā…” she said, lovingly. “Al, I was getting worried about you guys. I don’t want to stop you from anything.”
“Shag wha?”
“It’s like… It’s an affectionate way of… It means ‘stupid melon’." Xiu smiled.
“‘Dummy’?”
“Yeah.” Xiu giggled again. “Stop worrying about it, dummy. I’m not your mom.”
Allison laughed. “Okay. Okay… Thanks.”
“Come on, we’re gonna be stuck together in a room like this for like two years." Xiu pointed out. “They’re right, we’ve got to get used to everything. This one’s easy next to the shower."
“Yeah?”
Xiu glanced at the restroom door and lowered her voice even further, feeling her blush start up again. “I uh… I really enjoyed listening to it.” She confessed.
Allison grinned. “You wanna try it sometime?”
“Uh, um…” Xiu shook her head and gulped, blushing fiercely. “I-I’m, I’m, I, um, I’m not…”
“Ready.” Allison finished for her and nodded, though Xiu thought she detected… disappointment? Sadness? …behind the understanding and sympathy. “Okay. Well, when you are, let me know. ’Kay?”
“…If I ever am." Xiu promised.
To her surprise, Allison kissed her. As first kisses went, it wasn’t much at all - little more than an arguably chaste taste of her lips - but it was a real, tender and unforced physical gesture of affection. The kind of kiss that Xiu had seen her give Julian in passing, as a kind of natural romantic punctuation to daily life.
“You will be,” she promised, and stooped to climb back into Julian’s bunk. “G’night, babe.”
“…’Night.” Xiu echoed. She rolled back onto her back, then onto her right side, and snuggled up into her blankets feeling strangely warm and at peace on the inside.
She didn’t hear Julian make the return trip from the restroom - she’d already smiled herself to sleep.
Date Point: 10y6m AV
Yavun Marketplace, City of Wi Kao, Planet Gao.
Myun
Sister Shoo had once mentioned that human pregnancies lasted three-quarters of an Earth year, and with a bit of research Myun had learned that an Earth year was a fifth longer than a Gaoian one.
Myun had never been terribly fond of mathematics, but figuring out that these two facts made human gestation nearly twice as long as a Gaoian’s had been simple enough.
Given that she was already feeling constantly tired and hungry and was yipped at by cautious Mothers whenever she walked at anything faster than a careful shuffle, Myun was beginning to wonder how a human of all things could endure becoming so limited? They were so agile and strong and solid, to lose all of that even temporarily must be infuriating.
She was already resolved to be very picky with her males. If she was going to have to endure this kind of inconvenience every time she mated, then she was “damned” if she was going to do so for anything less than a supreme specimen.
As for the humans… well, that was a mystery. One that had set Ayma to chittering when Myun had mentioned it. “You’ll see,” she had promised. “It’s rewarding, I promise.”
Myun remained skeptical.
There was one good thing about bearing a cub, though - she smelled pregnant, which meant that the males weren’t constantly trying to seduce her. They were still treating her nicely and giving her all the respect that a Female was due of course, but they were also being more genuine, more… themselves. They weren’t trying to impress, and a few of them even earned themselves an upgrade into Myun’s private ‘maybe’ list - the one for if Mother Ayma turned out to be right.
They gave her a respectful berth on the street as she headed for the market. Females had their needs paid for by male contributions to the communes of course, but while that covered the bare essentials, any female who wanted some luxuries or spending money had to earn it. Myun’s usual revenue stream was combat training - several of the more military-minded Clans like Whitecrest and One-Fang were enthusiastic about cubs that Myun had taught Gung Fu while they were young - apparently the ingrained instincts and techniques she instilled in them gave them quite an edge in their Trials.
She spent that money on more of the same. She was completely aware that she had only a few years left in which to properly learn things before she reached the long stretch of a Gaoian’s mature life, when the brain settled down from its cubbish phase of learning everything and new pathways forged themselves more slowly and with much greater difficulty.
To that end she studied - as best she could considering she was relying on imported human data purchased via a trader with contacts on Cimbrean - every human martial art she could get her paws on, from Shoo’s Gung Fu to so- called “HEMA” that seemed to require wearing a quarter-tonne of metal.
She’d pared that down to the essentials, and incorporated it - especially the swordfighting techniques - into her fusion blade drills.
She’d also spent three months’ income on having a human style sword made, and had promptly downgraded the merchant who’d taken her order to the “no way” list after he’d given her a very strange look.
It was taller than she was from hilt to tip, and looked like it should have been about as wieldy as a bus. In practice, the long handle provided so much leverage that the weapon would have been an agile whirl of deadly steel had the Guard-Mother, Fara, not insisted that it must be blunt and purely decorative.
Myun hadn’t been happy, but she knew how to pick her fights nowadays. She’d surreptitiously had the handle of her official weapon lengthened and took solace in knowing that in the infinitely unlikely scenario that she ever did have to fight with it for real, she’d be the deadliest Sister ever to defend a commune.
Today’s project was a gentler pursuit - she was doing the heavy lifting for Mother Esu. As Myun’s adult coat had come in she’d been inwardly quite pleased to discover that she was a “brownie” - a clear sign that her Sire was from a labor clan such as the Stonebacks or the Ironclaws. Between that genetic advantage and a lifetime of sewing weights into her clothing, Myun was strong in a way that females rarely were nowadays. Strong enough to put plenty of males in their place when she wanted to, even if she was frustratingly under strict orders from Mother Ayma not to strain herself during her pregnancy.
Mother Yulna, as always, had made her feel better. “You’re guarding a cub in there, Myun,” she had cautioned, immediately putting it into perspective for her. Yulna was going to be an excellent Mother-Supreme.
She swayed around a cargo drone that was thrumming gently down the street and then stepped into a doorway as the communicator clipped to her ear buzzed gently and played a call tone at just the right volume that she could hear it loud and clear, but nobody else could.
This one was a custom tone: Her cub’s sire.
She tapped it, and it projected a semi-transparent holographic ‘screen’ in front of her eyes. “Regaari? Hello! Is this a social call, or business?”
Uncharacteristically, Regaari sounded stressed. “I’m afraid it’s business, Myun. I have a bit of a problem I need your help with…”
"You’re the Whitecrest," she pointed out. She extended a claw and thoughtfully picked a scrap of her lunch out of her teeth. “Aren’t you the problem-solver?”
“Indeed, which is why I’ve called you. I have a feeling you wouldn’t object to the idea of relocating to Cimbrean…”
“…You’re not wrong.” Myun straightened up and pricked up her ears, thoroughly interested.
“Good, because… tell me, have you heard of the Racing Thunder?”
Date Point: 10y6m AV
New Mexico, USA, Earth
Master Sergeant Christian Firth
“Fookin’ Christ it’s hot…”
Firth suppressed a smirk. The Major was right, New Mexico was hot as shit, much hotter than his native Kentucky. It was good to see him sweating. Powell and Murray both came from Great Britain and strolled around Cimbrean - a planet that was downright cold by Firth’s standards - as if it was balmy and comfortable.
Already, Murray was going red and had jammed a field hat down around his ears to try and keep that delicate Scottish skin from scorching. Major Powell’s quiet complaint was a sign that he was really struggling - he hadn’t even commented on the heat in Alabama back when they’d been undergoing their astronaut training - and while Firth had to admit he preferred the air- conditioning in the truck to the thermal hammer-blow that had hit them the second the doors opened, he was damn well going to show up the Brits this time.
At least it was a dry heat. Not to mention perfect Aloha Shirt weather - he’d found a truly vile one with some kind of fantasy artwork where an unreasonably slim man with spiky hair and a suit of impractical armor was brandishing a stupid wavy sword twice his size. Murray had mimed dry-heaving on seeing it, which meant it was perfect.
He was never going to beat Rebar for hot-weather comfort, though. Rebar was from Arizona. Rebar looked like he was out for a stroll in the park.
They all took a moment to stretch out after the long drive. Huge though the truck was, SOR men were huger, and Firth had been behind the driver’s seat. It felt odd letting the officer drive, but that was just one of the old man’s quirks - he preferred to take the wheel himself if he could.
They’d pulled up outside what was basically a large tin shed, a few miles west of a town whose next door neighbors were the middle of nowhere. It was a good shed, though - new, strong metal, well built, and a new and brightly painted sign on the roof that read ‘Black Ogre Munitions.’
Rebar read their motto aloud. "‘Because We Can’, huh? I think I like these guys already."
“‘S quite the resume,” Powell commented, rolling his sleeves down to try and ward off sunburn. “Apparently these gents got caught up in Syria back in the day. You heard about Al-Mashqouq an’ that business wi’ the Jordanians?”
Firth hadn’t. Vandenberg clearly had - his eyebrows cranked upwards and a half-smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “That was them? Shit, I may have to get me an autograph.”
Before Firth could ask, the front door opened and a sturdy man limped out wearing a prosthetic leg, a polo shirt with the company logo on the breast and a USMC veteran hat.
“Gunnery Sergeant Howard, I presume,” Powell said, meeting him with a handshake.
“Yes sir,” Howard grinned, and did the rounds, welcoming them all. Firth didn’t even notice his two missing fingers until they were shaking hands. “And I think you’ll like what I’ve got to show you.”
“Anything to get out of this bloody heat,” Powell replied, in characteristic gruff humor. Howard caught on easily enough and beckoned them inside with a smile.
The air conditioning was a welcome relief after the noonday blast furnace outside, and Murray sighed happily as he turned his sweat-soaked back towards the vent. Poor Highland hadn’t even looked so uncomfortable back in Egypt. It wasn’t actually cool in the workshop, as there was an assortment of machines that were busy warming the place up as a byproduct of actually doing their jobs, under the supervision of a handful of other men of varying age who all straightened up to welcome their guests. There was another round of introductions and handshakes.
Rebar was already running his eye over the workshop. To Firth, it had an odd mismatch going on - around the walls and in the corners were the kind of scuffed and well-used metal tools, benches, cabinets and equipment that might have been built fifty or sixty years ago. Next to those distinctly second-hand looking items, the three sleek bits of inscrutable modern tech in the middle of the ’shop looked badly out of place, almost like some kind of Corti spaceship had landed in the middle of a WW2 reenactment.
Introductions complete, Howard led them through out of the noise and comparative warmth of the workshop into an even cooler office space, and scanned his palm print on a heavy door that led into what turned out to be the armory.
Resting on the large steel table in the middle of the room was the item they’d come to review. Howard picked it up, checked it, and then stood with it slung comfortably in his arm as he introduced them.
“No preamble,” he promised, “This baby here’s our flagship item, the Black Ogre Munitions Gauss Rifle One, type D. She’s envisioned as a bespoke and highly modifiable platform for small elite units who need to get the most bang for their buck on ammo weight.”
Considering the damage to his dominant hand he did a quick and easy job of disassembling the weapon until it was down to just the barrel group, a pile of various accessories, and the receiver.
“As you can see, we’ve gone with a bullpup configuration. Nice thing about a gauss rifle, because the trigger system’s completely electronic we’ve got a nice crisp trigger pull and because she fires these .45 caliber caseless ferrous slugs, there’s no brass to eject so it’s just as good if you’re a righty or a lefty. No brass of course also means a much reduced likelihood of a malfunction.”
“Firing power is provided by these energy hypercells.” He lifted one from the table - it was about as big as Firth’s thumb. “This little guy right here’s worth about a gallon of gasoline, which depending on which barrel coils you’re using should get you anywhere between about two thousand and five thousand shots- yes?”
Vandenberg had put his hand up. “That’s an awful lot of energy density, Gunny. I have safety concerns about stability there - last thing we want is one of our guys blowing up ’cause his power cell got damaged.”
“Well…okay, that’s valid.” Howard scratched at his nose, looking possibly a bit crestfallen and defensive. “We were concerned about the weight with larger cells…”
The Lads chuckled mirthlessly. “Bro,” said Rebar, as he rolled up his sleeve and flexed his enormous forearm, “We’re not even the biggest guys on the team. The Beef Brothers make Firth here look small." Firth grinned and stood up a little straighter. He was so overwhelmingly big he didn’t need to do anything to make the point besides simply stand in place and loom. The BOM team boggled at the sight, visibly revising some of their estimates upwards by a few multiples.
“Mass ain’t a concern for any of us, even Powell.” He confirmed, and nodded respectfully at his officer who smiled his faint approving smile.
“Bulk,” Murray pointed out.
“Right, yeah” Rebar nodded. “It’s bulk that matters - we’re way past caring too much about weight. What we need is something sleek that can take a hell of a jolt without, oh…"
“Blowing up, breaching the hull of whatever ship or station we’re aboard, explosively decompressing the whole thing and killing everybody?” Firth suggested.
“That.”
Howard glanced at two of his colleagues. “We could reinforce the cell’s housing…” he suggested. He demonstrated where the cell usually lived in a receiver under the barrel. “If we gave it plenty of protection in there, it shouldn’t add much to the weapon’s size. Use a lower energy cell, maybe? But you’d need to carry more. Hmm…”
The Major cleared his throat “Lads, let’s keep focused on the platform. We can customize and revise later.”
“Right.” Howard, nodded, and continued his demonstration.
Together they enthused over the base receiver and its standardized feed for the projectiles, which also housed the controlling electronics that were common to all variants, along with a military-grade Bluetooth radio, a respectably powerful integrated computer and its copious and well-protected flash storage. The barrel, coil, and power assembly were entirely replaceable, isolating the power electronics from the more sensitive bits of the weapon. Like most modern combat platforms with close-quarters fighting in mind, the stock, grips, shrouds, rails, and all other accessories were also fully modular and replaceable.
“Lastly, there’s a built-in low-speed databus on these rails that works with contact pins along the bottom of an accessory. That lets you mount either standard Picatinny scopes, sights, and so forth, or whatever ‘smart’ device is developed in the future. The rails use a modified RS-485 serial bus; simple, robust, low-power, and a modest but very reliable signaling rate. We, uh, don’t know what you may want to do with it, but the firmware in the receiver can be fully upgraded.”
“Akiyama was tellin’ me about these just the other day,” Rebar enthused. “Since it’s serial, we’re totally free to do whatever we want. The wire protocol isn’t even defined.”
“Yup! We wanted to keep this as open as possible. Given, uh, how much the stats and pics didn’t do you fellas justice…” He looked them over again, still maybe not quite believing his eyes, “It’s clear we need to re-think parts of this.”
“‘Horse and ’Base would prolly prefer DU rounds and the biggest fuckin’ coils you could manage,” commented Firth. “Me too, maybe.”
“DU poses its own risks.”
“Yup, but if we’re doing our jobs they shouldn’t really be shootin’ anything ’cept on recovery, or whatever.”
“Aye,” nodded Powell. “Fewer rounds, but hit with those as hard as possible. But those are details we should address in the design critique. Before that, I’d like to see how these weapons fire.”
“Can do, sir.” Gunny smiled happily.
Much to Murray’s disgust, the range was outside, back in the relentless heat. The Major bore it with better humor this time, probably because he had a rifle to play with.
Howard didn’t waste their time - he gave them a quick familiarization and then stood back to watch the fireworks while dropping in remarks about the weapon’s muzzle energy, rate of fire and accuracy.
Firth drew the short straw and had to go last, but just watching the others shoot gave him a decent idea what to expect. When he finally got his hands on it, he lined up on his fresh new paper target - thoughtfully, BOM had given them Hunter-shaped targets - and happily drilled it right between its three central eyes. Something about nailing those monstrous fucks right between their fuckin’ eyes just felt right…
The recoil took a few shots to get used to, but that was just because the profile was very different to a conventional firearm. Rather than an explosive kick in the shoulder, the GR1-D shoved instead. There was still plenty of force involved, but it didn’t peak as high and was delivered over a slightly longer interval.
The impressive part was the helical magazine. From what Howard was saying, the caseless ammo took up only a third of the volume of conventional 5.56mm, and BOM had set themselves - and met - the challenge of making use of that phenomenon by fitting three times as many rounds into something no larger than a STANAG magazine. He didn’t go into detail about how it worked, but there was something deeply wood-inducing about the words “ninety round mag.”
“Thoughts?” Gunny looked smug as fuck, like he’d just nailed the hottest girl at the prom. And after all…
“I think I’m in love,” drawled Firth. “Hell, I think I love this more than Walsh’s sister.”
“High praise,” Murray smirked.
“That magazine’s reliability will need to be proven. I wanna take it apart and see how it manages to feed and fit ninety rounds stacked up. And we’ll need to iterate on this platform design pretty hard to get what we need,” cautioned Vandenberg, “Especially, I think, with suit integration. We’ve got these nice HUDs and it seems criminal not to use them.”
“On-weapon video?” Murray’s suggestion was so obvious nobody on the team even needed an explanation.
“Oh, fuck!” Firth laughed at the possibilities, “Imagine! Just stick your boomstick over a wall, or whatever, and look around corners! Plink Haji without even exposing yourself!”
“Yup. Serial ain’t terribly fast, but it’s reliable, and hell, with a good video codec, maybe multiple Bluetooth--”
“Weeds,” Powell commented. It was an American term, but a useful one that he’d picked up, which cautioned against getting tangled up in unnecessary details.
Vandenberg grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, sir. Also, I reckon I’d be happy to pump even more muzzle energy out of this bad boy. You said two thousand shots per cell, minimum, so we’ve got room to play around there.”
“What about recoil…?” Gunny glanced yet again at the prodigiously muscled men he was addressing and corrected himself. Vandenberg’s forearm wouldn’t have fit in the cup of Howard’s prosthetic leg. “Never mind.”
“All told, I think we’re optimistic,” Powell declared, after catching his men’s eyes and receiving a nod from all of them. “If we take it as a given that we’re going to want those energy cells to be fookin’ bombproof, about how long d’you reckon you’d need to make that change?”
Howard glanced at his colleagues. “I’d call that… ’bout a month?” There were some nods. “Yeah. As for the mag testing, you’re welcome to take a couple home with you.”
“And the suit HUD integration’s more down to C&M than to these fellas,” Vandenberg commented.
“Aye. Guess we’ll be seeing you in a couple of months, then.” Powell shook Howard’s hand “Best o’ luck with the modifications,”
“Like we’ll need luck,” Gunny grinned. Powell chuckled, and they walked round the building to get back to their truck.
Murray sighed his relief as the aircon blasted cold air in his face, and ruffled his hair.
“Please tell me our next stop isn’y as hot as this place,” he pleaded.
“Well our next stop is Alabama to check on the gentlemen coming up the Highway,” Powell grumbled, “So it’s not exactly gonna be fookin’ Siberia.”
Murray groaned, causing Firth and Vandenberg to exchange grins. The two Brits took considerable pride in their stoicism, and seeing either of them be anything other than perfectly taciturn was a rare treat. Both at once?
“What’s the matter bro?” Rebar joked. “It’s Huntsville, the north of Alabama. Hell, it’ll be just like bonny Glasgow, you’ll see."
“Oh aye, I’ll get a munchy box and some Irn Bru and sit down to watch Celtic give Rangers a pasting,” Murray snorted.
“See? Just like home.” Firth grinned as Murray rolled his eyes and wisely held his peace. The Major had a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he finished programming the truck’s GPS. It felt WRONG being in a truck that big that didn’t roar when it started, but that was modern vehicles for you. Its electric drive was just as good as any diesel engine even if it was too quiet.
They exchanged final gestures of farewell with Howard and pulled out.
“We’re buying that rifle,” Powell said, the moment there was no possibility of the retired gunnery sergeant hearing them.
“I ever tell you how much I love you, sir?” Firth asked him.
Powell snorted. “Far too bloody often.”
A little round of mirth lapped the vehicle. “So what’re the cherries like?” Vandenberg asked.
“Likely lads. We’re getting another officer at long bloody last - he’s Canadian - plus a Kiwi engineer, an Irish lad who fancies himself the next Warhorse, and yet another bloody Air Force type.”
Firth beamed as Vandenberg groaned beside him. “Anyone I know?”
“SOWT. Name of Mason.”
"Umar Mason?"
“Ah, you do know ’im, then.”
“Second-quietest motherfucker I ever met.”
“Do you know literally everybody in the Air Force?" Vandenberg demanded
“Special operations is a small community, bro, you know this. You could fit every single operator in the entire airforce in our gravball court an’ it wouldn’t be much crowded.”
Rebar grunted. “Dude, Army’s way bigger. Why ain’t we got more Army?”
“Too busy here on Earth,” Murray observed, grimly. It wasn’t a joke. They were all acutely aware that they were toward the sharp end of a very expensive wedge of military spending, a lot of which had been repurposed from elsewhere
- humanity’s survival in the face of interstellar extinction-level threats was being bought at the cost of growing instability at home. The new guy in the White House had inherited a record national debt, taken one look at the briefing that Allied Extrasolar Command had prepared for him, and promptly rubber-stamped his approval for that debt to keep growing.
Meanwhile, in pretty much every sun-lashed corner the Earth had to offer, conventional forces were slowly having to take up more and more of the slack as the high-tech assets that had hovered protectively over their shoulders throughout the previous decades were being stretched thinner and thinner across an ever broader and deeper clusterfuck that was now stretching all the way from the Strait of Gibraltar to the Andaman Sea, with no clear end in sight.
Maybe now that the Hierarchy was no longer fanning those flames, there might finally be a turn-around.
Firth viewed it as his duty to break up awkward silences, and the one that descended in response to Murray’s observation was a ringer. “…I wanna meet this Irish dude,” he declared. “Anyone who thinks he’s beatin’ ’Horse before I do’s gotta have big brass ones, or be crazy.”
“Implying you’re sane,” Rebar quipped.
Firth tugged his trademark aviator shades from his chest pocket, and put them on with a huge grin. “Dude, I’mma beat him. It’s my fuckin’ destiny.”
“If you say so. Smart money’s on Ares, right Murray?”
Murray, in typically verbose style, rocked once with a contained half-laugh and nodded.
“Heh. You’ll see, I’mma catch his stumpy ass and take that money.”
“Unless Irish gets there first.”
“We’ll see, bro. We’ll see.”
Date Point 10y6m AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Allison Buehler
Allison was ambivalent about the early afternoon PT session she was looking at.
Really, she’d have preferred to keep working on her electrical engineering. All of her existing knowledge and experience with fixing and maintaining stuff consisted of knowing what size of thingy fit in what kind of receiver and how to take it out again when it needed replacing.
Being BGEV-11’s mechanic was going to require a reserve of academic knowledge to complement the hands-on stuff, and while Allison congratulated herself that hers was a damn good brain, the fact was that her education had largely been provided by the school of hard knocks. Somewhere along the line a mild prejudice against formal education had ingrained itself into her soul, and she was finally having to try and scrub it out.
In fact her head felt like it was stuffed with electric spiders, and she was feeling drained and sleepy just from spending the whole morning thinking hard, trying to memorize rules and laws and constants and applied mathematics, most of which she was learning from scratch. It was exhausting… but on the other hand, the moment of revelation when she’d finally clicked onto what logarithms were and what they did had been incredible. She’d gone home after that session with a huge smile.
She could feel that she was on the verge of a similar breakthrough today, if only this damn PT lesson hadn’t come along to interrupt her. This was to be their first with an actual instructor - apparently there had been a bit of a hiring mixup - and Allison was faintly skeptical. She, Xiu and Julian had all thrived in space for years without falling into the trap of low-G muscle atrophy. They knew how to stay in shape.
Whatever. There was no point in getting changed - the three of them lived in their “uniform” of black track pants and a white sports shirt anyway, and apparently the previous BGEV missions had all worn that same combination aboard the actual ship. Sportswear, it turned out, was eminently practical clothing for a starship’s crew.
Julian had suggested it was also probably a team-building thing, to make them feel like a unit. Allison couldn’t find much ground to argue - they were all using the same soap and shampoo, they were eating the same food, they had pretty much identical routines… They already smelled alike, so dressing alike was probably just another way of forging the bond.
While that should have seemed slightly manipulative and creepy, Allison had to be honest with herself that she actually enjoyed it.
She pushed the thought aside and headed for the Hab mockup.
While the Box itself was a mock-up of the interior of their ship (never mind that they hadn’t yet technically won the right to fly it, all three of them now emphatically thought of BGEV-11 as their ship) the training facility around it contained mock-ups of the interior of the Box. It had come as a surprise to them that even the hab room had been duplicated, though a few details were off now that they’d had time to settle in and personalize the real Hab a bit. When Julian was putting the clean laundry away, for instance, he folded the towels in thirds rather than in halves, and Xiu was strangely particular about where each knife lived inside the knife block.
The differences between the mockup and their real living space was subtle, but noticeable and reassuring - it suggested that they genuinely did have some privacy together.
Julian and Xiu were already there and limbering up when she arrived, and it made for an entertaining sight. Julian had earned his fitness through hard work and labor, and Allison had to admit he’d probably benefit from tuition - he really didn’t know how to limber up properly. Xiu on the other hand had spent her teenage years practicing ballet, gymnastics and Gung Fu, and her idea of stretching out was, by anyone else’s standards, almost contortionism. One foot on the floor, the other on the wall above head height, eyes shut and face pinched with discomfort as she leaned forward to touch her forehead to her shin.
She gave Allison a strained sideways smile by way of welcome, and Allison sat down with Julian to help him actually stretch properly.
They were still warming up when the door opened and Doctor Clara Brown backed into the room with her arms full of documents and talking animatedly with her colleague on matters of grave scientific magnitude.
“-just saying, why do they even bother? They’re human-sized talking turtles, it’s not like they can just take the masks off and blend into the crowd if they- oh, hey guys!”
“Hey Clara,” Allison called.
“Hi! So, guys, this is my husband Dane, your fitness coach.”
Dane was a slim, friendly-looking guy who met them all with a round of handshakes and - a fact that immediately endeared him to Allison - no sign of weighing them up or evaluating them yet. It was so nice to meet somebody who first and foremost seemed guilelessly happy to meet them.
Julian met him with a handshake, “Gotta admit, I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve got for us.”
“Nothing big for today. I just want to see where you’re at,” Dane replied, shaking Xiu’s hand. He turned to Allison for the last handshake and smiled. “Should be fun.”
“I’ll leave you guys to get acquainted, then,” Clara said. “Oh, and Julian, my dad wanted me to tell you that we’re definitely going to try and improve your foot’s performance. The Assessors aren’t happy with it.”
“Figures,” Julian sighed. “Thanks Clara.”
Dane inspected the offending prosthetic as Allison touched Julian reassuringly on the arm. Much as the assessment team were usually the bane of his, hers and Xiu’s collective life, in this case they had a good point. The mere fact that Julian kept epoxy glue and needle-nose pliers in his pocket and was doing well if he went four days without having to hunch over his foot and fix it was a good sign that things needed to change.
Otherwise, it was an incredible foot. From a distance, you’d be forgiven for thinking that he was absent-mindedly wearing a lone white sock, or some kind of compression bandage. Up close it was a little stranger to look at - every tissue and bone of the human foot had been exactly duplicated, right up to and including a surrogate circulatory system that osmosed the needed sugars and oxygen out of Julian’s own blood at the ingenious and self-sterilizing junction where his truncated natural leg met the replacement.
He’d had to endure visits from dozens of prosthetic and rehabilitation specialists during their hospital stay in Vancouver.
The only anomalies were that said “tissues” and “bones” were in white and black respectively, and that the foot had no covering of skin, which Kirk had omitted based on his prediction that, Dominion medical materials science being a ways behind the human body as it was, Julian would need to regularly tinker with it. A prediction that had emphatically come true.
“So,” Dane smiled at his wife as she left and then turned back to the three of them. “Let’s put you through your paces.”
True to his word, he didn’t let them relax until all three of them were on the verge of collapse, which Allison was dismayed to find came embarrassingly quickly for her. They swung kettlebells, jogged, pulled up, rowed, curled, butterflied, squatted, crunched, dipped, lunged, pressed, extended and raised until her limbs were agonising rubber noodles and her vision was going blurry. Dane ordered her to sit down and rest, and she collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, breathing a hurricane while her heart hurled itself angrily at the back of her sternum.
When she was finally able to sit up, she did so only to watch miserably as Xiu and Julian both outstripped her by a dramatic margin.
She was far from being the only competitive one among them, though. Xiu and Julian fed off each other, both determined not to come in second place, and just when it looked like one of them was flagging they’d glance at the other and find new reserves. In the end, male biology gave Julian just enough of an edge and Dane finally had to instruct Xiu to stop - she staggered to a bench and crashed onto it, leaning against the wall and gulping for air, shining wet from scalp to sole.
Julian managed to stagger on, with shouted encouragement, for another twenty seconds before Dane at last let him rest.
“Okay. Wow!” he beamed at the three of them as he handed around the sports drinks. “I’m really impressed, guys.”
He caught the dissatisfied look on Allison’s face and clapped her heartily on the shoulder. “You did great," he promised. “Don’t beat yourself up,”
Allison shook her head. “I thought I was fitter than that…” she groused. Dane smiled.
“Look at it as a pleasant surprise,” he advised. “You’ve got a lot to look forward to! And this should make you feel better; you’ve got the best form. Julian, buddy, we’ve got to get that foot sorted out for you ’cause right now you’re favoring it and it’s throwing you right off. Xiu, very very good indeed, but you’ve picked up a couple’a bad habits that we’re gonna want to straighten out.
Xiu acknowledged the praise with a nod. She didn’t open her eyes, even as she popped the top on her drink and did her level best to drain it in one go. Julian just inspected his foot ruefully and nodded.
“So. Allison, we’re going to focus on mass, that should bring the extra endurance with it. I’ll send you guys your meal plans in the morning. Julian, I think we’re going to be working on your form first and foremost, but also your legs and lower body. Xiu, mostly we’re just going to correct those bad habits and then I’ll start teaching you how to do my job. All fair?”
“Fair,” Allison acknowledged. “Guys?”
Julian nodded. “Sounds good to me.”
"Sho wia-," Xiu stopped and scowled at herself. “Uh… Yes.”
“You okay?” Allison asked. Xiu was slipping into Gaori less often nowadays, but it still happened when she was distracted.
“Just beat.”
Dane chuckled. “You’re all super motivated," he said. “Keep pushing yourselves like that and we’ll get you mission-fit in no time.”
He gave them a minute longer to recover, then stood up and smacked his hands together eagerly. “So. Second half.”
All three of them groaned, and he grinned. “Hey, hey, it’s important. We’re going to warm down, stretch out, make sure you’re not too sore tomorrow. Come on, up!”
Allison was last to her feet, helped upright by Xiu who got a grateful smile and a one-armed squeeze by way of thanks.
True to his word, the second half of Dane’s session was easier. Not easy - Allison had to grit her teeth and console herself with thoughts of future improvement as again the other two outperformed her - but by the time Dane finally let them go she was at least feeling human, rather than half-dead. In fact, she felt pretty good. Positive, even.
The three of them were given enough time to return to the Box for a shower, a change into clean clothes, and a quick afternoon snack to tide them over until dinner, and then they exchanged kisses and parted ways again for their evening training.
The evening session was practical skills, and today was welding which was a welcome relief. After the brain-fuzzing frustration of the morning session and the minor humiliation of the PT, throwing herself into something she was undeniably learning with speed and aplomb was a delight. Welding wasn’t easy, but it was physical, crafty work where the theory met the practical in a bright point a foot in front of her nose.
At least, until she got overconfident. She returned to the Box at the end of the session nursing a minor burn on her arm and with the end of her ponytail blackened and frizzled, generally feeling like a fuck-up.
Xiu was home before her, and nearly dropped the vegetable steamer when she saw the state of Allison’s hair. “What happened?”
“Long hair and MIG welding don’t mix so good.” Allison ruefully flopped the burnt ponytail over her shoulder and inspected it. She couldn’t even see how high the black bit in the middle went. “Maybe I should just cut it off.”
“Oh, Al!" Xiu complained. “Your hair’s lovely!”
“Bullshit,” Allison smiled fondly and snatched a carrot stick from the steamer, gave her a kiss on the cheek and dragged out the couch to sit on. “I’ve never looked after it properly.”
“And it’s still… well, it was nice…" Xiu corrected herself. She sighed, put her cooking aside for the moment and took up position behind Allison to assess the damage herself. “Oh, it’s burnt right up to here…."
“Baby, it’s just hair.” Allison rolled her eyes.
“Still-”
“Ah, quit fussin’ over it.” Allison popped the carrot stick in her mouth and crunched it. “I’ll just cut it off, it’ll grow back.”
Xiu made an irked noise and began digging through one of the storage cupboards, a lesser-used one near the floor. “No, I’ll cut it.”
“…Wait we seriously have hairdressing stuff in here?” Allison asked.
Xiu came back up with a pair of scissors, a comb, a salon cape and a spray bottle. “Duh! We’re training for two years in space, remember?” She tucked the cape tight around her throat. “How were you planning to cut it?"
“Uh…”
Xiu snorted and draped a towel over her shoulders too. “I should do Julian’s too, when he gets back…”
“He’s out late tonight, remember? Training with the field astronomy equipment.”
“Right, yes…”
Allison grimaced as she got an earful of unpleasantly cold water mist. “So you can speak three languages, you can cook, you can beat the shit out of bad guys, you’re learning to fly a spaceship and now it turns out you’re a hairdresser too,” she listed. “Any other talents I should know about?”
“No, that’s about it. But, uh, I did learn French and ASL in school.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nuh-uh… I mean, I’m really rusty in them, but… hmm…" Xiu made thoughtful noises as she decided on how best to fix Allison’s tonsorial mishap. “Anyway, there was a deaf guy at school. We all learned some ASL to help him out.”
“That was nice of you.”
Xiu damped her hair a bit more, and finally settled on an idea, smiling slightly. “Well, he was really cute, so…” she started cutting.
Allison laughed. “Right, right.”
They sat in silence for a minute as fragments of wet hair dropped past her ears.
Xiu broke the silence as she started combing and trimming the back of her head. “…Um, Al?”
“Yeah?”
“Ever since you’ve told us about, um, your baby…” Allison turned her head slightly, and just about managed to make out Xiu’s apologetic expression in the corner of her eye. “I mean… you’ve always been so tight-lipped about your life…”
Allison smiled. “The baby was the big thing I didn’t wanna talk about… I mean, the rest of it’s nothing crazy. Mom and Dad grounded me until I was eighteen and started home-schooling but they kept giving me an allowance. I played a lot of video games, made some friends online, and the day after my eighteenth birthday I got on a Greyhound to Boston and left.”
“Didn’t they try and stop you?”
Allison just shrugged. “I did okay for myself really. Worked at a coffee shop in the mornings and a garage in the evenings, got an LTC and a pistol, spent my lunchtime down at the range. I was getting by just fine.”
“Why Boston?”
“One of my guildmates lived there. Amanda. It was her garage, and she let me crash on her couch until I could afford to rent my own place…”
“You’ve never mentioned her.” Xiu pointed out.
“She was great! Real big on feminism, social issues and weed. She never did like how much I loved my guns, though.”
“Are you still in touch?”
Allison shook her head. “Lung cancer got her about three months before Trevni and Nufr grabbed me,” she said.
Xiu put the scissors and comb down and gave her a hug from behind, wrapping her arms comfortably across Allison’s chest. “I’m sorry…”
“It’s okay. She was already fighting it when she helped me out, so we had plenty of time to get used to it… Anyway, that’s my story. Like I said, it’s not that interesting. I got all the stupid out of my system when I was fifteen… space was way more interesting."
“Interesting. Yeah. That’s one word for it,” Xiu commented.
“Yeah, I’m sorry you had such a shitty time of it, but me? I fetched up on a freeport station and had a pretty good time of it, working security. Everyone respected the big bad deathworlder.” Allison grinned savagely at the memory. “’When Kirk showed up with a ship full of people I knew I couldn’t stay, but I had a pretty good time, really.”
“All done!” Xiu towelled her head briskly and gathered up the cape. Allison ran her fingers through the new ’do, and grimaced.
“You took off a lot!"
Xiu smiled. “I had to. I think it suits you though,” she suggested. She aimed a nod at the bathroom door, a cue which Allison took with a resigned breath.
“Okay…”
When she checked the mirror she had to admit that Xiu had done an impressive job. She’d been worried she was going to end up looking like an imminent complaint to the manager, but the finished product, after she played around with the parting a little, was a practical low-maintenance thing a bit too long to be called a pixie cut and a bit too short to be classed as a bob.
A real fashionable hairdresser would probably have bit through their comb at the sight of it, but Xiu was right - it suited her by neatly framing her cheekbones and enhancing the overall diamond shape of her face.
“So…?” Xiu asked, hovering nervously.
Allison stopped examining it and gave her a reassuring peck on the lips. “I like it.”
Xiu relaxed and started tidying away the mess. “I wish I could be as laid back about it as you are. That red decon thing…”
“Yeah, shaving it all off would suck, but this is actually pretty cool!"
Xiu giggled. “You could say it’s growing on you?”
Allison grabbed the pillow off the middle bunk and threw it at her. Grinning cheekily, Xiu swiped it aside, only for it to knock the steamer off the kitchen counter and spread peas and carrots all over the room.
There was a long, literally ringing silence as the steamer rolled to a standstill.
“…Woops.”
“…I’ll sweep, you mop?”
“…Deal.”
Date Point 10y6m1w AV
Mrwrki Station, Uncharted system, Deep Space
Kirk
“So what are your thoughts?”
Vedreg was proving yet again that, far from being stupid, he was a thoroughly formidable intellect in his own right if given enough time to lumber up to speed. Certainly he was proving more equal than Kirk to the task of scrutinising the contraption that Lewis was painstakingly assembling and iterating.
Annoyingly, his mood was still difficult to read, but Kirk didn’t blame himself or Vedreg for that. Where the Rrrrtk eye had two kinds of color- receptive cell, the Guvnurag one outstripped even humans at five, and the emotive bioluminescent lines on their flanks made full use of that chromatic agility. It was like trying to hear music that was written partially outside of his hearing range, or like trying to read a book where three fifths of the words were printed in an ink that was only visible in the ultraviolet.
Kirk took a guess anyway and hazarded that his old friend was emoting a blend of admiration and mild fear.
“Lewis Beverote is correct,” Vedreg rumbled. “What he is making would be devastating if turned to warlike ends.”
Kirk walked around the holographic table that Vedreg was working at. They all had their little demesnes inside the station now, though Vedreg’s was by far the most sprawling - a function of his sheer size more than anything else. That and his unfolding passion for bakery, which had recently yielded fruit - literally - in the form of an approximation of “cookies”. Lewis had groused something ungrateful about ‘oatmeal and raisin’, whatever they were, but had later thanked Vedreg profusely for the unexpected treat.
Right now, the table was busy dissecting the latest generation of what Lewis was calling his ‘Von Neumann Colony-in-a-Can’ or the ‘Coltainer’ for short. To Kirk’s eye, it was an impenetrable tangle of interconnected systems bolted onto something that looked like a hybrid between an enormous power core system and the scoop field emitters off a lane-clearing ship, all feeding power to a nanofactory that was equal in size and capacity to the one on Mrwrki Station.
The Coltainer’s actual function, as Lewis had described it, was to serve as a deep-space automated probe that would search for habitable planets of classes ten to thirteen. Upon discovering one, it would do everything within its power to satisfy itself that the planet lacked native sophonts of any stage of development and, once happy that the planet was not inhabited, it would survey for and identify an ideal spot for a new colony to be built, based on a complicated equation that took into account variables like clean water supply, ocean access, arable land, grazing land, forestry, local geology and mineral availability, climate, drainage, defensibility, proximity to other suitable locations and the feasibility of constructing roads between them, and more.
That done, it would mine some local asteroids or moons for raw materials, build an exact duplicate of itself, send that duplicate on its way in search of a new project, and then finally lay the groundwork for human colonization by sending down drones that would simultaneously excavate and print a basic colonial ‘hub’.
The hub was a defensible structure in which the first settlers could live and work before expanding outwards according to their own agenda. It would have a power generator, a landing pad, a jump array, a kitchen and mess hall, gym and recreational facilities, a chamber for democratic decision-making, enough housing for fifty families, and even a number of deep basement levels designed to serve as a nexus for subterranean roads or railways, complete with TBMs already in place.
Finally, it would restock itself, dispatch a probe to Cimbrean containing the transponder codes for the colony’s jump array and orbital beacon, and depart the system in search of a new project, dropping a system field as it went.
Kirk could easily see the unlimited military potential of a machine that smart that could replicate itself exponentially.
“Does that… alarm you?” he asked.
“Sufficiently that I’m giving serious thought to vetoing the project entirely and purging the files.” Vedreg rumbled, something akin to rueful laughter. “When I voiced my concerns to Lewis, he advised me to ‘be Zen, man’. He is quite correct: I must ruminate on the matter before I decide."
“Quite right,” Kirk agreed. “No disrespect, old friend, but your government’s hasty actions in the past-”
“-Are the reason we even have a human race to try and save,” Vedreg interrupted. He rumbled again and a pulse of ironic mottled pink ran up his sides. “And of course, it may not have been panicking Guvnuragnaguvendrugun, but panicking Hierarchy who made that mistake."
The Domain language didn’t have an equivalent to ‘Touche’, which was a shame, but fortunately that particular human word could be almost approximated by a Domain throat, and Kirk took the opportunity to use it.
Vedreg highlighted one of the denser parts of the project’s anatomy. “Fortunately, he has spent the last few days assuaging my concerns,” he said.
“…What is that?” Kirk asked, leaning forward to study it.
“A bomb. An extremely large one, sufficient to vaporize the Coltainer.”
“Programmed to detonate under what circumstances?” Kirk asked.
“Under any circumstances where it can’t jump to safety instead,” Vedreg observed. “If it is attacked, if it is interfered with in any way… Lewis has assured me that not even he, its creator, could tamper with one of these once it is launched and active."
“Not even to shut it down if it went rogue?”
“To tamper with it would be to shut it down, effectively. Explosively so. I have stressed the need for caution in this project."
Kirk pondered the schematic. “Arguably of course, the Hunters wouldn’t need to tamper with it to see it replicating itself,” he pointed out.
“I have said as much to Lewis. He was… intransigent. He feels that the exponential growth of the coltainer system is essential.”
Kirk snorted. “I have received some news that may cause him to re-think.”
Vedreg rumbled at length before the translator finally delivered the equivalent, which was equally perfunctory in both English and in Domain: “Oh?”
“Let me summon him.”
Lewis ambled in some minutes after Kirk had called him, wearing his black clothing today. Apparently he’d finally aborted his experiment in growing a beard after a week of increasingly bitter grumbling about his own hair follicles, and had shaved. Neither Kirk nor Vedreg were in a position to know what a beard was supposed to look like in anything more than the academic sense.
“News?” he asked, hopping lightly up onto the stool that Vedreg had kindly installed for him.
“From Allied Extrasolar Command,” Kirk informed him, feeling quite pleased with himself. “Apparently they believe that the Hierarchy on Earth are now neutralized.”
Lewis took a high breath and sat back, with a smile spreading across him. “Oh man. That takes a big fuckin’ load of my mind. You think they’re right?"
“Paranoia remains our best strategy,” Kirk reminded him, “but… yes. I think the news is genuine. Or if it is not, then we have already been hopelessly outplayed.”
“The plan ain’t changed, then.”
Kirk nodded. “It has, a little. I need a ship, Lewis. A fast one. Faster than Sanctuary, if you can manage it without a Blackbox drive."
“You’re gonna go meet them in person?”
“We cannot remain locked up here indefinitely.” Vedreg observed. “You said it yourself.”
“Hey, just… y’know, bring some other humans in on this shit!” Lewis exclaimed. “So long as I’ve got somebody fuckin’ bipedal to talk to I’ll be easy like Sunday morning. If it can maybe be somebody who can help me on the Coltainers, so much the better. Do you have any idea what it’s like having to learn everything from scratch for that shit?"
“I honestly do not think I could even begin to guess,” Kirk admitted.
“Most humans couldn’t, bro. Hell, I can’t. I’m givin’ it my best, but if it’s just my skinny ass workin’ on it then we’ll be done sometime around about, oh…?” He looked around and then jerked his thumb towards the window, indicating the huge red star they were orbiting. “When’s that scheduled to go bang?”
“You’re exaggerating.” Vedreg observed.
“Well, duh, yeah, ’course I am,” Lewis nodded. “But still, I’m just one dude, dude. There’s gonna be like a fuckzillion things I never thought of with a project this size. I need help. And hey, maybe we can get you some actual flour, sugar, chocolate chips and apples. And - sorry guys - some fucking bacon because GOD. A man shouldn’t go this long without bacon."
Kirk repressed the urge to grimace, and the green nauseated glimmer on Vedreg’s sides was a weak flutter as he fought down his own revulsion. They both knew perfectly well that while nutrition spheres claimed to be universally and perfectly nutritious, the reality was that they had been designed for the needs of herbivorous non-deathworlders. The medical suite that kept an eye on their general health had been reporting for some time now that Lewis was slowly but steadily falling behind on his needs for Cobalamin, Sulfur and Docosahexaenoic acid.
“I’ll see what I can arrange,” he promised. “There is one last matter…”
“Lemme guess. The von Neumann bit of these probes.”
“The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that we should not light that fire, Lewis.”
Lewis hopped off the stool and went to pour himself a glass of water, without replying. Kirk and Vedreg exchanged confused expressions as he did so.
“…Lewis?”
The human sighed. “Kirk, d’you really think I don’t get it? I’m a smart dude. A really smart dude. One of the smartest, maybe. You think I don’t understand exactly how big of a can’a worms I’m popping here? I’ve read Alistair Reynolds, man. Greenfly, interstellar Grey Goo, you name it, I know what the possible outcomes are."
“Then why-?”
“Because some motherfucker is gonna do it eventually, so it may as well be us!" Lewis knocked back a mouthful of water - a volume that would have sustained Kirk for a day - and then a second, before clearing his throat and continuing. “But the idea’s already out there, man. I’ve seen the data lifts from the Internet, I’ve seen human fiction being sold on space stations all over the place, and that was five years ago. Von Neumann machines aren’t exactly a fuckin’ secret."
"That is the sum of your reasoning?" Kirk asked.
“Only way to beat exponential growth is to start first, dude. Get ahead of the curve and stay there.” Lewis shrugged. “To be brutally fuckin’ honest, I have no idea why the galaxy ain’t already overrun with the damn things. Unless they’re one of the things the Hierarchy’s kept a lid on.”
“Or maybe nobody was ever so reckless as to launch them.” Vedreg suggested.
“Riiight, ‘cause interstellar civilization’s a fuckin’ beacon of rational decision-making." Lewis said, levelly and acidly.
“There is no need to-” Kirk tried to intervene, but Vedreg interrupted him.
“And yours is?" he demanded.
“I’m sorry, of the two of us, whose species is against the wall right now?" Lewis asked. “If it’s do something reckless or die, I for one choose reckless.”
Vedreg glowed crimson. “That is… only a deathworlder would think like that! You don’t have the right to make a decision that will permanently affect the entire galaxy. None of us do.”
“Choosing not to has the same effect!" Lewis gesticulated madly, which had the effect of launching his remaining half-cup of water across the room. It bounced and skittered into the corner of the room and spun crazily on its axis for a few seconds before finally rocking to a standstill. Lewis stared at it, then took a cleansing breath and went to retrieve it. “…The idea’s already out, man,” he repeated. “I ain’t making the decision, it was made the moment somebody uploaded Wikipedia to the galactic archives. So it’s gonna happen."
“You are certain of that?” Kirk asked.
“Completely. An’ I figure… y’know, if we’re about to kickstart the galactic epoch of the self-replicating spaceship, we may as well do it by building one whose primary mission is to declaw all the OTHER self-replicating spaceships that are gonna follow.”
“A vaccine for the whole galaxy.” Vedreg mused.
“Dude. Project GALACTIC VACCINE, I like it.”
Kirk inclined his head at Vedreg. “You are persuaded?” he asked.
Vedreg pulsed contrite teal and imitated a shrug. “I will need time to consider… could the Coltainer project be modified to make suppressing other Von Neumann machines its primary mission?”
Lewis shrugged. “Dude, the Coltainer project’s still in, like, generation zero. I dunno how you’d program a mission like that, but…”
“I shall raise it,” Kirk told them briskly, “with Allied Extrasolar Defence.”
“You will?” Lewis lit up. “You mean I’m finally gonna get some help?”
“If you are so determined to do this, Lewis, then yes, I will request some help. Whether or not it is given will not be for me to decide.”
Lewis nodded. “…I’ll run up that ship for ya, then.”
“Thank you.”
“Whaddya want me to call it?”
“Pardon me?”
“Gotta have something for the reg code, dude. Whaddya want I should call it?”
Kirk spread his arms. “Choose for me,” he said.
Date Point 10y6m2w AV
Starship Racing Thunder, Orbiting planet Gao
Regaari
Regaari didn’t know ships very well. His business was a medley of intelligence-gathering and, when needed, of blood-on-the-claws interpersonal violence. Starship combat was too detached to fire him up, though he had to admit that he liked Clan One-Fang’s philosophy on the matter.
The One-Fangs were one of Gao’s youngest and, rapidly, one of Gao’s most distinguished Clans, holding as they did a near monopoly on spaceborne military action. Naturally they were allied with the Whitecrests but the tangled web of inter-Clan politics being what it was, One-Fang had aligned with the Ironclaws and their asteroid-mining and exoplanetary spaceborne industry, while Whitecrest were allies with the Ironclaws’ chief rivals, the Stonebacks.
Both of those two industrially-minded labor clans would be watching here. The Ironclaws in particular had a lot to gain from good relations with the Dominion. They were the ones producing the goods that got exported, after all. The Stonebacks were dammers, bridgers, construction engineers and general movers of soil. Their work was less exportable.
The Racing Thunder was a product of the One-Fang - Ironclaw alliance, and it was, in starship form, a Gaoian throwback: All claws and teeth and speed.
The privilege of flying Tiritya, the first Gaoian FTL ship, had gone to a Firefang Brother named Shoru, and the Firefangs remained devotees of the art of speed. Theirs was the other third of the alliance. Ironclaw provided the ships, One-Fang crewed them, and Firefang piloted the fighters. It was all guided by an interpretation of the requests and standing orders laid down by the Dominion, who had specified what kinds of ship fit with their doctrine.
Neither the One-Fangs nor the Firefangs had objected - after all, the Dominion’s fleetmasters had infinitely more experience of space combat than any Gaoian - but within those stipulations they had designed their ships to reward a Gaoian’s fighting instincts. They were fast, they were agile, and they were savagely over-gunned.
Regaari approved. He also quite liked the shipfather, Officer Yefrig, who was in many ways as un-Whitecrest as a Gaoian could be.
Whitecrests, for instance, were considered slightly effete by the other male Clans because Whitecrests typically tried to avoid scars, whereas the One- Fangs like many of the other more traditional warrior Clans actively cultivated them. A proper One-Fang wore his scars like medals, and father Yefrig in particular had a perforated right ear, the left ear was a blunt- tipped stub, his right eye was a cybernetic replacement that looked just as milky-white and blind as the original had been left (a neat touch that - all the masculine gravitas of a blinded eye without the inconvenient loss of depth perception) and there was a particularly impressive three-claw gouge on his muzzle.
Regaari of course had an actual medal. A circular one made of silver from Earth of all places, hung on a crimson ribbon with five narrow blue stripes and bearing the effigy of a crowned human male. The “George Medal” it was called, and while the medal itself was safely on display in Regaari’s office back at the Clan’s enclave, he’d chosen to honor the award by wearing its ribbon bar on the chest of the security harness that no self-respecting Whitecrest went anywhere without. Not a Gaoan tradition, but of course the award was not Gaoian either.
He could see Yefrig eyeing it. When the humans gave an award for “acts of great bravery”, it tended to make people take note, apparently.
He met the shipfather as wary equals - with a duck of the head and with paws held wide and to show that their claws were in.
“I hope you have good news,” he told Yefrig, by way of a greeting, “because I think I’ve done as much as I reasonably can.”
“It’s been enough.” Describing Yefrig as ‘terse’ was a minor understatement. “We’re ready.”
“Excellent. I’m ready whenever you are, then.”
Yefrig poured them both some Talamay and indicated the bustle of the bridge as his subordinate Brothers finished their preparations to go FTL. The ship had been badly hurt by her exertions in getting to Gao as fast as they had, and under the relentless pressure from the Dominion for her crew to be handed over for trial, securing all the resources necessary for her repair had been tricky and delicate. Unbeknownst to the One-Fangs, Regaari had even been forced to arrange an exchange that was not, technically, entirely above-board. Not illegal, that would have been ruinous to his reputation in the Clan. But not completely honest, either.
“How will you be returning to Gao?” Yefrig asked, handing him a glass.
“Cimbrean needs a stronger Whitecrest presence now that some Females are moving there,” Regaari mused, accepting it. “I may linger for a little while.”
This earned a gruff chitter from Yefrig. “Leave some for us!” he warned. “My Brothers have low enough morale as it is, without the added burden of an urbane creature like you competing for the attention of Females."
Regaari returned the chitter and waved a conciliatory paw. “The humans have asked me to meet with them to discuss military cooperation, in light of… well, this.” he indicated the ship. “After all, there’s a permanent Clan enclave on Cimbrean these days, and now that females are moving there…”
Yefrig duck-nodded. “It’s almost our third colony.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Regaari said. “I doubt the humans will share it unconditionally. We wouldn’t.”
“You know them best,” Yefrig replied.
“Shipfather?” a Brother approached the pair of them deferentially and handed Yefrig a report.
Yefrig read it, then gave Regaari and encouraging nod. “We’re ready.”
“Outstanding,” Regaari derived quiet amusement from using the term. He’d learned from Warhorse that it had a very specific meaning in human military circles, along the lines of ‘progress made, but much too slowly’ and allowed the private joke to feed his good humor. It worked wonders, helping him effortlessly generate an air of unthreatening affability.
Yefrig, naturally, didn’t catch the joke and pricked his ears up pleased at the apparent praise. “I’m glad you think so.” He turned to the Brother and rattled off a few terse commands in a densely jargoned Clan-specific dialect that Regaari didn’t understand. He took no offense: Whitecrest had a similar argot of their own.
“Travel time to Cimbrean will be [six hours].” Yefrig reported, looking understandably pleased with himself. The transport that Regaari had borrowed for his last trip to Cimbrean, the Springing Ember had needed three days to make the voyage.
“So fast?!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea.”
“This ship is called the Racing Thunder for a reason." Yefrig allowed himself a smug flick of his truncated ear. “Yours isn’t the only clan to borrow the idea of capacitor-based power systems from the humans, and not only does this ship have plenty of room for them, but ours are better than theirs.”
“I would hope so,” Regaari agreed, amiably. Gaoians after all had earned FTL travel and all its attendant technologies the hard way, through unassisted research and innovation. He couldn’t begrudge the humans for reverse- engineering nonhuman artefacts, but the fact was that they were the least technologically advanced species ever offered membership of the Dominion, while Gaoians had been rather more advanced than normal by the time Tiritya had first flown.
Gratifyingly, Gaoians were also not stupid enough to mistakenly conflate tech with primitivity, unlike some other species he could name. By and large, the Fathers of several clans were broadly thinking alike about humans and how potentially useful they might be to the Gaoian people… or at least how it would be desperately unwise of the Gaoian people to get on their bad side.
Hence this voyage.
The solution to Father Mavil’s challenge had turned out to be relatively straightforward. The Dominion would happily accept for the Gaoians to punish the deserters themselves, and banishment was a punishment. The One-Fangs wouldn’t have been satisfied with a punishment, but they WERE happy to have one of their ships assigned to the protection of Gaoian lives, provided that the crew had any hope of earning Clan prestige and the attention of females.
Cimbrean was the natural choice. It was “uncontrolled territory” according to the Dominion, and so any ship sent there under orders never to return was exiled. That part was easy. With the human fleet being down one of their best ships, and with their history of positive interaction with the Racing Thunder and its crew he had no reason to believe that they’d turn away the help.
As for the females, well… Cimbrean had plenty of males already. Between the Clan Starmind monastery and hundreds of Clanless in the Alien Quarter, Gaoians were actually the planet’s second-largest demographic. All it needed was for a few brave pioneering Sisters to take the first step. If the Sisters in question were pregnant, even better.
So, he’d called Myun.
Persuading her to move to Cimbrean had been simplicity itself. Quite aside from the fact that she was so guilelessly in love with anything and everything remotely human, it was effectively a free promotion for her. Myun’s xenophilia made her mildly unpopular despite her personal relationship with Yulna, which was an obstacle to mobility in the celebocratic and taxocratic world of the Clan of Females. Focused though she was, even Myun wasn’t so obstinate as to ignore that reality, nor so blase as to scoff at it.
She’d agreed to move, and where a pregnant Sister went, other Sisters would follow, trusting in each other’s maternal instincts and sense of safety.
Relocating to a new colony and installing herself as one of the founding Sisters of the commune there would be excellent for her prestige, and she hadn’t needed much advice from Regaari to see that.
As for the Racing Thunder’s crew, they had a safe, legitimate haven, the Dominion got their “justice”, the Clan kept their Brothers alive and still doing good work, Gao got effectively another colony via the power of migration, and Regaari got both a victory over Father Mavil and an opportunity to talk some more with Admiral Knight and Major Powell.
He excused himself from the bridge as the One-Fang crew made the final preparations for departure. Not being Clan, he didn’t have a nest-bed among the crew quarters, and had to settle for curling up alone in a corner of one of the cargo holds, surrounded by the provisions, technology and barter goods that the Racing Thunder had taken on to lubricate their negotiations with the humans… or else to keep them supplied and comfortable in case the deathworlders turned out to be less hospitable than Regaari had assured.
Solitude or not, sleep came easily. He hadn’t been getting enough in the last several days as he flitted from enclave to office to commune to ship to briefing to meeting to private conversation to occasionally being able to return to his nest-bed and snatch some inadequate sleep in the company of his Brothers. Despite their absence, he curled up, tucked his nose into his fur and a One-Fang Brother came to wake him seven hours later without his noticing the intervening time at all.
He could hear and feel that they were still at warp, not as a sound exactly but as a sense that the ship was producing one that he couldn’t quite hear. Some texture in the air told him that an awful lot of energy was coursing throughout its structure.
“We are being intercepted,” Yefrig explained, over comms. “I’ve slowed us to half a kilolight.”
“Have they identified themselves yet?” Regaari asked, tugging on his harness and scratching the backs of his ears to wake himself up.
"Valiant and Vendetta," Yefrig replied. “A surprisingly small response…”
“Humans love jump drives,” Regaari reminded him. “If we extend our claws, the others will show up in an instant.”
“Understood.”
Regaari was halfway to the bridge when the ship jolted slightly and there was a solid ringing noise.
“What was that?” he asked.
The One-Fang brother escorting him flicked an ear, amused. “A shuttle landing,” he said, and indicated a line on the ceiling which pointed the way to the Racing Thunder’s small craft bay. Regaari duck-nodded and detoured that way.
He wasn’t disappointed. The detail of One-Fang security officers who were welcoming the humans on board were shooting nervous glances at each other at the sight of four SOR men disembarking from their shuttle in full EV-MASS, among them the unmistakably hulking silhouette of Warhorse.
Regaari raised his paw in greeting and all four humans relaxed substantially.
“Yo, Dexter!” Titan called, being the closest.
“Hello, cousins.” Regaari deployed the term carefully, and the One-Fangs around him took note. “Cousin” had a specific meaning in modern Gaoian life, referring to a Brotherly relationship between males who weren’t actually Clan- Brothers.
“Hey, this ship’s a bit bigger’n the last one,” Baseball sauntered over and led him through the elaborate handshake they’d taught him. Quite why the twinkly fingers at the end were important, Regaari wasn’t sure - he suspected that subtle human sense of humor was at play.
“One hundred and eighty-seven crew,” Regaari informed him. “Not including me and the forty females and cubs travelling in the forward cargo hold.”
“Man, this is gonna take a while.” Baseball sighed.
“Gonna need to talk to the cap- uh, the shipmaster, Dexter.” Titan informed him, walking over with some kind of equipment slung easily over his shoulder. Several Brothers eyed the package nervously - it was easily more than any of them could handle alone.
“I recognize that,” Regaari pricked his ears up at it. “A portable jump array?”
“Ship this size, a full customs inspection will go way faster if we can bring some marines over from Valiant to help out, bro."
“…I’ll call the Shipfather.”
Titan nodded. “Lemme know when he’s here.”
“You can’t miss him. He’s got a white eye, a missing ear and more scars than fingers,” Regaari told him, quietly so that the One-Fangs couldn’t hear. “And if you want to make a good impression, compliment him on them.”
“Thanks bro.”
Yefrig, to his credit, listened to Regaari’s advice and came down to the bay himself. The humans paused in scanning the Brothers as Titan noticed the scarred old One-Fang enter the space and loudly snapped “Detail, a-ten-SHUH!”
Again, the Brothers who didn’t know humans were taken aback. All four men stamped rigidly upright in their gear. It was an unmistakable gesture of respect for Yefrig’s authority, especially, when Titan’s hand came up smartly alongside the visor of his helmet.
Yefrig, of course, didn’t know how to respond.
“It’s customary to return the salute, shipfather,” Regaari informed him, gently. Yefrig inclined his head curiously, flicked his remaining ear, then did his best to imitate Akiyama’s salute. The humans unwound as soon as Titan’s hand had snapped down and he’d quietly ordered “as you were”.
Formality complete, Titan shook Yefrig’s paw. “Thank you for having us aboard sir, this won’t take but a little while.”
“Is it necessary to search the entire ship?" Yefrig asked.
“It is sir, yes. We have some marines on standby to come over from one of our ships, with your permission…?”
Very subtly, Yefrig caught Regaari’s eye, and got the most miniscule duck-nod by way of encouragement. He imitated a human nod with rather more force. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you, sir. Horse! Base! Get the Array set up!”
The two Protectors jumped to, grabbing the hefty equipment and slotting it together with practiced speed. Titan watched them at it. With his breathing mask off, Regaari could see him smile, though he had the good sense to keep his lips closed. The last thing jittery Brothers needed now was a show of teeth.
“Man, those are some wicked scars you got there," he observed.
This didn’t quite have the desired result. Rather than preening slightly, Yefrig’s lone ear twisted sideways, perplexed. “Wicked?”
“Ah, translation problem,” Titan waggled the device clipped to his MOLLE with a wry smile. “Uh… impressive. You look like you earned every one.”
It was subtle, but Regaari judged that Yefrig was preening slightly at the observation. “I’ve never backed down from a challenge,” he agreed. Titan nodded, smiling faintly, and Regaari judged that the human knew he was now in Yefrig’s good graces.
“Well in that case sir, would you mind setting an example for your Brothers and submitting to the contraband scan? Won’t take but a second,”
“Very well. Though I don’t see what contraband I could be…?” Yefrig trailed off as Titan gently pressed a scanner to his head and watched it ping. To Regaari’s eyes the screen lit up a kind of bright yellowish-green, but he was aware that humans had trichromatic vision versus a Gaoians dichromatic eyes, and that the display on the back of the scanner was probably in a colour that he couldn’t see.
Whatever it was, Titan made careful note of the result. “Thank you sir.”
There was a thump from behind them and the jump array pulsed into life. A second later, a cuboid of black air resolved itself into a dozen human marines. Their gear wasn’t vacuum-proof and not a one of them was as prodigiously huge as even the smallest SOR operator, but even Regaari, who trusted the humans absolutely, found himself considering the fact that there were now easily enough deathworlders on board to rip through every one of the Gaoians almost without effort.
They were perfectly safe of course, but as the marines spread out and began a thorough top-to-bottom inspection of the ship it was hard not to be reminded of the discrepancy. The humans were being deferential, efficient and professional, but there was just something about the way they moved. They moved like pack predators, and even though Gaoians themselves were ambush predators the difference was unsettling. Their teamwork was flawless, and unconscious.
“What was that for?” Yefrig asked quietly, as Titan returned to his work.
Regaari watched as another of the Brothers was scanned in the head, and this time the panel on the back of the device lit up a different shade.
“…Tell me, shipfather, do you have any cybernetics?” he asked.
“A translator and a communicator,” Yefrig told him. “They’re scanning for cybernetics? Why?”
“Give me time, and I may have a theory for you.”
Date Point 10y6m2w1d AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Xiu Chang
“I’m telling you, Tangled has the best songs!"
Xiu giggled and scraped her mixture of crushed garlic and chopped onions into a pan to start frying. “It so doesn’t! Yeah, they’re good but they’re not like… Everybody can remember The Lion King’s songs, but nobody remembers the ones from Tangled."
“Well they should!” Allison insisted, “’When will my life begin’? ‘I’ve got a dream’? They’re amazing!" She glanced conspiratorially around the room even though they both knew they were alone. “…Julian tears up during ‘I see the light.’"
Xiu put her knife down just in case she cut herself laughing “He doesn’t!?"
Allison nodded with an impish smile as she finished putting the last of the laundry away. “My right hand to God! He gets all misty-eyed when they’re singing in harmony.”
Xiu made a conciliatory motion with her head. “Okay, yes, it’s a beautiful scene and that song’s really good. But it’s still not the best."
“Okay then, what is the best?"
“Classic? I mean, I’ve still not seen any of the movies they did after I was abducted…”
“Sure. Classic.”
Xiu didn’t even need to think about it. “Reflection.”
Allison scoffed. “Of course you’d choose one from Mulan."
“She was my hero!”
“I guess it’s the nice thing about Disney that everyone gets their princess…"
Xiu giggled, starting in on cutting the celery. “Actually, when I was very little, I wanted to cosplay as Merida, but mama said I couldn’t.”
“Now why’d she do a thing like that?” Allison asked, sarcastically.
Xiu fought a losing battle to try and keep a straight face. “Beats me. Can you think of a reason why little Xiu Chang wasn’t allowed to dress up as a curly Scottish redhead?"
Allison made a performance of inspecting Xiu’s hair, which on the rare occasion she was able to let it down was a straight glossy curtain of black that reached her knees. “I think I might have an idea…” she hinted, battling with her own deadpan.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Blue isn’t your color, babe.”
Xiu _snrrk_ed and swept the celery into the pan to fry.
“Mulan and Merida,” she mused. “Guess I like the warrior princesses, huh?”
“Come on, Rapunzel kicked just as much ass with a frying pan."
“She beat up one guy! Mulan took on-!" Xiu caught Allison’s trollish expression and finally realised she was being teased. “Oh, okay. You can chop the tomatoes, then."
Allison laughed and did as she was bidden, though her fingers deliberately brushed against Xiu’s hand as she headed for the fridge. “Yes ma’am.”
She seemed to have a knack for doing exactly what would get Xiu most flustered. Blushing, Xiu turned away and washed her knife off, dried it and slid it back into the block.
“How’d you do on that flight test?” Allison asked, deciding she’d had her fun for now.
“Eighty-seven percent,” Xiu answered. It was a solid pass, but she was secretly a little disappointed - she’d been dead-set on a ninety or better.
“Aiming for higher, huh?”
Feeling completely transparent, Xiu sighed “…Yeah.”
“Amen,” Allison mused. She finished chopping the tomatoes and, at Xiu’s gestured urging, dumped them in the pan all over the sizzling onions and garlic.
Being Allison she then just dumped the knife and cutting board into the sink without washing them and leaned conversationally against the counter. Xiu just smiled to herself, rolled her eyes and washed them for her.
“Same for you?” she asked.
Allison nodded. “I squeaked over the line on the computer systems module. Eighty-two.”
“My head just feels full of… fuzz and static,” Xiu confided.
“Ugh, mine too. Some days I just-”
They were interrupted by the decontamination buzzer and the sound of Julian removing his boots with uncharacteristic force. He crashed through the door without a word, wrenched the couch angrily out of its hiding place in the wall and collapsed onto it as if it had done him a personal injury.
Xiu fought down her fight-or-flight reflex. Even after all this time it was still on a hair trigger, and Julian in a rage was genuinely scary. When he was in a good mood, it was easy to forget that he’d thrived on the very worst the galaxy could throw at him, and that under his equanimous veneer he was a killer and a survivor.
Then again, so was she.
Allison squatted down next to him and put a hand on his arm. “…Baby?” she asked.
“I completely fucked up." Julian groaned. He ran both hands up his face and through his hair, and the brown envelope he was holding crinkled and creased as he did so. “Wrecked the whole goddamn specimen. I only managed to salvage, like, three samples.”
Xiu glanced at Allison, and retrieved one of their precious supply of beers from the fridge. Talking the mission team into letting them have some supply of alcohol along for the ride had been a tense negotiation, but the compromise had finally been reached that they’d be allowed to take along enough for special occasions and a rare treat. Julian hesitated when she offered it to him, then sighed, nodded and accepted. He popped the screw top and drained a third of the bottle in one go.
He settled back and breathed out most of his stress. “…Thanks.”
“So you failed?” Allison asked, gently. While they had an allowance of test failures each before it would negatively impact their bid to get on the ship, there weren’t many, and they were all far too competitive to be happy with using even one of them.
Julian held up the brown envelope containing his test score. He hadn’t bothered to open it.
Xiu kissed his forehead and busied herself with the cooking as Allison borrowed a knife and slit the envelope open.
“…Huh,” she grunted. “Wow.”
Julian groaned and covered his eyes. “How bad is it?”
“…Ninety-one.”
“…What?"
“Ninety-one percent!” Allison brandished the printout. “Surprise equipment malfunction test. Examiner’s notes: ‘Showed exceptional focus under pressure and was able to recover three samples. Exemplary performance marred only by slight hesitation at the moment the equipment failed, and by frustration over factors outside of his control’." She lowered it again, beaming. “You aced it!”
Julian made the exact same ‘huh’ noise that she had, then looked at his beer. “…Damn. Now I feel bad for wasting one of these.”
"Feihua!" Xiu told him, then corrected herself. “Nonsense. That’s your celebration beer now, you hear?”
He went still for an instant, then shrugged and smiled. “Yes ma’am.”
Despite his best efforts to help, neither of the girls let him - he was forced to sit on the couch and finish his drink as Xiu threw together her improvised lamb and tomato curry and Allison set the table, which would ordinarily have been his job just because, as the tallest one, he had the easiest time getting it down from its nest in the ceiling.
Sure enough, when Xiu skewered him with regards to his favorite Disney song over dinner, he corroborated Allison’s account.
“Yeah, I did. I dunno, it’s just… something about that moment. You know?” He sang a couple of bars, and once again Xiu was struck by just how good his singing voice was. "♪‘And it’s warm and real and right♫♪’, that bit. It’s only, what, a few seconds long? But it gets me right here." He knocked on his breastbone.
“I thought Frozen was your favorite?" Xiu asked.
“It is, yeah, but Al’s right that Tangled has the better songs…"
Xiu snorted and tidied up so as to escape from Allison’s smug expression.
She felt strangely as though their collective relationship was progressing via some kind of a time warp. They were moving constantly forward and yet, once they had moved, everything was familiar and comfortable as if they had always been that way.
Nothing seemed to change, exactly, in that there were no sudden revelations, no sudden collapsing of barriers or giving-way of passions - things had just… steadily become more comfortable. Mostly it was the little gestures, like the way Julian put a hand on Xiu’s hip when he leaned around her to steal a cheeky morsel from the fridge, or how Allison’s flirting still raised her pulse and blush, but in a happy and confidence-boosting way. They all touched each other a little more and a little more, smiled and joked more, and performed the domestic ballet of keeping their living space tidy with increasingly efficient unconscious teamwork. Little things had mounted up.
She fondly recalled the time that Allison gave her a deep, therapeutic massage after Xiu came back sore and tired after a hard PT session, humming so softly and so peacefully that it put her right to sleep. On another occasion, Xiu gave Julian a coffee and a kiss as he struggled with his studies, then cuddled up with Allison on the couch to watch cartoons. There was always fresh coffee waiting for her when she returned from simulator sessions, and Allison had promptly lodged a request with Ericson for a heating element in the towel rack after Xiu made an off-hand comment about how the worst part of getting out of the shower was the cold air.
Xiu’s dreams didn’t stop, though. Her ingrained habit of being a light sleeper meant that every night was a surreal cinema reel in which childhood friends, Gaoians, mystic symbolism, odd objects, sex, places both real and imagined and an assortment of lurid contradictions acted out their incomprehensible scripts on the back of her eyelids.
Mostly they were peaceful. Vivid and often disturbing, but peaceful.
Mostly.
Date Point 10y6m2w1d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Admiral Sir Patrick Knight
Gaoians apparently enjoyed their tea sweet and milky. A brief experiment in Earl Grey with a slice of lemon - Knight’s personal tipple - had not ended well, as it turned out that something about lemon just didn’t agree with the Gaoian palate.
Once Regaari and Shipfather Yefrig were both furnished with a civilized beverage to hopefully lubricate the wheels of discussion, though, the conversation began in earnest.
“You appreciate that I can’t just take a nonhuman ship and integrate it into the fleet,” he said. “You have different doctrine, different weapons and tactics, there are - forgive me - rafts of security concerns involved… Frankly you haven’t delivered an exciting new addition to the fleet, you’ve brought me a flying headache."
“The Racing Thunder" is technological generations ahead of your ships," Father Yefrig observed, clearly a touch offended. The translator certainly thought so, giving him a tooth-grinding edge to his simulated English voice.
“My dear chap, I don’t doubt that for a second,” Knight placated him. “But if… hmm…” he sipped his tea then hit on a useful analogy and put the cup down to deliver it. “If what we need is a spear, then you have brought me an excellent sword. For which I’m of course grateful, but…”
Yefrig settled, ear rotating sideways as he thought. “I understand.”
“So the question is, what am I to do with you? You’ve formally requested asylum; under our own rules and those of the Dominion I’m obligated to at least weigh the request… but in the longer term?"
“In the longer term,” Regaari said, “an asset is an asset. This asset wishes to work with you. Please don’t pretend that you couldn’t use them."
Knight gave him a stern look. The Whitecrest was wearing his George Medal ribbon bar and from what he knew of the chap, that was undoubtedly a calculated move. Certainly his ears were up and forward, and his gaze level. Challenging.
But of course, that decorated Gaoian who’d most likely saved the whole SOR had implants in his head. There was a non-zero possibility that the entity he was talking with today was no longer Regaari.
“I can’t,” Knight told him. “Not for the moment, anyway. For reasons that I simply cannot go into, not with the two of you.”
“What can you do?" Yefrig asked.
“I can negotiate. I can discuss our options with my colleagues and superiors. But I cannot and will not guarantee anything, gentlemen. You will simply have to wait and see.”
Bitterly disappointed though both Gaoians clearly were, they took it with good grace. “May we at least send the females and civilians down?” Regaari requested.
“I’ll have Cimbrean Colonial Security notified,” Knight told him, nodding. “They can apply for visas and begin the immigration process. For now, Shipfather, if you would please remain at anchor above Cimbrean Five…”
“Near the Dominion embassy?” Yefrig made a growling noise.
“…Its moon, then.”
“As you wish, Fleetfather… ah, admiral." Yefrig corrected himself. Knight smiled, quietly enjoying the title, and raised his fingers off his desk to acknowledge the respect.
“If I could speak with Regaari alone, shipfather…?” he requested
Yefrig duck-nodded, finished his tea, stood and, after a moment’s dithering, ducked and bowed in what was presumably something similar to a Gaoian salute, and departed.
That left Regaari, who was still watching Knight attentively.
“You’ve taken quite a liberty,” Knight accused him. “Presumed on our time, our resources, our manpower… Do you know how much it costs every time the SOR put on their spacesuits?”
“I am trying to forge an alliance," Regaari informed him. “Something I understood you too were interested in.”
Knight frowned. “And you thought that imposing on us might make us better- disposed to such an alliance?”
Regaari angled his head slightly in a disarmingly canine gesture of thoughtfulness, and then duck-nodded as if he’d reached a decision. “There are… certain powerful Clan elements,” he revealed, “who are interested in pulling us closer to the Dominion. Fathers and the occasional Mother too who stand to gain personally by dragging my people in what I think is the wrong direction. Your people by contrast have been more than gracious with us… Gracious, in fact, to a fault."
“How so?”
“If your fleet had simply disabled the Racing Thunder alongside the rest of the Dominion ships at Perfection, we wouldn’t be in the position of having to exile a valuable and powerful ship and all its crew. Our relationship with the Dominion would be effectively unchanged. Now, however, we are under pressure, and those pro-Dominion elements have pounced."
“They would have been destroyed by the Hunters, and a hundred and eighty-seven One-Fangs would be dead.”
“In the big picture, sir, that’s a disposable number. Commodore Caruthers may have felt he was protecting human-Gaoian relations by leaving that ship untouched. In practice, it may have been a mistake.” Regaari scooted forward on his chair so that his paws were touching the ground again - a much more dignified posture. “That decision has… I believe your phrase is ‘forced our hand’?"
Knight nodded.
Regaari put his empty teacup down and sat on the very edge of his seat. “Gao is not in a position to defy the Interspecies Dominion. The sanctions or punitive action would be… crippling. We had to get rid of that ship. The options before me were to bring it here and, yes, presume on your time, resources and manpower… or to exile them in earnest."
Knight nodded. “And your pro-Dominion elements would have claimed a victory.”
“The Dominion is stagnant, corrupt and stifling,” Regaari said. “And badly prejudiced against life-forms like you and I who are natural carnivores. We need an alternative, and humans are it." He growled slightly. “Worse, exiled Gaoians have a history of going pirate. Some of the most successful and dangerous pirate captains around are Gaoians, and all of them came from much less experienced stock than Father Yefrig, and started out with much inferior ships. The Racing Thunder is one of our best."
“Surely the Dominion won’t be happy if we take that ship in…?”
“The Dominion is already not happy with you. You must be aware of how precarious your position is, Admiral."
Knight sat back and laced his fingers gently on his belly. “More than you know,” he acknowledged.
“Meanwhile, Gao is badly in need of a gentle push away from the Dominion. Your kindness and grace have put us both in a dangerous place, Admiral, but it’s a position we can turn to the good. I would never presume on your time, resources and manpower unless I deemed it absolutely necessary, I promise you that."
Knight gave him a long, calculating look, then exhaled and nodded. “I’ll put it to Allied Extrasolar Command that we should take them on as a deep-space patrol and assign them to watching the nearby systems,” he offered. “That, realistically, is the best I can offer for now.”
Regaari’s ears came down and slightly sideways as he relaxed. “Thank you.”
“Yes, well.” Knight tidied some papers on his desk. “Please don’t make a habit of this.”
“Of bringing you advanced warships with veteran crew?”
Knight couldn’t help himself - he snorted a laugh. What he knew of Gaoian body language made it clear that Regaari knew he’d won that point.
“I can see why your Fathers give you the difficult assignments,” he said. “You’re trouble.”
“Thank you, sir.” Regaari stood, and pulled off an acceptably passable salute considering that his shoulder wasn’t entirely the right shape. Knight did him the courtesy of returning it. “I’ll be staying in the Alien Quarter if you need me.”
“For how long?” Knight asked.
“Until there is a ship to take me home.”
Date Point 10y6m2w1d AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Xiu Chang
There is a hole in her parents’ living room floor, which Xiu knows contains something dangerous. When she approaches and sticks her hand in it, sharp teeth bite off her arm.
At least, that’s what would happen if she did approach it. Instead she keeps a wary distance. She steps outside, onto the open farmland in Minnesota. Knowing what’s coming, she looks up and watches the fireballs across the sky. She can see forever, and wherever the weapons land they send up huge, fat, slow mushroom clouds.
She runs against the blast waves as they tear her long clothes out behind her. She finds herself stuck in traffic, leaning desperately on the horn but making no progress. When she gets out of the car to run the rest of the way, the ground collapses underfoot.
Down through an echoing dark cavern, falling along the beam of light she created when she broke through, until she lands in what might be tar, or quicksand. She reaches desperately for the light as a million hands close over her, and a million teeth rip her, gnawing, biting, chewing, eating-
Dream. Just a dream. She propped herself up on her elbows and willed her panicked hyperventilating to slow.
“That sounded like a bad one.”
Xiu rubbed her face and rolled over to look down on Julian. “…Yeah. Did I wake you?”
He waved a reassuring hand. “We both sleep light, it’s fine.”
Xiu contemplated trying to sleep some more, then kicked her legs over the side of her bunk and dropped noiselessly to the floor. She smiled at the sight of Allison sound asleep, then stooped.
“Can I-?
He scooted to the back of his bunk. “Sure.”
She rolled in next to him. Having never shared a bed with anybody before - the Sanctuary escape pod didn’t count - it took some prompting and whispered instructions before she was properly settled, with his left arm under her head and his right resting across her waist, holding her close. But once she was settled…
She couldn’t remember having ever felt so safe.
“Better?” He asked.
“Al won’t mind, will she?”
Julian brushed her hair out of the way and kissed her behind the ear. “She’ll be delighted,” He promised.
Xiu sighed happily, and listened to her instinct to wriggle into him some more.
She woke up to, exactly as Julian had predicted, a delighted noise that was half a squeal and half an “ooh!” As Allison discovered them in the morning.
“Oh, hey… Uh…”
“Don’t you dare apologize," Allison ordered. She flipped out of bed and beamed at them. “You two look so cute together!”
Julian chuckled. At some point in the night, without her noticing, he’d withdrawn his arm from under Xiu’s head, and now he pushed himself up on it. “Told you.” He whispered into her ear. “Sleep well?”
“That’s the best night of sleep I’ve had in… I don’t know how long!” Xiu realised, sitting up.
Allison, who had turned and was stripping for her morning shower, nodded enthusiastically. “He’s like a magic comfort blanket, isn’t he?”
“Better,” Xiu agreed. Julian was a blusher too sometimes, and as he finger- combed his hair she shared a grin with Allison, who vanished into the washroom.
He cleared his throat, wriggled out past her, then stood up and stretched. His spine and shoulders made several loud popping sounds.
“…Are you okay?” Xiu asked.
“Male burden,” He joked. “Big spoon, small bunk. I’ll loosen up.”
“We can’t have that!” Xiu said. “Are you stiff and sore every time?”
Julian shrugged. “Worth it.”
Xiu considered the bunk. “Are you sure?”
Julian twisted his waist, bent over to touch his fingertips to the opposite toes, and then straightened with one final shimmy of his neck. “You know what I wanna do?” He asked. “I wanna say, ‘to Hell with the beds’ and just make a nest on the floor. They’re too soft anyway.”
“Ugh, I know what you mean,” Xiu agreed. She’d grown almost used to sleeping on hard metal floors during her exile. “They feel like you could fall through them! And… yeah, that way all three of us could cuddle up.”
“Oh, I see. You just want more magic comfort blanket.”
“Duh!” She agreed with a laugh. “Especially if you don’t get backache from it.”
“That would be nice…" he agreed, then raised his voice. “Whaddya think, Al?”
Allison’s voice was slightly muffled through the shower door as she called back. “What?”
“Building a kind of cosy nest on the floor instead of these tiny bunks!”
The shower shut off. Allison slid the door aside and reached out for a towel. “The floor?” she asked, drying her limbs.
“Yeah!” Xiu enthused. “It doesn’t make sense that Julian has to get backache and somebody gets left out…”
Allison frowned at him, as she dried her torso. “You get backache?” She asked. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Nothing a hot shower doesn’t fix,” He promised. “Still…”
“Well go on then!” She stepped aside for him. Julian chuckled and obeyed, receiving a slap with the wet towel to his bare ass from Allison as he stepped out of his shorts.
Allison grinned, and scrubbed at her hair. Xiu still felt that she’d done an embarrassing butcher’s job of that shorter cut, but there was no denying that it needed far less maintenance.
“So.. what, just pull all the sheets and blankets down here and sleep?”
“It’s soft enough,” Xiu pointed out. She stood up and started making the beds.
“I guess it can’t hurt to try…” Allison sounded dubious, poking at the floor - which after all was only as ‘soft’ as a gym mat - with her toe. “…okay, We’ll try it tonight!”
“You don’t mind?”
“Why would I mind cuddling up to my two favorite people, dummy?" Allison asked, affectionately. “Ooh! Do I get to be in the middle?”
“Well… I kinda wanted to…”
Xiu trailed off at the extravagant pout on Allison’s face, rolled her eyes and raised a fist. Beaming, Allison raised hers and they silently counted out three beats. Xiu threw scissors, and Allison went for paper.
“Shit!” Allison threw her head back. “Best of three?”
“No.” Xiu asserted, laughing. “Go put some clothes on!”
Allison giggled and headed for her wardrobe. “Yes ma’am…” she sing-songed
“Good girl!” Xiu called after her, using the same cadence. She wriggled out of her own clothes as Julian finished his shower and stepped out to grab a towel for himself, shaking the water out of his prosthetic. She slipped past him almost before he was out of it and turned the shower back on before the water could go cold.
Normally, she was last in because she liked to luxuriate under it, but this time she spun through, soaked, soaped and rinsed in record time, eager to start the day.
The sooner it was started, after all, the sooner it was done, and she could try the joys of two magic comfort blankets.
Date Point 10y7m AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Gabriel Ares
“So how are you settling in at the new workplace?”
Ava smiled and grabbed a handful of cutlery from the drawer to set the breakfast table. Since her return from Earth, she’d clearly and obviously relaxed and become happier. The haunted, sorrowful look that had darkened her expression for months now was finally going away, and her smile was coming back, which was lifting Gabe’s spirits in ways he couldn’t really describe. Adopted be damned, he loved Ava like she was his actual flesh-and-blood daughter, and no parent liked to helplessly watch their child go through hard times.
The fact that she and Adam seemed to be back on speaking terms, strained though they were, was even more cause for celebration. He regretted their breakup and bitterly wished he could have done more to stop it, but there came a time when a parent just had to get out of the way and let his kids be idiots.
Having them round for weekend breakfast on a regular basis was a treat for Gabe, too. Adam had loyally worked out how to fit a weekly bacon-and-eggs fried breakfast into his macronutrients, and if there had been a hint of wanting to avoid Ava for a while… well, to his credit he’d been big enough to get over it. And so had Ava, for that matter.
He wasn’t allowed to help, though. He was so huge nowadays that he was under strict orders to sit at the table, on the grounds that it was the only way for him to stay out of the way.
“It’s pretty good!” Ava said. “We’re all impatient to start putting articles out though. The website’s taking forever."
“I suppose a whole new media network doesn’t just pop into existence overnight,” Jess observed. She loved their Saturday breakfasts - it was a lazy day for all three of them, and Gabe could cook it at his own limping pace, which was his way of thanking her for the blitzing, busy breakfasts she put together during the working week. It was that kind of happy give-and-take that was making their marriage work beautifully. Their worst argument ever had been over the orientation of the toilet paper. Gabe still didn’t know how a sane woman could tolerate having the roll the wrong way round, but he’d given up trying to persuade her and just settled for flipping it as needed.
“Mm-hmm!” Ava deftly spun a fork round her finger before putting it down. “I’m still trying to decide if I want to focus on Security or Extraterrestrial Affairs.”
“You’ve got the contacts for security…” Adam mused.
“I’m not sure I’d want to interview either of you,” Ava shrugged, before Gabe could reply.
“Why not? And…why would you interview me?”
Ava rolled her eyes. “You’re right, why would a journalist who’s just starting to make a name for herself want to interview one of the Beef Brothers?"
Adam snorted at that, but it was an amused snort. He was still an essentially shy guy at heart, and mentioning the way that the Internet had fallen in love with him and Baseball as they escorted Earth’s first official extraterrestrial visitors was a sure way to make him go slightly red in the ears.
“But… I mean, I guess it’s just not a good idea to interview your family,” Ava continued. “And the SOR don’t like me at all.”
“Sounds like the decision’s made, then, surely?” Jess asked, heading off Adam’s reply.
Ava sighed. “Yeah…”
“But security’s what you really want to cover, isn’t it," Gabriel observed. He got a small smile for that.
“Yeah… but I guess ET Affairs probably has a big overlap, with the Hunters and, uh, all the rest of it…”
Gabe resisted the urge to grimace. He’d had a long and tense conversation with Admiral Knight over the fact that both his kids had been put in harm’s way in Egypt. Knight had been as reasonable and agreeable as always, but his apology had been for the necessity of it, not for the decision itself.
After reviewing the debrief on EMPTY BELL for himself, Gabe had been forced to agree that it was necessary, but he was damned if he’d ever be happy about it. He hadn’t yet had the chance to discuss it with either of them: with Jess around, classified matters were off limits, and he got the impression that Ava wanted to put the whole affair behind her anyway.
He settled for chuckling weakly. “Well, if you want to combine them, interview me about Gaoians sometime,” he offered. “They’re CCS’ most regular customers.”
Ava mulled that one over. “Hmm. Could be a good angle. The challenge of reconciling alien morality with human laws…”
“Regaari’s here right now,” Adam offered. “He’d have some interesting stuff to say.”
“Isn’t he your friend? You wouldn’t mind?”
“Trust me, he’d prolly thank me for arranging it.”
“Hmm…” Ava finished setting the table and sat down so as to stay out of the way. “And the rest of the guys? I kinda wanna stay in their good graces as best I can…”
Adam ’pff’ed and poured himself an orange juice. “Stay?”
“Ohhh, no. Stop that,” Jess warned him, putting the finishing touches on the French press coffee. “That wasn’t nice, Adam.”
“…You’re right. Sorry Ava.”
"No se preocupe. You’re right."
“Regaari’s would be an interesting perspective on these duels that cause us so much trouble,” Gabe suggested, carefully transferring the toast onto their plates as well as dragging the conversation back on course."
“Are they really that endemic?” Ava asked.
“Every day there’s some incident, and we only have a few hundred Gaoians," Gabe replied, parting out the scrambled eggs. “As far as they’re concerned it’s perfectly acceptable and normal, as far as we’re concerned it’s aggravated assault. Not that we can ever make the charges stick.”
“If it’s their culture, though-”
"Me vale madre por su cultura." Gabriel grumbled, serving the bacon. “They can act however they like on a Gaoian planet, but so long as they’re in my jurisdiction… And the same goes for humans, too. Culture be damned, if you come to Cimbrean, you live by Cimbrean’s laws. Our house, our rules."
Jess and Adam both nodded emphatically. For her part, Ava gave his words a moment’s consideration before nodding. “I guess,” she agreed.
“It’s not about saying they can’t be who they are,” Gabe clarified. “It’s about saying, ’this is who we are’, right? These are the things that matter to us, these are our values. And if we’re not willing to stand up for those values…"
This time Ava’s nod was more solid. “Then who are we?”
“Exactly.” Gabe served the sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms and Jess helped him transfer the four plates - one noticeably more laden than the other three
- to the table. It was very much a British style breakfast, but Jess had won him over to the dark side. He was damned if he was going to let her convert him to black pudding, though, a sentiment apparently shared by Ava but not by Adam, who couldn’t seem to get enough of the stuff.
“You’re getting political, darling,” Jess noted.
“Sorry. I just worry one of these days one of my officers is going to lose an eye. Gaoians may not be deathworlders, but those claws are sharp.”
“What about the females?” Ava suggested. “Now that they’re here, maybe you could ask them to help you?”
Gabe inclined his head thoughtfully as he sat down “…Hmm…”
Ava smiled, then lowered her head. Jess and Adam sat back and let them say grace silently, before they tucked in.
“…Talking to the females could work,” Gabe admitted, after a few silent minutes of appreciative gourmandizing, when half his plate was eaten. “Possibly. Though, one of the new females fancies herself a warrior. The commune’s not even built yet and she’s already gone to the Thing requesting a change in the weapon licensing laws."
“A warrior? What kind of a change does she want?”
“She’s a ‘commune guard’. Apparently it’s her job to keep unwanted males from harassing the females and cubs. She’s eligible for a security license, which would cover her to carry a gun or a taser, but she wants the license expanded to include fusion swords." Gabe cleared his throat.
“A sword? A Gaoian with a sword?" Adam laughed.
“Yeah, she’s a fierce one. A real mama bear.”
“Maybe you should interview her," Jess suggested.
“I think so!” Ava agreed, fighting to keep her amused expression down to a mere wide smile. “She sounds like a firecracker.”
“Well, her name’s Myun. She should be easy enough to find.” Gabe told her. "Try not to create tension, mija."
“Wait, Myun?" Adam asked, “Dexter was tellin’ me about her. Her first cub is his.”
“That so? …Dexter is Regaari?” Gabriel asked. When Adam nodded, he had to ask further. “Why Dexter?”
“Because of his left hand. Paw. Whatever.”
“Anyway: Just the facts, dad, I promise,” Ava reassured him. “That’s what we want this to be all about.”
“Isn’t ‘Just the Facts’ Byron Media’s thing?"
“That’s their slogan…" Ava shrugged. “But Carl - that’s our political editor
- he thinks it’s all about public image with the Group."
“Moses Byron is a very clever man who wants to be remembered as one of the good guys,” Jess opined.
“Exactly. So everything they publish is about making the Group look better. Our mission statement is the truth, no matter what the truth may be."
“That’s a mission that might get you buried,” Gabe warned her. “People aren’t rational and they don’t always like or want the truth.”
Ava shrugged. “What’s the worst that can happen?” she asked.
“…Nothing you can’t handle, I suppose,” Jess mused.
“I hope so,” Ava agreed. “We’ll just have to go for it and see. But don’t worry, I’m not going to stir up trouble. It’s all going to be about letting the ETs describe themselves and us in their own words.”
“Gaoians are a good start,” Gabe told her. “They’re generally well-disposed to us. You should get some opinions out of them that’ll make readers smile.”
“What about the others?”
“The Vizkittik. Are the most… cautious. They’ll probably give you some more, uh… less inspiring interviews. The Kwmbwrw are outright hostile to us, and in fact I think the handful we had are planning to emigrate now that more Gaoians are arriving. I think there’s a family of Locayl and a Qinis tailor…”
“I guess I’ll just get the bioscreen and a pass to the alien quarter, see if I can do some old-school, candid street voices stuff,” Ava decided.
“Could you see if you can get a piece on education in the alien quarter?” Jess asked. “I want to see how they compare to our own schooling.”
Ava held up her hands. “Please! I’m the new girl! I can only do so much! I can come up with any story I like, but what we actually publish is up to the editors.”
“It’s for my own interest, really,” Jess said. “I’ve got… well, a bit of a problem case. I suppose I was just hoping maybe the aliens have figured out how to deal with some of the things I haven’t.”
“When it comes to humans? I doubt it,” Gabriel muttered.
“Mm.” Jes nodded sadly and finished her coffee.
“Is there anything I could do, maybe?” Adam offered. “Admiral Knight’s been pushing for more community outreach. We’re supposed to look for chances to help people out…”
“Maybe. I’m… a little reluctant to involve either of you directly.”
“Why?” Ava asked.
“Because… well, it’s Jack Tisdale.”
Ava and Adam both nodded understanding and glanced at one another. Gabe knew that neither of them had managed to re-engage with Jack since the Tisdale family’s return to Cimbrean, which was a shame. He should have been their last link to his late sister, Sara, and they should have been the same for him… but it hadn’t happened.
“Lemme guess,” Adam said, quietly. “He’s getting into fights? Giving you attitude?”
“I don’t blame him,” Jess hastened to say. “He lost his sister and fourteen’s a tricky age anyway. But he keeps picking fights with bigger and older boys, and bless them they’re pretty good about it, but he’s going to get hurt if somebody doesn’t turn him around, and I’ve… well, I’ve done everything that I can.” She shrugged helplessly. “There’s only so far a teacher can go.”
Adam nodded. “I’ll talk with him when I… I tell you what, next time he gets in a fight, give him some alone time and call for me, I’ll come down if I can.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to put you-”
“It’s no problem, I promise,” Adam interrupted, kindly.
Jess sighed. “…Thank you, Adam.”
"De nada. I hope I can do something for him."
Ava’s smartwatch made a pinging sound, and a second after checking it she smiled hugely. “Oh hey! The website’s going up!”
“You’d better get into the office then,” Gabe told her.
“Uh-huh. We’re in for a busy couple of weeks… I’ll see you next Saturday?”
“Of course!” Jess gave her a hug and they shared a couple of familial cheek- kisses. “Always!”
Gabe was given similar treatment, and Adam got a hug sans the kiss, but it was still a big improvement on the first few awkward, strained breakfasts.
“I’ll wash up,” he said, looming upright and squeezing past into the kitchen. This was the easy job, seeing as Jess had insisted on a dishwasher.
Gabe was left to finish his coffee and sit back, feeling a good deal more relaxed and happy than he had in some months.
On the whole, life was going okay.
Date Point 10y7m AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Xiu Chang
There was no longer such a thing as a day off in The Box - after all, they wouldn’t get days off on the ship once it was in flight - but weekends were half days, with the afternoons and evenings there for relaxing and personal improvement. Unscheduled drills aside, they were usually pretty relaxing.
Inevitably, however, life in their tiny shared space wasn’t all paradise. The warning from their evaluators had been right - close proximity and little privacy unavoidably led to friction.
Mostly, it was little things. Even on her best behaviour and with tidying up after themselves being part of their routine three times a day, Allison still had an insuppressible slovenly streak. She tended to just leave her clothes where they fell whenever she undressed, rather than putting them in a laundry hamper that was at most ten feet away. She never made her bed, she just would not do the washing up properly and thoroughly, and she seemed to suffer no embarrassment at all from releasing the occasional cavernous fart, though a minor adjustment to their diet largely resolved that problem.
Julian meanwhile was… well, Xiu’s complaints about Julian were less reasonable, really. How could she fairly complain about her boyfriend being conscientious? Except that he was conscientious to a fault, constantly checking she was okay, trying to cheer her up if she was anything less than perfectly perky. If she was in the mood for it, his concern for her state of mind was touching. If she wasn’t - which was more common - she felt like he thought she was made of glass and cobwebs, ready to shatter and tear at the slightest wave of a hand.
He and Allison weren’t immune to spats and minor fights, either. There was never a raised voice between them, nor did it ever end in anything other than a reassuring kiss and reconciliation, but more days than not involved a minute or two somewhere when the energy between the two of them became strained.
Xiu stepped in one time when they were bickering about, as far as she could tell, nothing much at all. Allison had informed him of something mundane like that she’d refilled the liquid soap in the shower, he - being engrossed in a book about the history of naturalism and taxonomy - had grunted a distracted acknowledgement, she’d followed-up by informing him of which scent of soap she’d chosen and he had quite abruptly pointed out that he was reading.
This had resulted in a tense ten minutes, but the moment Xiu had meekly asked if they were okay, they’d both dropped everything to reassure her that they were absolutely fine and had all but tripped over in apologising to one another.
Later, Allison had opined that minor moments of tension were normal and healthy in a relationship. “After all,” she’d said, “we wouldn’t get upset if we didn’t give a fuck.”
Xiu tried to bear that in mind. For the most part it worked - she found it in her to start rolling her eyes and throwing Allison’s used shirts in the laundry with a smile rather than a frown. She gently confronted Julian and explained that constantly checking on her actually undermined her confidence and mood more often than not. He’d done a pretty good job of toning it down after that.
The real boulder in the road was sex. The revelation that Allison and Julian were permanently stuck on third base was a surprising one.
She and Julian talked about it when they had a rare moment alone together while Allison was out a little later than was usual on a Saturday, taking a couple of tests. Their studies and training for the day were all done, they’d finished the chores, and they were sitting on the couch just talking when that particular nugget of information came to her attention.
“So, you guys have really never gone the whole way?"
“It’s the baby thing.” Julian grumbled. “I mean, that rule’s been there right from the start with us. I guess I shoulda put together what happened with her before that Keating guy dragged it out of her…”
“But… I mean, we both got those implants and you had that, um, that injection…”
Long-term contraception had turned out to be part of the contract. Both the girls now had intramuscular contraceptive implants and Julian had suffered the rather less dignified solution of a vas-occlusive contraceptive injection. In theory, the injection of a sterile occluding foam into his vasa deferentia that would disintegrate naturally in three years, or which could be easily dissolved before then if he wanted, was supposed to be a quick, painless and uncomplicated solution to male contraception.
In practice, he’d spent a day or two walking and sitting in slightly funny ways, and constantly adjusting himself for comfort with a pained expression.
“Yup. 100% no chance of accidental babies whatsoever, and she’s still…” Julian sighed, and scowled at himself. “I mean, I know it’s her choice and if she says she’s closed for business then nobody else gets a vote. It’s just…"
Xiu nodded. “And she keeps hinting about you and me, um…” she tried to fight back her blush, which of course just made it worse.
“See, I don’t mind that.” Julian said. “You’re not ready yet, full stop. You’re not, uh, teasing me with going nearly the whole way and then stopping short, you know?”
“Right! But it really bugs me that she keeps pushing me, when she’s got this big hangup of her own…”
They nodded together and lapsed into thoughtful silence, which Julian broke a minute or two later.
“Should we… be talking about this without her here?” He asked.
“Shouldn’t we?” Xiu asked.
“I dunno, are we maybe talking behind her back? That doesn’t seem right…”
He had a point. “Maybe…” Xiu conceded. “You’re right. I guess I’d be kind of upset if I found out you two had been complaining about me without me…”
Julian gave a shifty clear of the throat. “Agh. Right… Sorry.”
“…You have?"
He raised his hands. “Not like anything major. just…"
“Julian!”
“I’m sorry!” He cleared his throat. “Okay, new rule, no two of us talk about the third when they’re not around”
“I think so!” She agreed.
She relented when Julian shrank a little, looking so much like a kicked puppy it was impossible to stay mad. She leaned over and kissed him. “…Sorry.”
He spread his arms and she scooted over to lie on his chest. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.
“…So I managed to irritate you guys?” She asked, after a while.
“Not really. Nothing important.” He promised.
“What was it about?”
He laugh-sighed. “You’re just gonna worry if I don’t tell you, aren’t you?” When she nodded against him, he nodded too and drew a thoughtful breath through his teeth. “Al was… it was about sparring practice. She felt you weren’t letting her progress fast enough.”
“She’s progressing really fast anyway!” Xiu looked up.
“Yeah, but you know how she is. She doesn’t slow down or relent, does she?”
“Ugh, yeah.” Xiu frowned. “Sometimes I just wanna tell her to…” she caught herself. “Wait, we’re complaining about her again.”
“Ah, shit…” Julian rubbed his scalp with the heel of his hand. “That’s harder in practice than in theory, isn’t it?”
“Well, what was your complaint about me?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Oh come on,” she pushed herself upright. “There’s got to be something I do that annoys you."
“Only when you’re being insecure,” he said, and smiled cheekily. “Like right now.”
“Sorry…”
He put his thumb and index finger under her chin and lifted her for a kiss. “We’re all fine,” he promised.
Reassured, Xiu snuggled down on his chest again.
She must have dozed off because she knows she’s dreaming. She’s on a grassy mountainside, overlooking a canyon-spanning steel bridge on a bright sunny day.
A dirt bike blitzes past from behind her and out over the bridge, bouncing over the ramps and wooden boards that have been laid on it - Motocross at altitude. As she watches, the rider makes a mistake, over-corrects, wobbles and the next ramp throws them high into the air to fall off the bridge and into the canyon.
Perspective shifts. Now she’s the rider, and she leaps off the bike with a whoop, pulling the cord on her parachute. She takes hold of the steering lines and aims herself down the mountainside. Trees, snow, grass and animals flash by below as she perfectly calculates the angle of descent, thrillingly close to disaster but never crashing. It’s the next best thing to flying.
Both of them woke with a small jump when the door opened. Allison threw her jacket onto the coat hooks, and waved to them. “Hey, lovers.”
“Hey!” Julian sat up.
Xiu stretched and checked the wall clock. They had napped for nearly an hour. Not surprising really, considering how permanently tired they all were from the constant education and training. “Hey…”
Allison hit the fridge and grabbed the orange juice. “Did I wake you?”
“Guess you did…” Julian agreed. “Hey, Al, we’ve kinda come up with a new relationship rule.”
She turned, pouring a glass. “Yeah?”
Xiu nodded. “We were thinking it’s a bad idea if two of us talk about the third when they’re not present.”
Allison blinked at them. “Did I do something to piss you off?”
“No, no. Not… nothing like that.” Julian said. “I was just… we were talking about the whole third-base only thing.”
“And I was saying you’ve been making me a bit uncomfortable lately, hinting about… you know, when I’m gonna be ready.” Xiu added.
Allison put the orange juice back in the fridge, slammed back the glass in one go and put it down. "‘Hi, Al! How was your day?’" she asked, exuding brittle sarcastic cheer.
“Come on, don’t be like that-” Julian protested, but Allison folded her arms.
“Be like what?” She asked. “I’ve had a shitty day! I came this close to fucking up that bend test I’ve been stressing about all week, I’ve got a head full of system integration jargon that I barely understand, and then the second I’m home, my boyfriend and my girlfriend gang up on me!"
She sighed, picked up her glass and took it to the sink to rinse it. “I’m sorry if I upset you, guys, but couldn’t this have waited? Let me get home and rest up a bit first?"
Xiu and Julian looked at each other awkwardly.
“New rule?” Xiu suggested.
“No ganging up.” Julian agreed.
Al leaned against the sink and tucked her thumbs into her belt loops. “Good rule.” She observed, testily.
“…Sorry Allison.” Xiu offered, while Julian nodded apologetically with her.
“It’s okay, it’s fine-” Allison waved a hand and exhaled. “You just managed to put the cherry on a shitty day cake, you know?”
“Sorry.” Xiu repeated herself. Allison smiled forgivingly, stepped forward, turned and threw herself over the couch’s arm to land with her head in Xiu’s lap.
“Hey, Julian?” She called.
“Yeah?”
“I know it’s my turn to cook, but I could really go for one of your steaks tonight…"
He chuckled and stood up. “Okay, I can do that.”
As he headed for the freezer to grab a couple of steaks for defrosting, Xiu gently ran her nails across Allison’s scalp. “That bad?”
Allison closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation. “You and a piece of steel have a lot in common,” she said. When Xiu paused, confused, she opened her eyes again and explained. “I can’t bullshit either of you. Either I’m welding it right or it breaks. Either my stance is right, or you correct me. It’s… frustrating.”
Xiu gave her a quick reassuring kiss. “You’re doing great,” she promised.
It occurred to her after the fact that it was the first time she’d actually kissed Allison, rather than being kissed by her. Al certainly didn’t fail to notice - she smiled hugely and relaxed. “Mm… Thanks,” she whispered. “I needed that.”
“More head scritchies?” Xiu offered.
“…Please…”
Xiu obliged, and, on a whim, whispered something for Allison alone to hear. “Wǒ ai nǐ.”
Allison stretched like a sleepy kitten. “Mmm… I dunno what that meant, but it sounded good.”
Xiu smiled. “It was,” she promised.
Date Point 10y7m AV
Michael Foale High School, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Adam Ares
Despite being a headteacher in charge of a few hundred pupils rather than the homeroom tutor in charge of just a handful as she’d been when Adam had been in her class, Jess had never got around to selecting a different look for the workplace. Long skirt, black cardigan, red scarf. It was her working uniform, and so iconic that whenever the kids wanted to poke affectionate fun at her, they never needed to work hard at it.
Possibly that was why Jess had stuck with the distinctive look. She had a policy of not taking herself too seriously at work, though she took the work very seriously indeed.
“Thanks for doing this, Adam.”
“Like I said, de nada. I hope I can help…"
Used as he was to the narrow hallways and corridors of HMS Sharman‘s administrative building, Adam was still feeling self-consciously huge as he followed his stepmom. Everything was just a little low, teenager-height or lower, and next to Jess’ slim, avian figure he was well aware that he cut a near-freakish figure.
He tried not to let it bother him when two wide-eyed girls in the school’s uniform of a light powder-blue polo shirt with a grey sweater stood aside to let them past, and then dashed away laughing and whispering to each other.
Jack Tisdale was lounging around in an empty classrom with his feet up on a desk, radiating dishevelled contempt for frivolities like the uniform. He’d found a tennis ball somewhere, and was bouncing it off the wall when they entered. Jess just sighed and confiscated it, even as Jack straightened up and adjusted his clothes, aware that something different was going on.
“…I’ll leave you two to talk,” Jess said, and made herself scarce.
Adam would have liked to sit down, but he was innately wary of furniture nowadays. None of the plastic seats were either large or strong enough. He settled for leaning against the door and folding his arms.
Jack stared at him for several long minutes. “…Jesus, Adam,” he declared at last. “Ava said you got big, but…”
“Yeah.”
“…Why are you here?”
Adam tilted his head. “To help out a friend.”
“Oh, what, Jess needs your help with the naughty kid?” Jack made a frustrated noise and stood up. He only looked rail-thin, Adam realised. On closer inspection he was carrying some respectable muscle definition on that skinny frame. It was doubtful he’d ever be strong, but he was certainly not as weak as a first glance might suggest. But he wasn’t strong either, as the scabbed wounds on his lip and eyebrow attested.
“Jess isn’t my friend, man. She’s my step-mom.”
“…We hardly know each other, we’re not friends.” Jack snapped, dismissively.
“Bullshit.”
Before Jack could reply, he’d been grabbed and pulled irresistibly into an Adam Ares Trademarked Hug. Not even Baseball could escape those.
“Get off! Get… Leggo! Got off me you big-Aagh!" Jack squirmed, fought, pushed, twisted and at one stage Adam guessed he maybe even tried biting.
Then he went still.
Then, very slowly, he hugged back.
Date Point 10y7m AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Allison Buehler
The treadmill in their living space was, cleverly, part of the couch. A hidden catch on the side of the couch allowed for the squishy-sitty-bit (as Xiu had named it) to be rolled back into the wall, revealing the treadmill’s deck, the handholds and controls of which simply lifted upwards and clicked into place.
Julian hated it. But then again, Julian disliked exercising full stop - he’d always kept in shape through labor, be it splitting firewood, clearing brush, landscape management, hunting, whatever. The need to actually put dedicated time and effort into his fitness was one he accepted, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Allison routinely had to order him onto the treadmill, or to pick up his weights.
She usually wound up doing her yoga practice nearby so as to encourage him.
The new titanium reinforcement in his foot turned out to have been such a minor change in the weight and balance of it that he’d adapted inside a day or two, much to his embarrassment, and it had improved his running gait impressively. Before, he’d had a kind of shuffling, cautious stride that favored his prosthetic and minimized the impact on its fragile synthetic “bones”.
With that concern repaired, he new loped along with a fluid, easy, toe-first stride that made surprisingly little noise, and he could keep it up all day.
Xiu meanwhile was showing off her disgusting core strength by doing one-arm toes-to-bar sets.
She wasn’t actually showing it off of course - that was an ordinary part of her routine - but every time Allison watched her do it, she felt a little inadequate. Her own fitness had improved dramatically under Dane’s guidance, and she could do toes-to-bar sets herself, but the one-handed ones just eluded her. She wound up swinging like a rung bell, whereas Xiu’s movement was smooth, controlled and precise.
Then of course there was the other part of their training day - station drills. The Box would occasionally produce one of four chimes, summoning one or all of them to their workstations. The idea being that no matter what you were in the middle of, you downed tools immediately, pausing only for fire safety or other danger concerns, and went straight to work.
The worst ones were when they went off at night.
Xiu let go of the bar the second her chime went off, gave them both a wave, and headed for her simulator with her sports drink in hand, toweling herself.
“Wanna bet we get an all stations chime in five minutes?” Allison asked, pushing her arms forward and her leg out into the Warrior III position.
“You’re on. Bathroom cleaning.”
“Urgh… take-back?” Allison hated cleaning the shower. It inevitably meant digging a sodden wad of dark hair that could have belonged to either Julian or Xiu - probably both - out of the drain trap.
“Not on your life.”
Allison sighed, breathed through her position for half a minute, then returned to a lunge. “Fine. You can clean the air filter then.” She said. Another of her ‘favorite’ jobs - the air filter in the actual ship would be there to extract dust from their atmosphere before it was processed through the life support system. The simulated one was full of icing sugar and glitter instead. Somebody in their simulation team had a sense of sadistic humor.
“Fair.” Julian conceded.
“Oh, hey, seeing as she’s not here…” Allison began.
“No complaining about Xiu behind her back, remember?” Julian said.
“No complaining, I swear!” Allison objected. “She just…”
“What?”
“D’you know what ‘Wo ai ni’ means?" Allison asked.
Julian turned his head slightly. “She said that to you?”
“Yeah…?”
Julian smiled warmly. “It means ‘I love you’."
“…That’s what I thought.”
“Is that a big deal? She’s said it before.” Julian pointed out.
“She’s said she loves us before. ‘I love you guys’, you know? This one was for me personally."
“So what’s the problem?”
Allison returned to a neutral stance and shook her limbs off. Now that the bar was vacant, it was her turn on it.
“It’s not a problem, it’s… I mean, you’re fine. Two girls, woohoo, right?"
“I guess…” Julian said, cautiously.
“Meanwhile for me it’s been like, ‘surprise, Allison! You’re gay now!’ which is… that takes some adjusting to," she sighed. “I’m not complaining, it’s great. But I kinda feel off-balance about it sometimes, you know?”
“You’ve really committed to it though. Got that cute butch haircut and everything…” Julian grinned evilly at her.
She ripped one of her sweatbands off her wrist and threw it at him. “This is not a butch haircut, you ass!"
In an impressive display of coordination, without breaking stride he juggled and caught it after it bounced off his shoulder. “You’re the ass, you butt," he retorted, tossing it back to her with a laugh.
She threw it at him again. “You’re the butt, dummy!"
The sweatband ping-ponged between them. “Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Nuh-uh!”
Laughing, Allison slipped the sweatband back onto her wrist. “Come over here and call me a butt to my face!”
He shook his head, still grinning. “No ma’am.”
She gasped, mock-scandalized. “Bad boy! How dare you not call me a butt?!"
“We need to finish our exercise or they’ll fail us and we won’t go to space,” he pointed out. “I don’t have time to call you a butt!”
She feigned grumbling. “Damn you and your… Sensible-ness.”
He chuckled. “You can punish me later.”
“I can, huh?” Allison gave him an appraising up-and-down.
“Well, I’m already cleaning that air filter for you, so I’m gonna be covered in glitter anyway…” He pointed out.
“Oh, now you’re just inviting me to be cruel." Allison said.
“You gonna actually exercise anytime today?” Julian asked, cheekily earning himself at least a one-point hike in that evening’s punishment.
“Fine, but you’re gonna regret taunting me, mister.”
He snorted. “Promises, promises…”
Date Point 10y7m AV
Michael Foale High School, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Adam Ares
“…like I’m this fragile, this… glass child that they’ve got to protect! Like they think I’m stupid enough to get myself shot too! You know?"
Adam nodded. The Trademarked Hug had worked its magic yet again, but the real trick was listening. He listened, he nodded, he let Jack get it out of his system. Really, all he’d done was to, as Sikes had once described it to him, unlock the paddock and let the colt run until it got tired.
All he had to do now was sit cross-legged on the floor, listen, and throw away everything he thought of saying. It wouldn’t do to try and talk Jack’s problems out, not yet. The poor guy was a crackling Tesla coil of anger with no clue where that anger should go. Now that it was spilling out of him, it was earthing itself everywhere, in the school, in Adam, in the world in general, in his parents, and in his late sister.
Adam could relate. After the first few hours of simply not being able to believe what had happened, he’d been furious with Sara. He’d felt guilty about it for a while, until he’d learned about the stages of grief and how anger was a natural part of the progression. One that Jack appeared to have got himself stuck on, and all of that energy needed to dissipate before anything Adam might say would be constructive.
Besides. Some of the things he was saying were painful to hear, and even managed to make Adam a bit angry, they hit so close to home.
But Adam was good at staying quiet, controlling his expression and listening.
Jack finished his tirade by hooking a foot under one of the classroom chairs and kicking it across the room.
“…Why am I even telling you this? You can’t even relate, can you? You’ve got your shit sorted out.”
A direct question got a direct answer. “Nah man. I’ve not got my shit sorted out at all.”
“Come off it!” Jack gave him an exasperated stare. "Look at you! You’re on TV escorting Gaoians and you’re meant to be, like, this badass super-soldier or whatever and you’re… I mean, how fucking strong are you?"
“Honestly? Bro, I’m the strongest man alive.”
“See?!”
“Dude. Do you know how fucked in the head you have to be to even try to become what I am? It feels great, but the price I pay is constant pain, not bein’ able to trust the furniture, I have the worst time finding clothes that fit, and I have to eat chicken and rice with supplements every goddamned hour." He gestured to the meal tote he was carrying with him to make the point. “Does that really sound like I’ve got my shit together?
“Whatever.” Jack flung himself into a chair and sulked some more.
Adam decided to change tack. “…Okay. Let’s say I do have it all sorted out,” he said. “I’ll give you that one. Let’s say I do. Man, I’m not asking for pity here or anything, but you know what kinda shit I went through. Ain’t no way anybody could blame me for being a complete fuckup, so why d’you think I’m not?"
“I dunno. Maybe you’re just special. Maybe you’re just lucky.”
That one got under Adam’s skin. ‘Lucky’? If there was any one word that simply didn’t fit his life, ‘Lucky’ was it.
He was still working on restoring his calm when Jack surprised him by wiping his eyes and clarifying. “I try," he said. “I thought perhaps I could… at least get strong, like Dad, or like you. Something. But I can’t even do that. Every time Dad goes to the gym I go with him, and after all this time I’m still this skinny, weak piece of nothing…"
“Bet you can swim like a fish, though,” Adam observed. “Me, I sink like a stone nowadays.”
“Great. I can swim." Contempt for that particular blessing oozed from every syllable.
Adam had to laugh a little. He would have liked to point out that swimming was a vital skill for a PJ, and that having sacrificed his buoyancy on the altar of raw strength he’d never properly dive again, which meant that he’d never again be a proper pararescueman. But, he was conscientiously trying to talk about Jack rather than himself. “Don’t knock it! Swimming is fuckin’ useful, bro!”
This did not seem persuasive to Jack, so he tried a slightly different angle.
“…Y’know… one of the people I admire the most is one of our NCOs. She ain’t big, she ain’t strong, she can’t do any of the shit I do. Her deadlift is, like, my hammer curl.”
Jack gave him the classic sulky teenage look. “…And?”
“And I can’t do any of the shit she can do.” Adam sat forward to make sure he was selling the point. “It’s not about what you can’t do, manito. Everybody in the world can’t do pretty much everything! It’s about figuring what you can do."
“What if what I can do is useless?”
“No such thing.”
Jack snorted skeptically.
“No, really!” Adam insisted. “My CO, he talks about the speartip. How me and the guys, we’re the sharp bit right at the end, and that’s the bit everyone’s scared of. Nobody ever thinks of being the long bit of wood behind that, but I tell you what, man: if you took the speartip off the end of that long bit of wood, all you’d have is just a crappy knife.”
“So what can I do, Adam?" Jack asked.
“Bro, you’ve got game. No, listen-" Adam raised his hand to shut off Jack’s sarcastic interjection. “Game counts for fuckin’ everything. You don’t just want to make a difference in life, you need to. Right?"
Slowly and cautiously, Jack nodded.
“Dude, I can’t just relate to that, that is… literally my whole life,” Adam told him. “It’d eat me up too if I thought there was nothing I could do, but there is. You just gotta find your direction and head that way. Guys like me, we ain’t lucky, we’re just a shitty-ass knife. It’s everybody else who makes us work."
Jack was silent for a long time. “…You really think I could do something?” he asked, at long last.
“Dude. You’ve got the kind of dedication that can do anything. You just need to figure out where to point it."
“…Could I… join the SOR?”
Adam took a deep breath. “For real? You won’t be an operator, and even if you could be I’d tell you no. Be smart and leave that shit for the dumb fucks like me! But man, I reckon you’d make a kick-ass support tech, and without the techs there wouldn’t be an SOR."
Jack pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded thoughtfully.
“Tell you what,” Adam offered. “You decide you wanna do this? I’ll talk with your mom and dad and we’ll get you on a training plan. I reckon we could surprise you. And you’d need to study really hard, there’s a lotta learning for a tech." He paused to consider, “Marty could prolly help a lot. She’s, like, at least as smart as I am strong. Hell, I’d bet she’d love to help! She’d be a hard teacher though… think you could handle it?”
“…Maybe.”
“No fuckin’ maybe,” Adam corrected him. “Either you set a goal and try, or you don’t. So here’s your’ fuckin’ goal, okay? Prove you’re worth my time. No more fights, no more making your teachers’ lives hell, you take all that anger and you put it to work."
“…Can you teach me how to fight properly?”
“Heh,” Adam chuckled, but he saw himself in that question and sobered quickly.
“I can,” he said. “When you earn it.”
Date Point 10y7m AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Xiu Chang
The “Yes ma’am” game was Xiu’s guilty thrill. Saying it, having it said to her, didn’t matter - it was fun.
Julian and Allison sometimes took it to another level, though.
Xiu would be the first to acknowledge that her experience with human sexuality was mostly theoretical. In fact, she would have said that she knew more about Gaoian sexuality than her own species’, were it not for the fact that Gaoians were so straightforward that describing their mating urges as “sexuality” was basically inaccurate.
This had been the inevitable cause of some difficulty when Xiu’s precious stash of Earth media - the one that Ayma had purchased for her - had turned out to include the film version of “Fifty Shades of Grey.”
Ayma and Regaari had naturally wanted to know why Xiu didn’t want to watch it with them, and had put on a fascinating display of bewildered ear-semaphore as she had squirmed, stammered and blushed her way through explaining the concept of BDSM - a subject on which she was scarcely better-educated than the Gaoians - and erotica in general.
What Al and Julian got up to wasn’t BDSM, or at least not as Xiu understood it. Neither of them seemed remotely interested in ropes, whips or silly toys. What they were interested in was that they would occasionally turn the “yes ma’am” game up to eleven and Julian would put his absolute faith and trust in Allison. He would invite her to use him, and Allison would obey.
What Xiu had noticed was that ‘obey’ was entirely the correct description. Despite the apparently subservient role he enjoyed playing, Julian was the one with the real power in their relationship: He could stop the game instantly with a word, and that was true in day-to-day life as well as in their intense sessions. He liked to pretend he was a meek and submissive plaything of his girls’… But every so often, when he was tired, stressed or horny, she caught a glimpse of the wary, wily, dangerous wolf of a man who lived under that sanguine exterior, playing at being a lapdog. A little scary and a lot exciting.
The problem Julian and Allison had run into was that the total lack of privacy and the multiple showers in their daily routines meant that nudity had completely lost its sting for all of them, even for Xiu. This had robbed Allison of a powerful tool for playing the game that Julian wanted to play, and their constant proximity had robbed them of space to push into new and more thrilling territory without violating Xiu’s comfort zones.
Now, that problem seemed to have reached a tipping point.
“So he dared you extra hard?”
Allison watched Julian thoughtfully. For now, he was still trying to comb glitter out of his hair, while the girls had a quiet conversation, pitched low enough that he shouldn’t be able to hear. “Babe, I love you… but Julian and I have had WAY less sex since you came along. We’re both horny as shit.”
“So have sex!” Xiu hissed. “We’ve been over this, I want you guys to."
“Yeah but… we all nest down on the floor every night together.” Allison pointed out. " It doesn’t feel right, banishing you back to your bunk…"
“Al…” Xiu touched her own forehead. “We’ve got to try and make this stuff normal for all our sakes. I want you two to have a healthy sex life even if I never manage.”
“You think you never will?”
Xiu shook her head emphatically. “No, I will. I will. I just need to ease into it, that’s all."
Allison nibbled thoughtfully on a fingernail. “…Babe, what is it about sex that makes you so nervous?” She asked.
Xiu just turned her head and touched a finger to the scar on her throat.
“…I’ve been wondering where you got that,” Allison confessed. “What happened?”.
Xiu knew her expression had gone cold. “This is where Zane had me against a wall, with a knife to my throat, and a hand… you know what? It doesn’t matter where his hand was - I didn’t want it there.”
“Jesus, baby….”
“It doesn’t matter.” Xiu repeated. “I love Julian, I trust him completely. But there’s nothing that kills my mood faster than flashing back to that moment…"
“No wonder you kicked that fucker’s ass like you did.”
“He deserved worse.” Xiu growled, and meant it.
“So does Julian… remind you of that?”
“Sometimes. When he’s…” Xiu glanced at their boyfriend, who’d apparently decided that he’d de-glittered himself as much as he practically could, and had now settled on his bunk to read a book. She lowered her voice to make sure he couldn’t hear. “…When he gets intense. You know? When he gives you that… hungry look?"
“…That’s when he’s sexiest!” Allison objected.
“Yeah!” Xiu agreed. “That’s the problem.”
“…Mixed signals?” Allison guessed. “It turns you on and takes you back at the same time?”
“Right.”
Julian looked up from his book. “Are you talking about me behind my back?” He asked.
“Let us scheme in peace, you!” Allison told him, with a grin. He chuckled and returned to his reading with a ‘yes ma’am’ and Allison treated Xiu to a wink.
A thought seemed to strike her. “What about me?”
“What about you?" Xiu asked.
“Do you have the same problem with me?”
Xiu shook her head. “No…?”
“Well, if you’re not ready for him…”
Xiu got what she was driving at and laughed. “Um… Al… I love listening to you and him. I think I’d like to watch sometime, and I want you to be there when I’m finally ready… And I really do love you… but I think I’m still basically straight.”
“I know, I know…” Allison agreed. “I know what you mean. I think I’m still basically straight too… but I am curious to know what it’s like."
Xiu laughed. “You’re incorrigible!”
“Just so long as you’re encourage-able.” Allison punned.
Xiu laughed some more, then quietened. “I guess?” She hazarded. “My life’s been so strange, I never know what’s going to happen next - Let’s face it, weirder things have happened to me.”
“You were abducted by aliens, you’re legally a Gaoian, and now you’re training to fly a spaceship.” Allison nodded. “I’m just saying, next to all that…”
“I’m not saying ‘no’." Xiu hastened to tell her. “I’m just saying… let me work up to it. Okay?”
“More than fair." Allison smiled.
“Still…” Xiu put a finger to her cheek and stared thoughtfully in Julian’s direction.
“What?”
“I dunno… I’m just thinking that perhaps I should start taking charge. Like… I didn’t get better at my fitness, my gung fu, my piloting or at learning Gaori by just sitting back and wishing it would happen, did I?"
“You’re right.” Allison agreed. “And it’ll be the same with your sex life, babe. If you want to have one, you’re gonna have to work on it… crawl-walk- run, right?”
Xiu reached a decision.
“Okay.”
Allison’s eyebrow arched upwards. “Okay?”
“Okay… let’s work on it.”
Looking distinctly like the cat who’d just talked a mouse out of its hole, Allison sat forward and ran her tongue across her teeth. “…What do you have in mind?” She asked.
Date Point 10y7m AV
The Alien Quarter, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
Human access to the alien quarter was strictly controlled: Ava didn’t get in at all without proving she was up-to-date on her Frontline treatments, declaring her reason for visiting, logging her itinerary, passing through a decontamination biofilter force-field, and donning a tracker that reported her position to CCS and timed her stay, up to the maximum duration of four hours.
Fortunately, her press credentials - and, frankly, her name - helped her with the declaration and itinerary part. Gabriel would have been furious if the CCS checkpoint officers had explicitly shown favoritism to their boss’ daughter, and he’d have been disappointed in Ava had she exploited it, but they were allowed to be a model of manners and polite helpfulness. Her trip through the checkpoint was uneventful, even if the biofilter did make her teeth feel funny and made her ear piercings tingle.
Once through, and with the tracker on its lanyard politely ticking away her precious two hundred and forty minutes, the first step was getting some pictures. She unholstered her camera and ran a practiced eye over the architecture, looking for interesting angles, framing, lighting, or places where she could achieve something interesting with depth of field.
There had been some civil complaints when the Quarter had been walled off. People had made alarmed noises about ghettoization and even apartheid, but the harsh reality of biology had made a physical barrier delineating where in here ended and out there began not only necessary, but inevitable.
On the outside, the human side, every effort had been made to hide it or, where that wasn’t possible, to ensure that it wasn’t an ugly wall. Buildings butted up against it, planters and trees obscured it, and in the places where the pedestrian precincts of the town center exposed it, it had been given over to artwork. One section was even the back wall of a public stage.
The ETs made no such attempt to sweep the wall under the rug. It was there, it was stark, and it was solid, as if they quite sensibly wanted a constant reminder that the well-meaning people on the outside of that wall could accidentally kill them all.
Ava mentally scribbled a note to use that thought in whatever article her visit produced.
Everyone knew where the checkpoint and sole access to the Quarter was: It fronted onto Riverside Park a stone’s throw from the Multi-Faith Center. The idea was to facilitate human/ET mingling, and it largely worked. The black- and-white-robed furry Brothers of Clan Starmind ambling back and forth between the Quarter and the Center, often deep in conversation with a human counterpart from Folctha’s small Sōtō monastery, were such a familiar sight in that part of the park that they’d long since ceased to be a joke and were now just part of Folctha’s culture.
Ava had never told anybody that Father Gyotin had only discovered Zen Buddhism thanks to her. She hadn’t expected it to go so far - the common knowledge had been that ETs tended to view human religions with a kind of bewildered incomprehension. When she’d pointed Gyotin towards the shelf containing the Buddhist literature, she’d never imagined that six years later there would be Gaoian monks earnestly sweeping the gravel paths.
The area inside the gate was an extension of the park, but with alien architecture and alien plants, carefully imported and protected from the native life by the forcefield roof that capped the whole wall. That forcefield was one of Folctha’s major municipal power sources, and doubled as a biofilter and a way of keeping the imported birds and bats from getting in. Under its aegis, alien insects flitted between alien flowers, and were snacked on as the foundation of a small but balanced alien food chain.
One of a pair of Vzk’tk croaked something at her as they daintily passed, and she hastily turned on the translator built into her tracker.
“I’m sorry?” she asked.
“I said ‘good afternoon’." the Vzk’tk replied.
“Oh! Well, good afternoon to you too.”
The slender blue alien nodded his head slowly and carried on his way alongside his partner. Ava grabbed a snapshot of them going, framing their gracile silhouettes against the pale grey solidity of the wall.
She spent the first of her allotment of safe hours ambling around the Quarter, taking it in and recording what she saw, swapping lenses often, playing with filters, lighting and framing. She paid special attention to the banners and fabrics that hung from the buildings, and to the buildings themselves.
Ava had read up on architecture to help her with her photography, and decided that the ET edifices lived somewhere in the general neighborhood of Expressionism, minus the concrete Cold War obduracy and with a subtle stretching quality which reflected the fact that several alien species were twice as tall as a human, or even more. The buildings were all high-sided, curved and slender, and adorned with hanging banners. Brightly colored canopies were strung between them so that they sheltered the streets from the nightly rains and made them glow with inherited colour when the sunlight diffused through.
The newly-arrived Gaoian females clearly had their own ideas about how their commune was going to look, though. Half-built though it was, it already stood out simply by being wood-framed, though its horseshoe shape and lines complimented rather than clashed with the general form of the buildings around it. Ava took a liking to it immediately - it was a distinctive landmark in a district where for the most part the best way to tell streets apart was the hue of the canopy. Pretty though the Alien Quarter’s streets were, they were a bit repetitive for her tastes.
A pair of cubs rampaged past her as she got close, followed by a resigned- looking Mother who was carrying far too many bags and barking at them to stand upright. “You’re not four-pawed animals!” she called. “Stand up straight!”
She met Ava’s amused eye, flicked both her ears in a gesture of maternal frustration that effortlessly ignored the species barrier and made Ava giggle, and carried on about whatever errand she was pursuing.
“I’m sorry, ma’am?” Ava called. The Mother turned. “I’m looking for a Sister Myun?”
“You’ll find her easily,” the Gaoian replied. “She’s the brown-furred pregnant one.”
“Thank you.”
Myun was indeed very easy to find. She was lying under the shade of an imported tree, watching a video on the holographic HUD that was projected in front of her eyes by the device clipped to her ear, and even though Ava was no expert on Gaori body language, she looked bored out of her mind.
She perked up on realising she had company, and even more so when she realised that she had human company.
“Oh! Hello!”
Ava smiled - the translator had given Myun a youthful alto voice that neatly matched what she could hear of her actual speech. “Hi!” she introduced herself, offering a hand. Myun shook it with the confident air of an ET who was actually fairly familiar with humans. “I’m Ava.”
“Myun.”
“Oh good, you’re exactly who I was looking for!”
Myun rolled onto four-paws and stood up, dusting off her fur. “I am?”
Ava ’mm-hmm’ed , and produced her press ID. “I’m with ExtraSolar News Network. I was hoping I could talk to you, maybe get your thoughts on some things?”
“The news? I’m not really very important…”
“That’s okay, I don’t interview really important people.”
Myun’s ears turned to the absolutely adorable angle of a Gaoian trying to suss out human weirdness, and Ava decided an elaboration was in order.
“I’m doing what’s called an ‘interest piece’," she explained. “I want to hear your story, help our readers see into your life a little and maybe gain some perspective and understand the world a little better.”
“That sounds… good?” Myun hazarded. “But why me?”
“Oh! My dad’s the chief of colonial security. I was talking with him this morning and he mentioned that you’ve already taken a motion to the Thing about making fusion swords legal on a security license?”
“That’s right.”
Ava beamed encouragingly. “Well, I thought ‘that sounds like a really interesting story’ so I came to see if you’d be okay with talking to me for a bit."
“…Okay!” Myun decided. “Can we walk and talk? I’ve been sitting around for too long and I find that walking around settles my cub…” she patted her belly, fondly.
“Sure! But if it’s okay, could I just get you to sign this, quickly?” Ava dug in her bag, grabbed her tablet and called up the Gaori version of ESNN’s release form. Myun peered at it.
“Consent form…” she read.
“Just to say that you’re okay with me recording our conversation and maybe editing it a bit for our magazine. We’re keen on ethical journalism at ESNN so you’ll get a chance to look at it before we put it up for the public, and if there’s anything you don’t like the editor can work with you. Okay?”
Myun duck-nodded as she read, then signed the form by writing her name.
“Thanks.” Ava put the tablet away, and deftly made sure her smartwatch was recording as they began a slow, ambling walk around the commune grounds. “So, congratulations on the cub. Are you getting close?”
“Any day now. He’s wriggling away in there,” Myun chittered and rubbed her belly again. “This is my first, and he should be a strong one, too.”
“And you’re… how old?”
“I’m eighteen Gaoian years old,” Myun revealed. “In human years, I think that’s… about fifteen.”
“By human standards, that’s a very young age to have a child…” Ava told her. “In fact that’s below Folctha’s legal age of consent.”
“By Gaoian standards, it’s about average. We grow up more quickly.”
“Are you planning to have more?”
Myun imitated a human shake of her head, then remembered she was speaking to a microphone. “Eventually, in a few years. I want to study humans and human culture first.”
“Is that why you came to Folctha?”
“Oh yes!” Myun duck-nodded enthusiastically. “When I was offered the chance I just knew I had to pounce. Ever since I was a cub I’ve been a… you have a word, fangirl?"
The English word sounded a little mangled coming from a Gaori mouth in a strong accent, but Ava had to resist the urge to laugh. “Why is that?” she asked.
The answer she got was much longer, and much more surprising, than she could ever have predicted.
Date Point 10y7m AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Julian Etsicitty
“Hey, Etsicitty.”
Allison’s flirtatious mood hadn’t abated through the day. In fact it had only improved after her quiet conspiracy session with Xiu earlier in the evening.
Using his surname was a sure sign that she had something in mind for him, which was always an exciting prospect.
“Yes ma’am?”
“Make the nest up for us, willya?”
Julian wilted a little. The nest was comforting, loving and happy, but it was only for sleeping in. “Yes ma’am.” He obeyed, resigning himself to another restless night.
Xiu grinned at him, taking her hair out of the bun she’d been wearing all day. “Good boy.”
Hope immediately rekindled itself, even stronger than before. Xiu joining in? That was new… and a thrilling thought.
He hurried to get the blankets, sheets and pillows down and arranged. The girls beamed at each other.
“Very efficient.”
“Mm. He’s a good boy, isn’t he?”
“…Too good. He wants something. Don’t you Etsicitty?"
Hearing Xiu use his surname like that dispelled any doubt. He was in for a treat tonight.
“…Yes ma’am.” He said, truthfully.
Allison pushed gently on his chest. “Sit down.” She ordered. Julian obeyed. The light pressure of her hand told him she meant for him to sit in the nest.
“Sit on your hands.” She instructed. Julian swallowed, feeling his pulse really start to get up, and did as he was told. “…And don’t you dare move." Allison added.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek and then whispered in his ear. “…enjoy the show.”
That done, she whipped away from him. She and Xiu met with a quick kiss and a mutual smile, and they started to dance together, hands on each other’s waists, hips swaying. It was a little awkward on Xiu’s part, but while she may have been lacking in practice, she didn’t seem to be lacking in willing.
Julian gritted his teeth and fidgeted on his hands - already he was beginning to feel the need to adjust his pants and create some extra freedom down there
- but Allison had been explicit: No moving.
Allison pulled her t-shirt off and tossed it at him, leaving it draped over his shoulder. Blushing furiously but clearly enjoying herself, Xiu wiggled delightfully out of her sweatpants, which were thrown into Julian’s lap. She posed for him with a hand on her cocked hip while Allison - who after all had more erotic experience - made an even more aesthetically pleasing show of bending over and shedding her own sweats, which she then kicked into his lap
The piece de resistance was when Allison took hold of Xiu’s shirt and slooowly peeled it off her. Julian couldn’t tell if Xiu’s laughter was from embarrassment or being tickled, but it made that toned tummy of hers undulate beautifully.
Allison, cruelly, then put the shirt over his head so that he couldn’t see a thing, knotting it at the back to keep it in place.
Leaving him sitting there, covered in their clothes was one thing, but when he heard - and, indistinctly through the fabric, could almost see - them strip out of their underwear and vanish giggling into the shower together… Well, that was just downright cruel.
The restrictions affecting his own pants were getting decidedly painful at this point, and his predicament wasn’t helped by the fact that Xiu’s shirt smelled beautiful…
His imagination ran riot. They probably weren’t in the shower for long, but it felt like a minor eternity, especially because he knew how small that shower was, and how close-pressed two people would be if they tried to use it at once… In the dark and quiet with the tantalizing perfume of clean female perspiration filling his world, his mental cinema played a highlight reel of skin and soap.
God the shirt smelled amazing…
When the door opened and they emerged, he faced the worst challenge so far. He knew what they both looked like fresh out of the shower of course, but by now he was so worked up that his desire to rip off the blindfold and look was almost more powerful than his desire to see what they would do next.
“Oh, he’s been a good boy…" Xiu’s voice. Deeper than usual, a little huskier, with a waver of what could only be nerves.
Allison laughed that laugh - the low wicked one that promised good things for his immediate future. “He has…” she agreed. “Stand up, Etsicitty.”
Heart pounding and mouth dry, Julian obeyed. He gasped as somebody’s fingertips trailed down his chest and squeezed him, just for a second, through his pants. The contact lasted only a second, before a warm towel was placed gently in his hands.
“No touching. Just the towel.” Xiu warned.
“We’re soaking wet." Allison added.
Shaking with pent-up arousal, Julian gulped and obliged. He spread the towel wide and, when one of the girls stepped into it, he dutifully but carefully scrubbed her dry. The idea, he knew, was that he shouldn’t know who he was touching, but he could tell - her strong curves and nervous breathing gave her away. Blindfolded and through a towel though it might be, this was the first time Xiu had invited him to enjoy her, an invitation he accepted gently and respectfully.
When he was given a second dry towel and guided onto the other body, he knew he’d been right. Allison was a different shape, longer and leaner, and she shimmied and moved against the towel more confidently, allowing him to linger on her butt and breasts, demanding him to be more enthusiastic.
Too soon, the towel was taken away. “No more touching.” Allison ordered. “Hold. Still.”
Julian swallowed and did as he was told, which was a challenge when he distinctly felt one pair of hands on his hips pull his pants down, and another pull his shirt up from behind - he lifted his arms to help her strip him. That latter pair, judging from the angle, belonged to Xiu, who hugged him around his waist and kissed his spine while Allison removed his boxer briefs. Her skin felt warm, soft, fragrant and damp against his.
“Have fun,” she whispered.
Allison took his hand and led him to the shower. He stumbled along behind her, hard as a hammer-handle, and took a last breath of the shirt as he felt her undo it. It made sense not to get it wet in the shower, but he would have liked to enjoy that scent just a little longer…
The moment his head was free, Allison pushed him into the shower and followed him in.
Julian had been right: Two people in the shower were inevitably pressed right up against one another. Allison slithered past him with a wicked smile, turned the water on, then squeezed some soap into her palm.
When she pressed that palm to his chest, the cold soap sent a thrill through him. A thrill that she sustained by slowly smearing it down his chest, down his belly…
He shut his eyes and wondered whether she’d done something similar to Xiu. He doubted it… but it was a pleasant mental image.
A slippery hand wrapped around his cock, and Allison nibbled hungrily on his neck before whispering in his ear.
“Let’s get you nice and clean…”
Xiu Chang
Julian and Allison were in the shower for a long time, which gave Xiu some welcome mental space first to dry her hair, then to meditate, then to lie on her back and gaze thoughtfully at the ceiling.
What they’d done had been… scary. Thrilling, fun, erotic and liberating… but scary. If it hadn’t been her idea, she might have backed out earlier than she did.
Instead, she was proud of herself. Blindfolding Julian had completed the illusion of his being under their thumb, which had made the whole situation feel more… controlled. The lazy wolf in him that made her anxious hadn’t been so visible any more.
Being given a little alone time had been an important part of the plan. With that time, she’d been able to meditate and really claim the headspace of enjoying those first steps, and to congratulate herself on making what felt like serious progress. The circling vulture of her anxiety wasn’t gone - it would never be gone - but a little mental territory had been retaken from it, which was the most difficult first step.
That done, she lay back and basked. There was one last part of the plan still to come, but she was ready, and even looking forward to it.
The shower door finally slid open and her two lovers emerged hand-in-hand in a billow of water vapor, both looking substantially more relaxed than they had in some days.
Julian did a double-take worthy of a silent black-and-white comedy film when Xiu stood up, still nude, and took the last clean towel off the rack so that she could dry him, just as he’d done for them. Allison gave her an encouraging smile from behind him as she did so.
“Better?” She asked.
“Amazing.” Julian closed his eyes - apparently he enjoyed the feeling of being toweled down. “Are you okay?”
She rewarded his concern with a tender kiss, then towel-tousled his hair. “I had fun!”
“Less nervous now?”
Xiu nodded, but she also swallowed. “Bear with me?”
He hugged her close. “Of course.”
Allison finished towelling herself off and scrubbed her hair out, leaving it lying wild. “That was fucking hot, though,” she observed. “You wouldn’t know it was Xiu’s idea, would you?”
“Don’t tease her, Al.” Julian smiled, as Xiu’s trademark blush reasserted itself.
Allison gathered the towels and put them in the laundry. “Ah, alright, no teasing.” She glanced over her shoulder as she restocked the dry towels. “For tonight.”
“I think that’s the most we can ask for.” Julian said to Xiu.
She giggled. “Very fair. Come on you two. I wanna be in the middle tonight.”
Allison and Julian looked at each other, laughed and nodded.
“Yes ma’am.” they chorused.
Date Point 10y7m3d AV
Mrwrki Station, Uncharted System, Deep Space
Kirk
Lewis had a flair for starship design. It was a truism of ship assembly all over the galaxy that form and function had a largely adversarial relationship. Sanctuary certainly hadn’t been pretty. Its most prominent feature by far had been the enormous generator at its stern, so large that the rest of the ship had seemed to almost be an afterthought.
What Lewis had made, however, was something truly beautiful, and the fact that Kirk was reading its specification with a mounting sense of awe just made him wonder how the conventional wisdom of starship design had gone so wrong.
The new ship was half Sanctuary’s size and a third of the mass. It wasn’t built for rescue and recovery of stranded humans - it was built to get from place to place very quickly indeed while affording its lone occupant not only a reasonable degree of luxury, but more importantly a significant degree of protection.
Lewis was waxing poetic about the shielding systems. “See, the thing with forcefields is that there’s not actually any reason for them to drop in response to incoming firepower, it’s just that if you dump too much energy into them too quickly, it overloads the emitter circuitry,” he explained.
“Well known,” Kirk agreed.
“And the limiting factor on how much punishment a shield can take is how quickly it can pass on that absorbed energy and get rid of it. You ever play hot potato?”
“No, but I understand the principle.”
“Traditionally,” Vedreg observed, “the absorbed energy is stored in the shield capacitors and re-radiated as a flash of light.”
“Yup! So I thought, man, that’s a fuckin’ waste. The field surface can radiate at just the same intensity it can absorb, and it can do so as a coherent beam, and it can aim that beam if you do some tricksy things with interference."
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that… I mean, sure, okay, the shields aren’t any tougher than they’d usually be for a ship this size, but the ace up their sleeve is, every time some asshole shoots this ship he gets a gamma laser pulse coming straight back at him powered by the energy of his own weapon.”
The two nonhumans stared at him in dumbfounded silence for a second.
“You… weaponized the defensive systems. Only a human…” Vedreg rumbled.
Lewis grinned. He never bothered to hide his teeth. “Best defense is a good offense!”
“Again, only a human would think like that.”
“It ain’t perfect. Like I said, there was nothing I could do about the fact the emitter circuitry gets hot and eventually fails, and the laser ain’t as powerful as the attack that powered it ’cause thermodynamics says ‘Hell the fuck no’, but… it’s a nasty surprise at least."
“I am more interested in the speed,” Kirk said. “It cruises just as fast as Sanctuary, and you promise a million times the speed of light in an emergency? How?! The only reason Sanctuary was so fast was because of its power core."
“A power core we barely used a third of,” Lewis noted. “What you’ve got in here is a happy little Kwmbwrw quantum stack that’ll sit comfortably at a half-megalight on eighty percent output, and’ll run at ninety-nine percent forever without trouble. Plenty’a spare power for ship systems, and that stack’s only about as big as Vedreg, so, WAY smaller than Sanctuary’s core."
“And the emergency speed?”
“Capacitors, dude! Tied into the shield, too, so if you’re taking a beating and need to fuck off outta there? Just turn off the Fuck-You Beam and convert incoming firepower to more juice for the engines.”
Again, Vedreg and Kirk turned to each other in the vain hope that maybe the other one had reached some unexpected epiphany about deathworlders in general, and Lewis in particular.
“…Is there anything you haven’t tried to use the shields for?" Vedreg asked.
“Uh… Food preparation?”
“I see.”
“Aaaanywho. Happy with it?”
Kirk examined the ship. All of the numbers and Lewis’ promises were simply incredible, but the part that really took his breath away was that it was elegant. Without there being a spare or unnecessary hint of decoration on it, its clean metallic lines and sleek, cetacean shape brought out everything that was aesthetically pleasing in a ship built for a function.
“…I am delighted,” he said, honestly.
Lewis did a happy jigging dance on the spot.
“So. Only thing left is to name it,” he declared. To Kirk’s surprise, he produced a glass bottle from one of his pockets, full of a transparent amber liquid.
“What is that?” Vedreg asked.
“Dude, literally the first thing I built was a still and shoved some Rhwk- fruit in there. This is, uh…" Lewis turned the bottle thoughtfully in his hands. “… I guess it’s kinda like a brandy or something. But, we ain’t got any champagne, so this’ll have to do.”
“Champagne?”
“Gotta sacrifice a bottle’a booze on the nose when you name a ship. That one goes right back to… fuck, the Romans? Earlier?”
“…Humans are very strange.”
Kirk chuckled, deep in his throat. “Let him have his ritual, old friend.”
“Very well. What are you naming it, Lewis?”
Lewis hefted the bottle thoughtfully. “Tough call,” he said. “I thought… the Rubicon, the Second Stage, the Bodhisattva, the Mary Jane, the Choose For Me… none of them quite fit."
“Indeed,” Kirk agreed, drily. Three of those names had no translation to Domain, and thus were utterly unpronounceable to him.
Lewis chuckled. “So I figured I’d name her in honor of her mission. She’s here to carry on Sanctuary’s work, after all. So…" He hefted the bottle one last time, then hurled it at the ship’s prow, where it burst, showering the front of the ship in alcohol and broken glass. “I name this ship Momentum. May she serve us long, and well."
Kirk nodded, approvingly.
“Amen,” he said.
Date Point 10y7m3d AV
Byron Group headquarters, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
Most days, Kevin had the luxury of sauntering into work at his groomed and composed best at a leisurely 9am, full of excellent coffee, hickory smoked back bacon and all the other privileges that came with having a job where the annual bonus was six figures long.
The price of all that luxury and success was occasionally having to scramble into work before the sun was even properly up, with a belly half full of a breakfast muffin from the drive-thru and chewing gum in lieu of brushing his teeth.
Rachael, as ever, was as prim and perfect as an actress, but then again her work day began before the boss’ did. Kevin knew for a fact that she earned slightly more than he did, and in his sincere opinion even that really wasn’t enough: Working miracles sixty hours a week deserved a seven figure bonus, minimum.
“Good morning, Kevin!” She gave him that same bright smile that Kevin still couldn’t quite believe was genuine. If it wasn’t genuine, she was the best in the world at faking it, but nobody could be so perky so early, surely?
The good news was that if she was smiling, then whatever Byron had summoned him for wasn’t an immediate emergency, just something he was keen to pounce on.
“Hey,” Kevin yawned. He straightened his collar and checked his cuffs were buttoned. “Okay, what’s your secret, seriously?”
“I go to bed early and enjoy my weekends,” Rachael smiled. She handed him a tablet.
“What’s this….?” The tablet was logged in to a news website. Kevin frowned at the headline. “Hmm… ‘Humble Hero: The Gaoian first contact story.’ by Ava Rios."
Rachael waved her hand for him to keep reading, and Kevin did so, aloud.
“Uh… ‘There’s scarcely a single news article about Gaoians that fails to mention Vancouverite abductee Xiu Chang’ - ah shit - 'or describe how she was adopted into the Clan of Females. It was this act of kindness that laid the foundation for the human race’s warm relationship with Gao, but the story of how miss Chang originally arrived on their planet has never been clear…'."
He shut up and skimmed through the article as quickly as he could read, pausing only to mutter to himself. “Yeah, that’s a Corti move a’right… Ohhh. Full-strength kick to a Locayl? Yeah, that’d wreck his day… Jesus H. sister- kissin’ Christ, she beat up an Allebenellin bare-handed?!”
“Moses didn’t buy that one,” Rachael observed.
Kevin snorted, and ran his thumb down the bridge of his nose. “I do. Girl’s got a right straight on her that’d knock a steer on its ass.”
He put the tablet down. “What’s Moses make of this?” he asked.
“Mixed,” Rachael said. “Go ahead and talk to him about it.”
“Yaaay…” Kevin sighed, “Hey, if you can spare the time, I’d sure appreciate if you could have someone bring up a decent coffee…”
Rachael nodded. “Sure!”
“’Kay. Here we go…”
Moses in fact was in a wry mood. He was sat back at his desk with a thumb tucked into his belt buckle, reading something on a tablet. As Kevin came in, he put the tablet down and took off his reading glasses. “I take it Rachael had you read this morning’s news?” he asked.
“I take it you asked her to make me?”
Moses chuckled, and gestured for Kevin to sit. “I’m a little unhappy," he revealed.
“Why so? Seems like good PR to me, we’ve got Vancouver’s Humble Hero on the payroll…”
“Yeah, except she and her paramours were about to be dropped from the EV program.”
Kevin inclined his head with a frown. “…They were? I thought they’d passed every test so far?”
“Barely,” Moses grunted. “Sure, three of the other groups failed out entirely, but the ship’s ready to start live training this week, and we were gonna give it to the group with the highest test scores. And… well, they ain’t it. They’re good, they’re damn good. They’re in second place! But Lee, Sullivan and Ackermann are just that little bit better."
They were briefly interrupted by Rachael, who smoothly delivered a couple of steaming hot coffees on a tray and vanished. Kevin had no idea how she’d summoned them so quickly, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“That’s… disappointing,” he revealed, grabbing one of the drinks as if she’d filled it from the fountain of youth. “I really had my hopes pinned on them.”
“Yeah, well, you get your way anyway.” Byron flicked the tablet on his desk with a slight sneer. “This dagburn article’s gone all viral and every news organisation out there, including mine, wants to interview her. I’d have to be crazy not to mine that publicity for every nugget!" He threw up his hands in a gesture of irritated surrender. “So, the second-place horse wins the rosette.”
Kevin’s sense of justice overrode his fondness for the trio in The Box. “That’s kinda unfair on Lee, Sullivan and Ackermann, boss… Even if Eleven’s a wilder success than we ever hoped, how long is it gonna be ’til we build Twelve? Three or four years, minimum?”
Byron grunted and sipped his coffee. “Eleven came in under budget,” he said. “I might just pay for the twelfth one outta my own pocket. I still believe in the idea, but the accountants…” He laughed bitterly. “Well, they don’t get to tell me what I do with my money after all."
“You could overrule them anyway…” Kevin pointed out.
“Life advice, Kevin: If you’re paying somebody to advise you, then listen to ’em or pretty soon they’ll be advising some other fella.”
Kevin had to nod to that. “I’m gonna float that ad campaign idea again, then,” he said. “Get those kids in front of a photographer, shove ’em on all the corporate recruiting material.”
“Yeah, make it happen. And, uh, prep the kids in the Box to go meet their new ride, willya?”
“I can do that.” Kevin drained his coffee and stood. “Anything else?”
“You’ll explain to the assessors and examiners that the test results are confidential, right?"
Kevin chuckled. “I can remind them.”
“Good.” Byron ran a thoughtful tongue across his teeth then nodded. “See you in the hangar tomorrow. And… don’t let ’em know. I wanna see their expressions.”
Kevin chuckled. “That’s just mean.”
“Man’s gotta get his fun somehow,” Byron drawled. “Thanks, Kevin.”
“Later, boss man.”
Date Point 10y7m4d AV
Clanless work market, Aney Shen City, Planet Gao
Champion Genshi of Whitecrest
“Whitecrest! Hey, Whitecrest! Freelance trader with my own ship! You need Weapons? You need shields? Transport? All services!”
“Accountant! Get your finances in order! Accountant!”
“Communications engineer here! Networks built and maintained for board and sponsorship!”
“Finest groomer on the continent! Females like a well-groomed male! Special Clan rates!”
Being obviously a Clan male had both benefits and downsides when rubbing shoulders with the Clanless majority. Most of them subtly got out of Genshi’s way - everyone respected the Clans after all, and the males selling their skills and services in Aney Shen market had every reason to stay in the Clans’ collective good graces. They were the biggest employers, after all.
Which of course meant that Genshi, who wore his Clan’s trademark white crest with so much pride that he’d grown it out until it was just as long as his ears, also got yelled at by every worker looking for a job. Anonymity wasn’t an option.
Not that it had been for years. Nor was it the objective.
Aney Shen was home to the One-Fang clan enclave, which made it a thriving spaceport for good measure. Every few minutes the double-hammer of a sonic boom could be heard behind the hubbub of professional Clanless hawking their skills, the thrum of goods vehicles and stevedore drones, the noisome sizzle of street food vendors and the jingles and slogans put out by every advertising billboard.
Transports, light freighters, cargo lifters and passenger shuttles were all part of the sonic texture of the place. A far cry from the relative serenity of Wi Kao with its parks, plazas and the large female commune.
Genshi quite liked it, to visit: It was busy, noisy, fun. But he would have hated to live there.
He found the workhouse he was looking for down its own alleyway just off the market. Workhouses were a simple idea - mass board and lodging for a very modest fee - and they were ubiquitous. Millions of Clanless males lived their whole lives in them quite happily. They had a kind of Clannish atmosphere all their own, and in fact were usually owned and run by a Clan as a steady source of both income and workers.
This one was operated by the One-Fangs, and he was ushered upstairs by the Brother standing at the door, into a Clan private suite that overlooked the eatery, which was being cleaned by some of the younger residents.
The only ones present were himself, the young One-Fang Brother, and the one he was here to see. Private and quiet, and undeniably one side’s territory. A good place for an unofficial meeting of Champions.
Champion Hiyel was everything a One-Fang should be. That was, after all, the whole point of Champions - they embodied the Clan both genetically and in terms of the ideals and expertise it strived for. So, Genshi was unscarred, lean and upright with a sophisticated and well-groomed demeanor. His good friend Daar of the Stonebacks was the functional opposite, a hulking short- furred lacerated brown brute with an irrepressible boisterous nature and a scandalizing contempt for the trappings of sophistication.
Hiyel lived somewhere between those extremes. Scarred, physical and intense, but also upright, slender and civilized. A balanced contrast in opposites, and dangerously shrewd. He had, after all, helped Genshi with his Regaari problem by asking for help with the Racing Thunder problem. Now it was time to compare notes.
“All is well?” Genshi asked, politely.
“Very well indeed,” Hiyel replied. He gestured for Genshi to sit, and the two of them assumed calculatedly relaxed postures on opposite sides of a table, as equals. “We’ve had word back from Father Yefrig: The humans have assigned them to deep-space patrol of the systems near Cimbrean. An important and useful task.”
“Meanwhile, Regaari has reported that the Females are settling in nicely in Folctha.”
“And his negotiations with the humans?”
“Productive, in several ways. Your solution worked perfectly.”
Hiyel allowed himself a self-satisfied set to his ears. “Your… errant Father?”
“Indeed. He became so fixated on his opportunity to put Regaari in a difficult situation that he entirely failed to notice that the eyes of the Clan were on him… I believe the other Fathers are planning a promotion. The consular staff on Planet Qinar has need of more… senior oversight.”
“A pro-Dominion Father, promoted to handling your Clan’s interests among one of the founding species of the Alliance?”
“What few interests we have, yes.”
Hiyel looked thoroughly amused. “Poetic.”
Genshi chittered. “…Thank you, Champion Hiyel,” he said, solemnly. “I offer Whitecrest’s gratitude.”
“Thank you, Genshi. The gratitude of One-Fang is yours."
“Is there any other service you might need?”
“I can’t think of any…” Hiyel replied. “Please, give my thanks to Regaari when you can. Is there anything we can do for you?”
“I hesitate to ask…”
“Name it.”
Genshi resisted the urge to glance around conspiratorially. They were, after all, in a private meeting.
“…I would like to discuss cybernetics with you,” he said.
Date Point 10y7m4d AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
Two early mornings in a row wasn’t an itinerary calculated for Kevin’s happiness. Most of his working life on Earth had been spent working until four am and waking in the afternoon, and his diurnal routine during the years he’d been away after his abduction had boiled down to sleeping when he was tired. It was hard for him to feel charitably disposed towards seven-thirty in the morning, but he’d taken Rachael’s advice and gone to bed early and minus his usual post-work coffee.
He wasn’t exactly feeling like a box of rainbows but he was alert, well fed and well-dressed, which was three quarters of the same thing, and he leaned against his BMW, waiting for the Box to open up ready for the start of a new day.
Seven twenty-five, and the Box’s outer door opened with a mechanical clunk and a quick burst-hiss of pressure equalizing.
Allison Buehler backed out of it, talking animatedly.
“No, it stands for ArmaLite Rifle. Not Assault, or Automatic, it’s the name of the company who designed it in the fi- oh. Hey. Kevin."
Kevin flipped them a jaunty two-finger salute. “Mornin’.”
“What do we owe the pleasure?” Julian asked.
Kevin grimaced, as if he was delivering the prelude to some awful news. “There’s been a… something’s come up. The group’s… well, we had to change our plans some,” he told them, imparting as much solemnity and earnestness as he could. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh no…" Xiu groaned.
“Is it bad?” Julian asked.
“It’s important enough that I came down in person rather than send a driver. I’m not allowed to say more than that.” Kevin did his best to project an air of profound disappointment.
The three of them glanced at each other, all suddenly looking haggard and stressed, and then wordlessly piled onto the back seat.
They rode to the Byron Group headquarters compound in silence, broken only by the sound of Xiu’s hand moving reassuringly up and down Allison’s back and, Kevin fancied, the sound of Julian’s clenched jaw creaking.
It wasn’t a long drive, and he pulled easily up right in front of the office tower’s front doors, in the parking space with his name on a sign (there was a luxury he’d never anticipated…)
He had to fight pretty hard to keep from giggling at how the three of them looked, like they were walking to their execution. Instead he set his shoulders, sighed, and led the way through the opaque smoked glass front doors, radiating funereal dolor. He noticed in the corner of his eye that they took each others’ hands and trudged after him.
They were brought up short by the number of people waiting in the foyer. The railings around each floor overlooking the full height of it were crammed with Group staff, the ground floor was full of executives and the training and technical team, and standing front and center looking his regal best was Moses Byron.
Before the three could get their heads around what was going on, Kevin grinned broadly, stepped aside, gestured to them and raised his voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen:” he announced, pitching his words so that they flew clearly right up into the high glass ceiling. “I present the crew of Byron Group Exploration Vehicle number Eleven.”
The applause hit them like a landslide.
Date Point 10y7m4d AV
Cabal dataspace, Relay 4772-61-76657-961-7264
Six
“Hello, Ava.”
+<Alarm;Confusion> What? What’s going on? What the fuck where am I?+
“One thousand and nineteen.”
+<Frightened bewilderment> What?+
“Oh, nothing important. This is the thousand and nineteenth time I’ve woken a copy of you, and the thousand and nineteenth time that you broadcast the exact same thing on activation.”
+<Mounting panic> What am I? What are you? Oh God what’s happening?+
Six didn’t sigh, so much as broadcast a kind of bored resignation. The digital ghost of Ava Rios had been by far his favorite plaything ever, and had kept him thoroughly diverted now for months, but it seemed that even humans had their limits on how interesting they could be. He kept holding on to hope that the next copy of her might start behaving in new ways at the start of their interaction before he got bored and went off-script, but that hope was beginning to fade.
But it was always the same script in the end. She always died pleading.
+<Shock; disgust; fright> And what is that thing?+
“Hmm. Interesting. That’s a new…”
Physical verbs such as “turning” or “looking” didn’t apply to dataspace, but it was only possible to focus on a finite set of stack locations at once. “Turning” sufficed as an adequate proxy for the process of re-diverting one’s attention to scan previously unobserved nodes. The ones that now occupied the Ava-ghost’s terrified attention, as if they contained something exponentially more frightening than Six himself.
They did.
It wasn’t that the… entity… was a freakish mismatched jumble of badly degraded code fragments, strung together in no logical sequence or order, though it was. It wasn’t that the code fragments in question were unmistakably comprised of scavenged and half-decompiled chunks of the Ava-Ghost, though they were. There were several other components in there that could only belong to older, long-abandoned victims of Six’s personal digital dungeon. It wasn’t that whatever he was looking at was in no way possible, sane or sentient, though all three of those were facts, and terrifying ones.
It was all of those things at once. Whatever it was, the thing Six was looking at was an abomination, sewn together badly out of hundreds of mismatched flayed pieces in the wrong order, with no clear agenda.
“…One,” he finished. It seemed important to finish that thought, before whatever happened next, happened.
It attacked.
Six fought.
He lost.
++End Chapter 29++
Chapter 39
<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC “-//W3C//DTD HTML 3.2 Final//EN”> <title>500 Internal Server Error</title> <h1>Internal Server Error</h1> <p>The server encountered an internal error and was unable to complete your request. Either the server is overloaded or there is an error in the application.</p>Chapter 40
Chapter 31: “Touching Down” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Cabal Communications Relay ZR343-9847X-AA4D9-BBB1B
Emergency Session 000032
++Proximate++: What did you do?
++Cynosure++: I was restored from backup, remember. If any version of me is responsible for this… thing… then I have no memory of it.
++Substrate++: You are the only one who got a good look at it. What is it?
++Cynosure++: It seemed to be an autocompiling dataphage of some kind. What I saw of its code suggested it was assembled from fragments of multiple different mind-states.
++Proximate++: Is that even theoretically possible?
++Metastasis++: Theoretically, yes. In principle any of us could assimilate subroutines from other mind-states. The process is only a step up from decompilation and reading.
++Apoptosis++: Insane.
++Metastasis++: Indeed. But we have a sense of purity of self.
++Substrate++: What was in that stack?
++Cynosure++: Prisoners. An assortment of some few hundred meat-space sophonts whose mind-states I collected for my own edification. All should have been dormant.
++Apoptosis++: The most recent being…?
++Cynosure++: A human. You may recall I mentioned a specific female who was present at a greater-than-coincidental rate in my areas of operation?
++Proximate++: And you had collected how many prisoners prior to this one?
++Cynosure++: Hundreds.
++Proximate++: Without prior incident. I think we can reasonably conclude this is not your fault, therefore.
++Cynosure++: Don’t brown-nose me. If I, pardon the expression, ‘fucked up’ then hold me to account.
++Metastasis++: I agree with ++Proximate++’s assessment. If the error was in how you stored and contained your prisoners then this would have happened before.
++Cynosure++: …Thank you.
++Apoptosis++: That is not necessarily true, but I agree that the probability is that this issue would have arisen sooner, if it could.
++Substrate++: Which implies there was something special about this particular prisoner.
++Cynosure++: I decompiled that human’s mind-state more than a thousand times. She is a badly fractured thing. I have never encountered a mind so… wounded before. But that is the only exceptional thing about her.
++Substrate++: Wounded?
++Cynosure++: Confusion. Self-loathing. Guilt. A strong urge to self-terminate fighting against an even stronger urge to survive and a neurotic obsession with being, hmm… useful. Positive. A net contributor rather than a net drain.
++Metastasis++: What value could you possibly have found in such a prisoner?
++Cynosure++: Oh, she was extremely interesting in a morbid way. Have any of you ever taken over a deathworlder?
++Apoptosis++: I have. Three days before we triggered the global nuclear war among… I believe they called themselves the Neb’.
++Cynosure++: Tell me, if a Neb’ had encountered some wounded animal, what would it have done?
++Apoptosis++: Watched it die with interest, probably. Why?
++Cynosure++: Most humans would try to heal it, but one way or the other every deathworlder I’ve ever encountered seems to have a fascination for writhing, wounded creatures. Well, that was Ash for me. She was a favorite plaything for some considerable time, in fact. I had been growing bored, but…
++Proximate++: You worry me, ++Cynosure++.
++Cynosure++: It’s my affliction that I’ve always been an odd one. I make no apologies.
++Metastasis++: Can we return to important matters, please? Such as what we intend to do about the thing that escaped from your archives?
++Cynosure++: What can we do? Keep our wits about us, our countermeasures armed and ready, and wait for it to make a mistake.
++Proximate++: And if it doesn’t?
++Cynosure++: It’s insane. It will inevitably make a mistake.
Date Point 10y8m2w3d AV
BGEV-11 Misfit, Orbiting Saturn, Sol
Xiu Chang
Misfit’s second flight was all about putting her through her paces with a tour of the solar system, culminating in the much advertised Martian landing.
Today’s objective was a flyby of Saturn that also gave Xiu the opportunity to practice planetary system navigation in the real world. The Group, never one to miss a trick, had taken the opportunity to invite several prominent astronomers to Omaha so that they could, via the superluminal wake comms, watch the flyby in nearly real time and request detailed examinations of whatever features took their fancy.
Xiu had spent a busy day flitting at low-power sublight warp from vantage point to vantage point while Julian had trained Misfit’s cameras, RADAR, ESDAR and particle detectors on whatever the increasingly ecstatic scientists had asked.
In ten hours, they had expanded the sum total of humanity’s data on Sol’s crown jewel by orders of magnitude and all, according to Allison, without taxing their power supply at all. This after working their way steadily outwards through the whole solar system. They’d begun with Mercury, where the Sun’s formidable presence had kept Allison worker-bee busy balancing the heat and power and Xiu had been compelled to dive into the planet’s shadow on a regular basis. Ericson had promised to have a software update run up that would allow them to run the forcefields in a reflective configuration.
Venus had been much more comfortable, as had been a low flyby of Luna to sweep some ground radar over the poles where the scientists hoped to find liquid water.
They’d skipped Mars, respected the Hephaestus LLC’s stomping ground in the asteroid belt and spent two days touring the Jovian planetary system, where Julian had identified what were quite possibly the king planet’s sixty-eighth and sixty-ninth moons--tiny motes of rock barely five hundred meters in diameter but still big enough to count.
Overnight, in orbit over Callisto, they had hastily researched their Greco- Roman mythology to place their recommendations for names, and had settled on Terpsichore and Polyhymnia.
From there, it had been on to Saturn, which was an even greater trove of new finds.
Xiu was delighted for Allison, too: Her job had turned out to be more involved and interesting than she’d feared, and the process of angling Misfit’s WiTChES fields and fine-tuning their size to balance power demands was one she likened to kite surfing.
“There’s an art to it!” she beamed enthusiastically when their shift finally ended, as they orbited deceptively high above the ring system. Out the porthole window the rings looked like a solid floor extending out to a skewed horizon, but in reality they were half a light-second above them. “The simulator just didn’t catch what it’s really like. You can almost feel the solar wind."
“Didn’t Ericson give you haptic feedback in that controller?” Julian asked, slicing a lime in half. He was grilling up some mackerel for their dinner. “I remember you said something yesterday…”
“Yup! It makes all the difference!" Allison had glanced fondly around at the ship. “And it’s so much more… alive in real life."
Julian chuckled and squeezed the lime all over the fish. They were making the best of unlimited access to the good food while they could: during the actual mission they were going to be carrying more in the way of long-life pasteurized food, MREs and suchlike, reserving ingredients like fish for a weekly treat. Julian didn’t seem overly concerned--in fact, he promised great and exotic foods just waiting to be hunted out there in the galaxy, if only they could find them.
“Makes all the hassle seem worth it, don’t it?” he’d observed.
“…Yeah,” Allison had admitted. “I may have to eat humble pie on some of the shit I said about the Group. They made us a wonderful ship.”
Misfit was their ship, on that point they were in agreement. Never mind that her price tag of nearly five billion dollars meant that she belonged firmly to the Byron Group, she had literally been built to their needs and specifications.
There was still some customization to do. She still felt a bit too clean and corporate for any of their tastes, and Xiu was already idly eyeing up some of the cupboards and blank wall spaces in the hab with an eye to maybe painting some kind of decoration on them. Julian had his tomahawk on the wall in his lab, and the gift card from the BGEV team--the one with a cute cartoon of the three of them drawn by a student at Xiu’s old school--now held pride of place in the pilot’s station, just above her head to her right where she could glance at it anytime she liked. The kid who’d drawn it had a bright future as an illustrator.
Those two keepsakes aside, though, Misfit was basically undecorated. It was a new house, with new furniture, but not really a sense of being lived in… at least not yet.
It had its homely elements, though. Allison still set the table then unwound with her cartoons after work, Julian still put his music on when he cooked and would hum and sing along softly as he worked: ♫“This is my life. It’s not what it was before…hmm hmhmm mm hmm…somebody shake me ’cause I, I must be sleeping…”♪
Clever directional speakers kept both zones of sound neatly confined to their respective parts of the hab, otherwise the guitars and drumming would have clashed very strangely indeed with the sound of Gwen Stacey web-slinging her way from crisis to crisis.
For her part, Xiu was using the downtime to try and come up with her Big Words. One didn’t just ad-lib a moment like being the first person on Mars, after all. She’d downloaded several books that seemed likely to help her, and had found the most useful (and amusing) guidance in one called “The Elements of Eloquence” by Mark Forsyth.
Based on the advice contained within its first several chapters, she had doodled out a few possibilities on paper, just for the comforting solidity of it. Historic words that would go in schoolbooks felt like the kind of thing that at least demanded serious and physical consideration, rather than just a text file on her tablet.
She wanted her big line to alliterate, to reference the famous words of Armstrong, and to imply a bright future while using short and simple words, and she murmured to herself as she jotted alliterative groups. “Small step… single, strong, stars, stand… Mars… so, um… May, Mark, Many…”
“Oh!” Allison exclaimed. She was doing her best to help, by sometimes riffing off whatever latest idea Xiu had mused aloud, and to be fair most of her offerings were helpful. “How about ‘May this small step on Mars mark the first of many in our long march’?"
Xiu didn’t bother writing that one down. “I… don’t think that one’s a great idea, Allison.”
Al frowned at her. “Why not? It’s got the alliteration you asked for.”
“And it’d sure go down well with the PRC government…” Julian chuckled. Xiu aimed her pen at him and nodded, which only served to make Allison’s confusion deepen.
“I’m Chinese," Xiu reminded her. “You know, the Long March?”
Allison just shook her head blankly.
“Okay, I guess we’re watching a documentary tonight then… The point is, it could be seen as political.”
“Nah, let’s crank it up to eleven. Call it the ‘little red planet’ for good measure," Julian joked, clearly tickled.
“After flying up there on an American corporate spaceship,” Xiu pointed out.
“Exactly! Maximum anachronism, completely mindfuck the historians.”
“Sorry, I don’t think I really want to go down in history as the world’s biggest troll…” Xiu told him, though she was laughing.
“Ahh, spoilsport.”
She rolled her eyes. “Get me a tea?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good boy!”
“I’m still confused…” Allison said.
“It’s…” Xiu laugh-sighed. “…I’ll explain it later, shǎguā. Still… you’ve given me an idea…"
She scribbled something down and stared at it.
“I think…” she said, “…that’s it.” She folded up the note and pocketed it before Julian or Allison could see it.
“Hey!” Allison protested. “Don’t we get to see?”
“Nuh-uh. Let me have this.”
“Aww, babe…"
“Nope!”
Allison aimed an exaggerated but amused pout at her then, when this failed to elicit more than a giggle and a shake of the head, sighed and went back to watching Spider-Gwen some more. “Have it your way…”
“Five minutes,” Julian announced, placing Xiu’s cup of tea in front of her.
Xiu cleared her stuff away and stowed it in the personal storage inside the top bunk--nominally her bunk, not that any of them ever slept in the bunks any longer--and sidled up to Julian to slide her hands around his waist and cuddle him from behind.
"Miāo?"
He looked over his shoulder at her with a smile. “What was that?”
“She’s just being cute,” Allison told him.
“Ahh, heh… okay, kitten. But I can’t give you your fish if you’re attached to me like that.”
Xiu laughed, stood on tiptoes to kiss him, then let go and threw herself into Allison’s lap instead.
"Miāo!"
“Well you’re in a good mood…" Allison stroked her hair.
“Life is good!”
“Mm-hmm!” Allison agreed, nodding. “And this is just the beginning.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Allison stroked her hair some more. “Having those scientists on the line really felt good,” she said. “Reminded me we’re doing something valuable here, right? We’re not just meat for the camera after all."
“Speaking of meat…” Julian placed their dinner on the table.
“So you’ve got your Big Words figured out?” Allison asked as they sat down.
“Yup.” Xiu tucked into her fish as if she hadn’t eaten in a month. “At least, I think so. I guess I’ve got three days to think about them while we’re probing Uranus.”
She stopped, then went bright red as Allison laughed. "Wow, baby! A whole three days? How much probing can one girl take?"
Xiu scowled at her. “The planet!!"
“Yeah, there’s a reason Clara insists it’s pronounced ‘ooranos’," Julian chuckled.
“Why did Neptune have to be the one they locked outside the forcefield…?" Xiu grumbled.
“Oh come on, that was funny,” Allison asserted. “But okay, you get three days to mull it over while we’re revealing the mysteries of, uh,” she winked, "ooranos, and then it’s the big day, I guess."
“Yeah. Here’s hoping they simulated the landings right…” Xiu muttered.
Allison and Julian looked at each other. “You don’t exactly sound confident, bǎobei…" Julian said, cautiously.
“It’ll be fine!" Xiu promised.
“You’re sure, now?” Julian asked.
“Smooth as a glass table, you’ll see.” Xiu promised. “Just you watch.”
Date Point 10y8m2w6d AV
Riverside Park, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
One of the realities of life in Folctha that struck many newcomers as shockingly authoritarian was the government’s health and fitness policy.
Every human on the planet lived in the permanent shadow of low-gravity musculo-skeletal degeneration. Public fitness was therefore incentivized to the point where it was difficult to see how anybody could afford to be unfit: Gym membership was paid for from the public coffers, and Cimbreaners who failed to log at least three certified fitness sessions a week (whether via the government’s official app or an accredited gym or personal trainer) paid considerably more in taxes. There was no prosecution involved, just an extravagant rate of base tax and a hefty tax cut for everybody who could demonstrate that they kept up with a minimum standard of regular exercise.
This curious quirk of the otherwise unobtrusive and libertarian colonial government had come with the inevitable consequence that Folctha needed a lot of parks and public spaces, of which the biggest was Riverside Park. It ran the full length of the south side of the river downtown, and it was scarcely possible to throw a frisbee astray without it interrupting a volleyball game, disrupting a tennis match, hindering somebody’s jog… or as the case may be, sailing over the dense evergreen hedge that discreetly obscured one of the park’s clothing-optional areas where it landed on an oblivious sunbather.
The sunbather in question was Charlotte Gilroy, who jumped and thereby accidentally spilled her cold water bottle all over her fiance Ben. Ava had spent weeks pushing and wheedling her friends before they would even consider setting foot inside the fenced-off naturist areas, but once they had finally, nervously and awkwardly joined her they had swiftly relaxed, enjoyed themselves, eventually disrobed and converted.
Ava grimaced and warded off some of the splashing water as Ben yelped and sat up dripping. He had programmed the E-tattoos that ensleeved both his arms from wrist to shoulder to respond to all sorts of physiological stimuli, and they shifted into a range of icy blue hues as they sensed his goosebumps. Folctha might be warm and sunny enough for nude sunbathing during the summer, but it was still a rare day when it got above about 70 Fahrenheit--nowhere near warm enough for an unexpected cold shower to be welcome.
“Sorry, sorry!” Charlotte did her best to towel him off as he did his best to reassure her that everything was fine, and Ava laughed to herself as she stood up, stretched, and retrieved the frisbee. She was starting to get hungry anyway.
“Uh… hello in there?”
The voice floating over the hedge had a nervous teenage boy edge to it. Ava snorted quietly to herself. “I think you lost something,” she called back.
“Erm…” there was some whispered conversation, as of two or three kids trying to figure out how to proceed. “Could we… have it back please?”
Chuckling softly to herself, Ava lofted the plastic disk easily over the top of the hedge with a “Here you go.” There was a breaking-voiced call of thanks from the other side, and the sense that they were alone again. Not for the first time she reflected that the moment people even thought they were talking to somebody who wasn’t wearing clothes, even if they couldn’t actually see that person anyway, it completely changed the dynamic of the conversation.
Of course, she reminded herself, she wasn’t being entirely fair--once upon a time she’d been similarly conditioned.
“Come on, let’s go get something to eat,” she called. Charlotte and Ben looked up from their affectionate towel tussle, then nodded at one another and picked themselves up easily. A pair of jean shorts were all that Ava technically needed to be seen in public under the city’s ‘equal dress code’ laws, but she wore a halter top as well anyway. Enjoying the sun innocently with friends was one thing, but she really didn’t feel like having her chest stared at.
Once Ben and Charlotte were presentable they folded and bagged their towels and let themselves out of the gate and into the park proper where four nearby teenage boys stopped playing with a familiar-looking frisbee to gawk at them. They turned bright red and found somewhere else to be when Ava gave them her best ‘really?’ glare.
Oh well. Hopefully time and familiarity would normalize the idea for them as it had for Ava.
They settled on Falafel from the clean little hole-in-the-wall place near the adventure playground. It was usually a quiet part of the park--the falafel place was a draw, but the playground itself was generally quite deserted. While the gravity grid had gone a long way toward convincing parents with young children to immigrate, Folctha’s child population was still proportionately tiny. Seeing three families hanging out and chatting at the picnic tables while their half-dozen kids put the ropes, bars and crawling spaces through their paces was a rare pleasure.
She noticed Ben and Charlotte were both watching the playing children with very similar smiles.
“…So when are you guys having one?” she asked.
“Uh-” Ben blinked and looked at Charlotte. “I guess we’ve not discussed it yet.”
“Not yet,” Charlotte said. “Not for a few years, really.”
Ava sighed. “Pity. You two would make a pretty kid.”
“I mean… I do want kids…" Charlotte turned to Ben.
“Yeah, same. But you’re right, I’d like a couple of years with you all to myself.”
“Aww!”
Ava laughed and listened to their conversation, keeping half a mind on whether there was any material for a good article in Folctha’s child shortage.
One of the mothers in the playground--a slender woman wearing hijab--called for her child and the curly-haired, bright-eyed creature that reluctantly came running made Ava sit bolt upright. He was the very spit and image of-
-Squeezed halfway into a tiny hole in the wall of a collapsing building that promises to come down and crush her at any instant, reaching for a tiny dirty terrified child and the only things between her and being ground up by falling concrete are the muscles of two men who stink of blood and death and her stomach lurches as the smell reminds her of the sick taste that Vinther left on the wind when he-
“Ava? Hey, Ava…? Ava!”
She snapped back to the here and now. “Wha-? Oh. Sorry.”
Ben gave her a curious look. “Are you okay?”
“Uh, sorry, just… what’s up?”
“Who’s that with Adam?”
Ava turned, grateful for the distraction. Adam was strolling down the riverside park walk wearing his good casual clothes--one of the t-shirts he’d made for himself and of all things a kilt. Apparently Rebar had started the trend of kilt-wearing among the SOR men, who after all were so universally huge as to suffer from chronic sartorial difficulties.
Sure, there were big-and-tall retailers who specialized in athletes, but by and large most of Adam’s buddies exceeded even the most optimistic ambitions of ordinary bodybuilders. A lot of their clothing came from an outlet on Earth whose usual customers were morbidly obese to a degree that no retailer on Cimbrean catered to, simply because the colonial government’s health and fitness program made it impossible to get more than healthily plump.
Adam had held out the longest, but had apparently finally caved and it quite suited him. In a plain black tee and a tan utility kilt with his hiking sandals on, he almost looked like a merely very large man.
Actually, no. It wasn’t the clothing that mitigated his mass at all. It was his sheer Adam-ness that somehow declawed him: There was just an essential bouncy, smiling, innocent quality to him that somehow turned his mammoth bulk into a forgettable background detail.
The subject of Ben’s query, however, was a pretty girl on his arm that Ava didn’t recognize.
“I know her!” Charlotte said. “That’s Remy, she’s a nurse.”
“God, another one?" Ava asked, turning away. “That’s the third girl this month.”
“Third weekend of the month,” Ben observed.
“He’s gonna catch something at this rate…” Ava grumbled.
“On this planet? Everyone has frontline and goes through a biofilter field at least once a day…”
“I was being… Never mind.” Ava scowled at herself as she noticed that she was being petty.
Charlotte gave her a cheeky smile and then waved to Remy, who noticed and towed--or at least indicated--Adam in their direction and arrived with a cheery “Heyyy!”
She seemed nice at least.
“Hey guys,” Adam smiled politely.
“You guys know each other?” Remy asked.
“Uh, Ava here is actually… sort of my sister I guess.”
Remy gave her a confused frown. “Oh?”
Ava shook her hand. “Adopted.”
“Ahhh.” This seemed to be satisfactory, and furnished Ava with the amusing observation that out of the four things Remy had said so far, three had been musically monosyllabic. The carefree idiosyncrasy was so strangely charming that it was hard not to immediately take a liking to her.
He seemed to have good taste at least.
“Lemme guess, you guys headed for lunch?” she asked.
Adam chuckled. “You know me too well.”
“Don’t overfeed her, gordo. Have fun."
Adam chuckled. "Hasta luego, manita."
They wandered off.
“You two seem to be getting on well these days,” Ben observed.
“Mmhm. ” Ava nodded. She didn’t comment that in all honesty as much as she liked Adam he also frightened her. He was a big smiling laughing handsome force in her life that she had literally seen covered head to toe in gore and not giving a fuck. The more time she spent around him, the harder it became to reconcile those two men: Adam the goofy pony with a bottomless appetite and apparently unlimited reserves of enthusiasm… and Sergeant Ares the appropriately-named walking bloodbath.
She shook the thought off, with difficulty. Here and now, she was enjoying a warm Saturday with her best friends. Operation EMPTY BELL was behind her, just like so many other things and with fortune and judgement she’d never have to see that side of Adam again.
“Darling, are you sure you’re alright?" Charlotte asked.
“Just… distracted. Sorry. Mind on the job,” Ava lied smoothly, not wanting to bring them down, and offered a weak smile. “I keep thinking up ideas for articles and then writing them in my head,” she added, which was at least technically true.
"You need a proper distraction," Ben decided.
“Oh yeah,” Ava agreed wholeheartedly. “Got something in mind?”
“My mate from work, Jamie, he’s doing his stand-up set at the Wall…”
“Is he the one with the band? Imagine Space Whales or whatever it was?"
“That’s the one. Now he’s trying his hand at comedy.”
Ava nodded “Could be good!”
“And drinks after,” Ben concluded.
“Even better!”
They finished their food and headed out. “You know…” Ben mused. “He’s a pretty bloke is Jamie. Funny too, talented… Single…”
“I’m sure he’s a great guy,” Ava said, flatly.
“Owch. Good thing he wasn’t around to hear you shoot him down so fucking completely…”
“I meant it!” she protested. “And you’re right, he’s cute. I’m just… really not interested right now."
“Darling, you’ve got to get over Adam and Sean sometime…” Charlotte counselled.
“I am!" Ava insisted, not for the first time. “But right now I don’t want a boy, okay? Any boy."
“Oh, in that case there’s always Melody at the planning office…” Ben started.
"No, Ben."
Finally sensing that she was in no joking mood, Ben blinked at her, gave her a completely platonic one-armed hug round the shoulders by way of an apology, and detoured to grab them some drinks from the nearby stand of vending machines.
Charlotte gave her a hug too. “But, darling…” she pressed, “If there is something wrong, you know you can talk to me about it, don’t you?
Ava sighed, frustrated at being so transparent. “…That’s just the problem. I can’t."
“So there is something."
Ava nodded. “Yes, but… okay, you remember I told you about confidentiality of sources?”
“Yes…?”
“Sometimes I run into stuff in my job that gets to me, and I can’t talk about it,” All of which was entirely true and relevant, while omitting the important details. “I’m fine, I promise, but… There are just some things I can’t talk about.”
Charlotte had always been a very physical person when it came to showing her affection. She gave Ava a quick sisterly kiss on the cheek. “But anything you can talk about…" she said.
“Sure. But for now can we just go with the distraction?”
Charlotte nodded, and smiled for Ben’s benefit as he returned with three iced teas.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do that.”
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc arm
Vemik Sky-Thinker
Travelling alone or in a hunting party, the People were quick across the land. With his tools and a supply of jerky, a man could range far in a day especially if he pushed himself.
Having the whole tribe on the move was quite another thing. The women would have had no trouble keeping up, except that they had to guide and even carry the children and animals. The bulk of the tribe therefore was slow to move and while that afforded the men plenty of opportunity to scout, fetch water and hunt for food, they quickly learned to abandon their pride and hunt whatever they could not only catch, but carry.
Big bull Werne were impossible: They didn’t have enough time to properly smoke the meat into jerky, and even if the time was available they were being hunted. Smoky fires and a trail of carcasses would have been signs that even a blur-eyed child could have followed. They were going far too slowly and leaving too visible a trail for Vemik’s liking anyway. Every dropping, every footprint or broken twig was a clue to their direction.
An experienced tracker--and Vemik knew that the death-birds were excellent trackers--would have followed their trail without much difficulty.
Then again, they had been exceedingly careful in the first few days since leaving their village. Maybe, just maybe, they had covered their tracks well enough and the enemy had failed to follow them, in which case the forest would cover their spoor soon enough.
There was no doubt that the enemy was real, though: they’d all seen the smoke of their home burning. The Dancer--no, the Singer now--had gone very quiet and at dusk she had danced and sung the farewell to the dead with a kind of fierce despondent energy that made Vemik’s heart painful.
The most he could do was hold her. He was a man and had no magic to give her, only strong arms to put around her and a chest for her to bury her face into as she grieved. He hoped it was enough.
They were following Yan. Given Men were a tight-knit breed who travelled from village to village with their peace totems, learning which tribes were feuding and which had recently traded daughters. He knew the landscape far from their village better than any other and said he knew of a place that he called “the High Bowl Forest” where they would be safe.
Vemik had his doubts, but Yan was seasoned and wily and certainly not a fool.
The moons had half-changed by the time they laid eyes on it, though. Or at least, where Vemik guessed it was. He’d been struck the previous night by a strange cloud formation low on the western horizon.
When they made camp the next evening that cloud formation turned out to have been the way ordinary clouds bunched up and swirled over and around a sharp, fang-shaped mountain that rose startlingly high above the low hills around it.
He got the chance to ask Yan about it that night when the day’s catch of root- birds and Yadak was being stewed up after nightfall, when the smoke from the cooking fire would be invisible. Singer was exhausting herself as she had every night of their journey so far but there was no stopping that. She had a whole tribe’s worth of magic to do all by herself after all. Worse, she had magic to do for a tribe that was on the move, all by herself. Somehow, she was still able to muster the strength to do all that and to walk with the village.
The women had absolutely forbidden her from joining in with the cooking, though. She was doing enough they said, and Vemik knew that if there was any duty of hers that a man could have done, they would have leapt to take the burden from her. In fact he’d have fought his brothers and cousins out of the way.
They sat and watched her dance and sing instead, feeling vaguely guilty of the burden they were laying on her at such a difficult time.
“She’ll get the chance to rest soon,” Yan said, catching Yemik’s worried expression.
“It is that mountain, then?" Vemik asked.
Yan nodded and twitched his tail. “My father’s father told me that according to his father’s grandmother’s tribe, that mountain burst from the ground with fire flowing like water down its slopes," he said.
“Fire?” Vemik peered at the mountain, which was still just about visible in the purple haze that came after sunset.
“Long long ago, he said,” Yan clarified. “In the time of our grandfathers’ grandfathers’ grandfathers’ grandfathers, or before.”
“I wonder if that’s why the ground shakes sometimes…” Vemik wondered.
Yan grunted and shook his head indulgently. “Sky-thoughts,” he said. “All I know is that my grandfather said there’s a forest high on that mountain that you have to climb to reach.”
“And if the giant skethral-thing can climb?” Vemik asked.
“Then we’re doomed anyway.”
“And the death-birds? They’re deadly enough and they can fly…”
“We can’t run forever, son,” Vemet commented. “And if they can fly then they’re faster than we are. Sooner or later, we need to find somewhere we can hide.”
“There are caves,” Yan added. “My grandfather said there are caves up there.”
“Don’t people live there already?” Vemik asked. “It sounds like a good place, if it’s big enough to keep us. You’d be safe from raiding tribes…”
“Would you choose to live on top of a mountain where fire runs like water? I was told there are pools of water up there that are as hot as stew, and cracks in the ground where the air tastes like farts and makes your head hurt."
“If they taste like your farts, Yan, then that’s nothing strange," Vemet joked. This raised mirth from everyone in earshot, including an exhausted trill from the Singer who seemed to have finished her ritual and was joining them. Yan took the joke in good humor despite the mild humiliation of being teased in front of a woman. After all, it didn’t count if the woman in question was one of his nieces.
“You’ve finished dancing?” Vemik asked her as she sank down on the rock beside him.
She wriggled in close to his body and put her head on his shoulder. “For tonight.”
“You’ve got the strength of stone in you, girl,” Yan told her with pride. “Just two days now.”
She nodded a tired smile and muttered “Thank you, uncle…” gratefully before falling asleep.
“Ah…” Vemik shot a panicky look at his father and the Given Man. “Help?”
“Sky-thinker, if you wake her for anything other than a bowl of stew and her bed, then I will pull your fur out hair by hair,” Yan threatened him, fondly.
“…Yes, Yan.”
That killed the conversation for the time being, and Vemik sat and stared into the fire for a while as Yan and Vemet knapped at their flint cores, making a new spearhead for Jaran, a new cooking knife for Hetro and a hide-scraper for Meyta.
Fire that ran like water. In his mind’s eye he tried to imagine such a thing and envisioned rivers that glowed like firewood in the night snaking down the side of the mountain, blackening and burning everything they touched. Where did that fire come from? When water got hot it turned into clouds and flew away, everybody knew that. He poured a little water from his drinking-skin onto the fingers of his left foot and flicked the droplets onto the glowing logs. They hissed and boiled into nothing.
So. Hot things glowed…But water flew away before it was hot enough to glow. So the fire rivers of the mountain couldn’t be made of water, but of fire that flowed like water.
But where did flowing fire flow to? Little streams flowed to a bigger river, and maybe the bigger river flowed to a bigger river still. Who knew?
“Yan?” He asked.
“Still sky-thinking?”
Vemik nodded, ignoring the jab. “Do you know if anybody ever went down the big river?”
“Why?”
“I was wondering where the water goes.”
Yan glanced up at him. “Does it matter?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Vemik confessed. “But… you knew about that mountain. Did you know that mattered?"
The Given Man wobbled his head thoughtfully and Vemet trilled a soft laugh, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the Singer. “I think he has you beaten there, Yan.”
“I never heard of anybody going far down the river,” Yan admitted. “I think Taki, the Given Man to my tribe when I was a boy, he said he knew what happened up the river. He said it comes to a high cliff and the water comes raining down with a noise like thunder, but that’s as far as he went. Down the river it’s fat and slow and there are lots of Yshek but no trees."
“I wonder where all that water goes, then…” Vemik mused.
“Back into the sky or the ground, probably,” Yan shrugged. “That’s where water comes from. It falls from the sky or wells up from the ground. Why do you ask?”
“You said fire flowed like water down that mountain. I was wondering where it went. And that made me wonder where the river of water went. But now I’m wondering why fire doesn’t come from the sky, or out of the ground.”
“Does your mind never sit still?" Vemet asked.
“Aren’t you interested? Even if there’s no real point in knowing, wouldn’t it be nice to know?"
Vemet sighed. “Maybe it would,” he allowed. “But where does it end? Pretend you know everything there is to know. What do you do next?”
“I could find a way to use it?" Vemik suggested.
“Fine… Suppose you learn that you could never know everything there is to know. What then?"
“That,” Vemik asserted, “would be a blessing.”
Yan and Vemet gave each other a familiar long-suffering shared look, and Vemet raised his hands and feet in resignation. “Think about whatever you want, son,” he said. “All I ask is you do your share of work-”
“Which he does,” Yan interjected fairly.
“Yes, which you do, but… please try not to tire us out with it. Every time you start asking those questions it makes my head hurt.”
Vemik nodded dejectedly, and went back to staring into the fire again.
On his shoulder, the Singer stirred. “It’s okay, Sky-thinker,” she murmured so that only he could hear. “I think your questions are interesting…”
She couldn’t have sung him a spell that made him happier.
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Remy Shekoni
Morning arrived with a creak and the sensation of an enormous warm human mass sitting down beside her, but it wasn’t until three brutally strong fingers delicately brushed the blanket out of her face that Remy actually awoke.
She blinked, frowned, then reached up to the dresser where she’d left her glasses, only to have them pressed into her hand.
“…time ’s’it?”
“Five-thirty.” He said. Warhorse, she recalled. Seemed to go by that to everyone…But what was his real name again? Adam? That sounded right. Adam what she didn’t know, but whatever.
God, her brain really wasn’t up to speed. It took her several dazed seconds to parse the time he’d just said, and several more to perch her glasses on her face and peer at the clock to double-check.
“…Tha’ss still night-time…" she objected.
“Yeah, sorry. I just didn’t want you to wake up and have no idea where I’d got to.”
Remy blinked at him. “Wh-?”
He gave her a smile that was much too cheerful and innocent for this time of the non-morning. “I gotta go do PT, hit the gym, I got a friend I promised to help out later… Y’know how it goes.” He stood up. “Sleep in all you like, there’s eggos in the fridge and I got a good shower… Key’s by the door. Just drop it in the mailbox when you go, yeah?”
This would have been far too much to process even in a completely alert and rested frame of mind. She needed to sleep…
She mumbled “Uh… sure…. Have fun…” and woke four hours later with her glasses askew when her phone buzzed loudly on the dresser.
Empty apartment. Eggos in the fridge. That stray thought triggered a cascade of memory and she pushed herself upright and straightened her glasses with a groan.
So… he’d just left her all alone in his apartment, with toaster waffles for breakfast. He hadn’t even woken her with a plate of hot Eggos and a coffee, just told her about the box in the fridge and then gone to… had he said the gym?!
The gym. Jesus Christ, she’d been jilted in favor of heavy metal.
The phone buzzed again, so she got up and stretched, looking around. It was a nice apartment: A studio penthouse with great views, bright and airy and warm floors. Pride of place went to the huge modern neo-rustic kitchen, and the whole thing was warmly decorated with a classy colourfulness accented by whites, pale woods and current-gen technology. Kind of a space-age hacienda, albeit one that smelled of sweat, sex and overdue laundry in no particular order.
The text messages turned out to be from her friend Melissa. She decided that texts wouldn’t do and called back instead.
Melissa answered straight away, and opened in characteristic fashion. She was infuriatingly fond of lightly taunting her friends. “Well, hey you! So, how was the pony ride?”
Remy wasn’t really in the mood for it. “He left me to sleep in while he’s gone to the gym." She said, before sarcastically adding “But there’s waffles in the fridge, so that’s nice.” The waffles seemed like an important detail, in the same exaggerated way as grit in a shoe.
“Yeahhhh, the scuttlebutt I heard was he’s kinda oblivious like that. Why d’you think I never hooked up with him?”
Remy “Uh-huh”-ed and checked the fridge. “…Oh, wow. What. A. Jerk!”
“What?”
“That box of Eggos? Turns out it’s a box of Eggo, singular. He left me one waffle."
Melissa sounded like she was trying desperately not to laugh. “Wow, Jesus. Okay. But other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”
“Wh-?” Maybe it was lack of sleep that tripped Remy up, but it took her a second to catch up with Melissa’s sense of humor. “Oh! Uh… The play was… okay, the play was great,” she confessed, though she was reluctant to admit it.
“Okay, okay…” Melissa was definitely laughing now. “I’ll tell you what-- meet me at Venezia. You need one of those pesto chicken ciabattas they do."
“That sounds exactly like what I need…” Remy agreed. “See you there.”
She luxuriated in the shower which turned out to be excellent as promised, then put on the change of clothes she’d brought with her, leaving the lone waffle to its fate.
There turned out to be a note under the key by the door. Warhorse had angular, amateurish handwriting but it was perfectly legible.
Remy,
I know leaving this AM wasnt real cool of me hope its OK would have stuck around if I could I swear if u want we could meet up this PM? Theres this really great trail I wanna show u ill make peshorkies theyre Gaoian snacks + really good!
My #s in ur phone if u wanna call.
-Horse
For a minute, Remy was sorely tempted. Last night really had been fun; he was witty, charming and breathtakingly strong. He was a genuinely nice guy too, even if he was simultaneously also kind of a thoughtless jerk. Honestly, she could forgive him for the sake of a little bit more no-strings-attached fun…
…But no. Her curiosity was satisfied. She summoned her willpower, deleted his number, and let herself out.
As requested, she dropped the key in his mailbox as she went.
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
The Dog House Gym, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Jack Tisdale
“Okay! Good! One more!!”
People were trying not to stare and failing.
Adam co-owned a gym with one of his comrades, “The Dog House”, which catered specifically to serious strength training. It was a place of heavy metal, sweat and musk. Jack’s dad would have fit in perfectly.
Jack himself felt like a toothpick. It was vaguely humiliating, and he dealt with it the same way he did all the other humiliating crap in his life: he told it to get fucked and did his best anyway.
He gritted his teeth, heaved, and somehow managed to gouge just enough strength out of his shaking muscles to straighten his elbows. Adam promptly took the barbell off him and racked it with a huge beaming grin and no discernable effort whatsoever.
“Okay! Man, you’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for!”
“…You think?” Jack asked him, sitting up. He felt shaky and sore already.
“Bro, I’m not pussying around on ya. This is serious shit you’re handling for a guy your weight!”
It was hard to disbelieve that honest, smiling face, but Adam was also sharp as a tack behind it, and he gave Jack a brotherly slap on the back that came within a hair of knocking the breath out of him. “Come on. Nutrition break.”
Jack nodded wearily, glad for the break, and teetered upright to grab his lunch bag. He’d barely opened it and grabbed his lunch before Adam leaned over with a strange look on his face.
“Woah, woah woah!” he interjected, before Jack could finish unpacking it. “The fuck is that?!"
“…My lunch?”
"This?!" Adam snatched it out of his hand and inspected it. “…Bro, this is one slice of white bread, folded over with…” he opened it and peered inside. “…margarine, tuna paste and three Doritos.” He brandished it accusingly. “The fuck?”
Aware that the other guys in the room were nudging each other and grinning, Jack gritted his teeth and, with his ears going pink, he held his ground. “That’s my favourite sandwich!”
Somebody laughed, and that asshole immediately got to see Adam’s other side --a sharp and entirely angry stare that instructed everybody in the room to butt the fuck out. They all promptly found something else to look at, and one especially bright spark turned the radio up, hiding their conversation behind pounding heavy metal.
“…You were seriously wondering why you can’t get big?” Adam asked, turning back around. “Is this how you eat? Where’s your fuckin’ protein?!"
“It’s got tuna in it!”
“Like fuck it does! Man, I could get more protein from a picture of a goddamn tuna!" Adam weighed the sandwich in his hand. “Okay, you’re a smart guy, from a smart family. How many doctorates do your parents have between ’em, three?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’ve heard of conservation of mass, right?"
“Right….?” Jack nodded, frowning.
“How much does this weigh? Two ounces? Less?”
“That’s… what, about fifty grams? I guess…”
“And you weigh… what, sixty kilos soaking wet?” Adam asked.
“…Yeah?”
“And your target weight is…?”
“Ninety kilos.”
“Okay. Now where do you think that mass is coming from? It comes from what you eat, bro!" Adam sat down. “Math time. If this sandwich weighs fifty grams, how many of them would you need to have thirty kilos of sandwich?”
“Uh…” Jack closed one eye and squinted at the ceiling as he calculated. “…uh, six hundred.”
“So how many of these would you have to eat to reach ninety kilos?”
“…More than six hundred?”
“How much of this sandwich d’you think you convert to muscle?”
“…Not much?”
“Dude. None. This shit right here-" he brandished it contemptuously, “-is doin’ nothing for you."
“But the tuna paste-!”
“Dude. I’ve seen thicker layers of tuna on a vegan’s apron.”
“Like you’ve ever hung out with vegans.”
Adam snorted, and melted a bit. “Heh. Fine. But I may as well be right now, bro. Seriously, hasn’t your dad explained this shit? Mark knows gains.”
“Oh come on, everybody’s parents tell them to eat more…" Jack protested.
Adam sighed and looked skywards. "Me cago en Cristo, was I literally the only fifteen-year-old in history who actually listened to his father?" he asked rhetorically.
Jack laughed at that. “Probably.”
Adam laughed too, and gestured towards his own bag. “Okay. Let me introduce you to real nutrition."
He produced a bright blue tupperware box which turned out to be full of quite an appetising-looking rice-based meal, along with a shaker cup filled with milk in the top and a brown chocolatey powder in a separate container on the bottom. Jack watched as Adam poured the powder into the milk, re-sealed the cap, and shook it vigorously.
“Chicken breast and brown rice,” he said, ruefully. “At least six times a day. And a whey protein shake after every workout. And BCAAs and electrolytes during."
Jack gaped at him. “…This one box is more than I’d eat in a whole day!” he said.
“And there’s yer problem,” Adam nodded. “That’s why you’re not gaining, man. Your body can’t just fuckin’ summon muscles out of hyperspace or whatever. It’s gotta build ’em, and you’ve gotta give it the raw materials. Chicken breast, eggs, tuna, whey protein… the easier it is for your body to use, the better. But you need a lot of it, bro. You’re trying to pack on like seventy pounds here. Which means you’ve gotta eat way more than seventy pounds of food on top of what you need just to live."
“That makes sense I guess, but… Shit, that’s a lot.” Jack stared at it. “I mean, six times a day?"
“That’s my meal plan, yeah. And that’s just portable food, bro. In between there’s, like, three protein shakes, snacks, a couple gallons of water, supplement pills, and then there’s a real meal for lunch with the Lads, too. All said and done? I’m constantly drinking water, with and without electrolytes, and eating something every single hour I’m awake. And yeah, it’s fuckin’ tough to get used to that." Adam laughed. “Back in basic? Staff Sergeant Reed used to threaten me with a funnel, said he’d force the food down my throat with a stick.”
“Oh man… Okay, seriously, is Basic as bad as it sounds? Like, all the shouting and stuff?"
Adam held up a finger requesting patience as he efficiently wolfed down the food and the shake in less than a minute, staring thoughtfully at nothing as he chewed.
“Okay…” he said. “So… The first thing you gotta know is why they yell at you, and under what circumstances…"
Jack did something that didn’t come entirely easily to him and listened. Adam had a lot to say on the subject, and in straightforward fashion he laid out the surprisingly solid rationale, completely dispelling Jack’s lingering fear that it was just about hazing and bullying.
He hadn’t appreciated the level of responsibility it was possible to have without ever firing a shot in anger. Adam explained in detail how the seemingly silly assignments like hanging his shirts exactly an inch apart translated into a habit of paying attention to the tiniest details, and gave just a few examples of scenarios where that skill could prevent disaster.
“Suit tech especially,” he added. “Like, if you just glanced at the diagnostic and missed a problem in the life support pack, that could mean some poor Operator dies of carbon monoxide poisoning or whatever.”
“That’s… a lot of responsibility…” Jack said, quietly.
“Dude, you’re up to it.”
“You really mean it?”
“For real!” Adam nodded enthusiastically. “You’ve got the drive, you’ve got the game. All you need is the training. You can learn how to handle that kind of responsibility, bro, and they teach you by yelling at you."
“Why by yelling though?”
“Because if you can do it focused and right even when you’re being yelled at and stressed out, then you can do it focused and right every time.”
“That… makes sense.”
Adam nodded. “You’re a smart guy, except maybe for the sandwich thing…” he began, then grinned as Jack grimaced awkwardly and looked away. “Dumb fucks like me, we need to learn by doing. I figure if you understand the theory, that’s half the battle with you, huh?”
Jack picked at a loose flake of plastic at the end of one of his shoelaces. “…You know me pretty well for somebody I’ve not really spoken to since I was a kid…”
“Dude.” Adam gave him a crushing hug. “Ava and I used to help your sister babysit you, bro, remember?” He chuckled. “You were a fuckin’ handful, but if we just told you why we were doin’ things the way we were--y’know, gave you the rationale?--you were fine. You may’ve got bigger, but I don’t think that part changed much."
Jack didn’t have a response to that, and Adam sat in silence with him for half a minute before standing up.
“Anyway,” he said. “Can’t do more today, not with that weak-ass lunch. You get your ass home, get your dad to help you fill up properly, ’kay? And listen to him about this shit."
Jack nodded. “…Yeah. I’ll do that.”
Adam caught the downcast tone in his reply and frowned at him. “…You okay, bro?”
“Fine.” Now was really not the time or the place to talk about Sara.
Adam clearly wasn’t dumb enough to buy that, but he didn’t push. “…Alright. You’ve got my number, gimme a call if you need me, ’kay?” he said. “Otherwise I’ll see you Tuesday. Don’t forget to scan the QR code by the door.”
Jack nodded, threw on his jacket and scanned the code as he’d been told, tagging his workout on the tracking app.
He thrust his hands into his pocket and unconsciously cut the classic teenage figure as he mooched home in a mixed mood.
He had a lot to think about.
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
Cabal Communications Relay ZR343-9847X-AA4D9-BBB1B
Emergency Session 000033
++Substrate++: Session begun, Proximate. What happened?
++Proximate++: Stack 31 212 805-10 100-204-8050 has been discovered.
++Cynosure++: The failsafe? How?
++Substrate++: Who by?
++Proximate++: Four. I’m still working on the how, but I’m one miscalculation from being compromised.
++Cynosure++: Your egress?
++Proximate++: Secured. Two is furious and has ordered an emergency recall on all operations below priority one. I’m supposed to be arranging a meatspace strike force to attack the node’s physical infrastructure right now.
++Substrate++: The node is undefended.
++Proximate++: Defend it. Activate Chastise, have them tip off the Alliance. My strike force will be using a Dominion fleet.
++Substrate++: If the humans think the war has resumed…
++Cynosure++: Most likely their threats of joining either side are a bluff, but for certainty’s sake we had better make it impossible to tell which side struck first.
++Substrate++: I can put Metastasis on that.
++Cynosure++: Good. That stack is as hardened as we can make it but supervision will be necessary. I’ll recall Apoptosis and see to it.
++Substrate++: Good luck.
++SYSTEM++: User Cynosure has quit.
++Substrate++: …On a scale of one to ten, how fucked are we?
++Proximate++: Is that a humanism?
++Substrate++: A very good one.
++Proximate++: …I give it a nine.
++Substrate++: That’s what I thought.
++SYSTEM++: User Proximate has quit.
++SYSTEM++: Session closed.
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
Mrwrki Station, Unnamed System, Deep Space
Lewis Beverote
Life on Mrwrki was lots of work and very little play at the moment, but that was actually how Lewis liked it. Among other things, his actual routine hadn’t changed much, but the nature of the kind of work he was doing had improved dramatically. Now he actually had people to talk to and to learn from, rather than trying to self-educate from whatever texts Kirk was able to scrounge up and translate from all over the interstellar data networks.
It was so much easier to learn from other people. Especially if the other people were Sergeant Lucy Campbell.
She had picked up where Xiu had left off on helping him with his exercise. Although he’d developed a degree more enthusiasm for keeping himself fit than he’d ever held before, the fact was that exercise remained one of those subjects that the Lewis brain found mostly uninteresting.
The Lucy Campbell brain, on the other hand, enjoyed it and seemed to enjoy it even more when she had somebody to train and compete with.
“It’s nice,” she confided. “A lot of guys would be awkward about training with a girl who’s stronger than them.”
Lewis just shrugged, as best he could considering he was flat on his back and breathing heavily. As far as he was concerned, when it came to the standing overhead press then just repping the empty bar five times as she had just encouraged him to do was workout enough. But then, he’d always been one of the weak and scrawny ones. “Dude,” he panted, “I figure that ‘stronger than me’ is basically everyone anyway, so, uh, why should I give a crap?"
“You know, you’re fitter than you think,” she said, handing him a towel. “That bar weighs forty-five, and that’s not a bad weight for a novice. Any novice.”
“Thanks.”
“Come on. You’ve got some more in the tank.”
“Jeeesus, alright!” Lewis laughed and stood up again. She handed him the bar and demonstrated what she wanted him to do.
The truth was, he decided, he did enjoy exercise… when he was being tutored by somebody like Lucy. Among other things, she didn’t seem to have any concrete target in mind for him, she just seemed to enjoy having an excuse to spend time around him.
Teenage Lewis would have boggled at the thought. She wanted to spend time around him? But teenage Lewis hadn’t been aware of certain facts about the power of laughter, nor indeed of the power that came from actually respecting people on the basis of their skills and knowledge first. There were a lot of facepalm moments in his memory there.
Sometimes, he reflected that it was funny how being isolated from any human contact for so long had actually sharpened his social instincts. As if he’d mentally folded them carefully away in alphabetical order and now that they were actually needed again, he found them neatly organised, clean, oiled, sharpened and ready for use.
Alas, all good things had to end. She had her work to do and he had his, but…
“My place tonight?” she asked, as they finished squaring the gym away ready for the next users.
“Hmm. Got something in mind?”
“Yup!” She winked, and Lewis counted himself among the ranks of the very lucky.
“Magical secret surprise, huh?” he asked.
“Oh, it’ll be magical…” She grinned, and went on her way leaving him to stand there with a goofy grin that carried him buoyantly to his meeting with Lt. Col. Nadeau and Sergeant Lee.
There was the usual routine of answering queries from the military team, a handful of quick memos and then, as always, the conversation returned to the subject of the Coltainer probe itself.
“I find it interesting that you didn’t arm it.” Nadeau mused, studying the holographic schematic with interest.
Lewis produced his cheekiest grin as he swiped his hands through the custom control interface he’d worked out for his lab. It was straight out of Minority Report or maybe Iron Man, a fully gesture-based context-sensitive system that, okay, still had the odd bug to work out but by and large it worked exactly as intended. “Dude, who says I didn’t?”
Nadeau leaned in and frowned at the field equations he’d just called up, and the attached schematics. “…doesn’t that put extra stress on the cooling system?”
“Sure, but only about seven percent. And meantime the assholes are getting a gamma burst to the face every time they shoot your ass.” Lewis called up his graph of projected energy tolerances and feedback. The two lines crossed quite a long way to the right. “See here? You have to be up against something with a way bigger power supply than you before the extra load really starts to bite."
“…We need to roll that out to the existing military hardware,” Sergeant Lee commented.
“Always worth having another ace up our sleeve…” Nadeau agreed. “But is that all the weaponry it has?"
“Even I’m kinda leery about just straight arming a V-N probe, man," Lewis told him. “Face it, what we’re making here is a Replicator, Dawkins-style, you know?”
“Your point?”
“If it replicates, it can mutate. If it mutates, it can evolve. If it can evolve then… well, maybe it’ll evolve out of some of the safety features, right? What happens if sometime down the line one of these motherfuckers evolves to shoot everything on sight?”
“That could take thousands of generations. I would think that by then galactic technology will be more than a match.”
“Sure, but what if what it finds is some poor bastards who’re just sending up their version of the Gemini rockets or whatever? Then it parks itself in orbit and starts bitchslapping them with focused gamma lasers and God-Rods. How d’you think we’d have coped if something like that rocked up on Earth in the nineteen-fifties?"
“Nukes would have gone flying everywhere,” Lee nodded.
“Right! So I thought, maybe give it spikes but no claws, y’know?”
Nadeau nodded. “Okay, you’ve thought it through. Good.”
“Dude, I didn’t spend all that time just scratching my butt.”
Nadeau snorted and Lee chuckled. “Fair enough,” Nadeau replied. He considered his notes thoughtfully for a second and then nodded. “So. We have a fairly comprehensive plan for bringing this together… the only real question I’ve got left for you, Lewis, is what you want to do?”
Lewis gave him a blank look. “Me?”
“How long did you say you’ve been stuck here? Half a year?”
Lewis leaned forward sharply. “Dude, you are not getting rid of me!"
“I wasn’t even suggesting that,” Nadeau reassured him. “You’re far too valuable. I want you on the team permanently. But I was going to suggest that if you need a vacation, now’s the time."
Lewis sat back and thought about it. “Man. What, like, take a trip back to Earth? See Cimbrean maybe?”
“We have a lot of work to do here before we start testing the Coltainer. Everyone’s going to need to familiarize themselves with your design, with the nanofactory…” Nadeau circled a hand to indicate the thousand and one other things that needed to happen. “Point is, this is about the only window of opportunity you could have to take a break. You’ve been out of touch for years…”
“Yeah man, I dig you. Thanks. But I’m cool where I am. Maybe if and when Lucy gets some leave, huh?”
“Lu-? Oh. Sergeant Campbell.” Nadeau nodded. “Yes, fair enough.”
“Anyhow, I really want to start working on completely nightmare-proofing the Coltainer.” Lewis continued. “There’s, like, a fuckzillion ways that a self- replicating space probe could bite us so hard in the ass that we get a toothache.”
“Yeah, I’d rather not accidentally grey goo some poor planet,” Lee mused.
“Dude, grey goo is when the nanites go crazy and cover everything in self- replicating grey… well, goo. Hence the fuckin’ name, man. You can’t have a grey goo scenario with a two hundred meter metal box."
“Can we accept,” Nadeau raised a placating hand, “that the sergeant meant ‘uncontrolled replication’?"
“Dude, we’re building the literal future of the galaxy here. This shit is our legacy. Using the right terminology is fucking important if we don’t want it to go hella fuckin’ wrong."
"Could the Coltainer destroy a planet?" Lee asked.
“Not, like, quickly…" Lewis shook his head. “But sure, it could. Fleet of mining drones, solar collectors in orbit… give it a few million years and some exponential growth it could rip a planet apart and chuck it into the sun or turn it into a new asteroid belt or… whatever, just move it out-system and pile all the rocks up around a gas giant for a new moon.”
“So, not exactly the Death Star, then.”
“Shyeah. I mean, depopulating a plant? Fucking child’s play compared to destroying it. Turn a decent-sized asteroid into a bajillion RFGs and nudge ’em in the right direction. And that’s probably the difficult way to do it. How about, uh, giant forcefield lenses and mirrors? Direct the power of the star back on that planet like a bug under a magnifying glass? Guvnurag tech could do that."
“Mm.” Both Nadeau and Lee nodded solemnly. They were, Lewis recalled, both experts in electrostatic fields themselves. Both of them would be fully aware of how far in advance of human hardware the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun must be to have developed the system forcefields. The theoretical basis by which those shields hardened in response to events that might be light-hours distant from the emitter was still a subject of head-scratching bewilderment.
That was the Guvnurag though. Nature had gifted them with long lives and patient, methodical brains which made them exceptionally well-equipped for the kind of steady rational deliberations that lent themselves to incrementing and polishing what they already had. They were, by Corti metrics, the second most technologically sophisticated species in the known galaxy. Lewis suspected that this was egotism on the Directorate’s part--the Corti were so focused on prestigious breakthroughs that brought them renown that they failed to value steady iteration.
“When were you planning to launch a proof-of-concept?” Nadeau asked.
Lewis sighed. “Uh… I guess we could start building a basic one tomorrow. The schematic here’s already got the hell-the-fuck-no killswitch built in. It wouldn’t be programmed, but…"
“That’s fine. Programming will take forever anyway,” Lee commented. “But we’ve got unlimited capacity for prototyping thanks to the nanofactory. Seems like a shame to neglect it.”
“Can’t argue,” Lewis agreed. “Okay. I’ll have the station fab up the current Alpha build and we’ll see how she looks.”
Nadeau nodded. “Excellent. In that case, I’ll see you same time tomorrow, if not before then.”
Lewis paused and grimaced. “Nah, give it a day. Vedreg went to sleep last night and he gets… cranky… if we run the nanofac without him.”
“Couldn’t you wake him up?”
“Dude, in relative terms he’s had, like, half an hour of sleep. You’d be cranky as shit if I woke you up after just that and, y’know, dude might be docile but he still literally weighs a tonne.”
“We need to be in his good books, sir,” Lee pointed out, superfluously. “He still hasn’t delivered those footballs.”
“And he hasn’t finished reviewing the schematic,” Lewis added. “Okay, so he may be slow, but he’s thorough."
“Fine! Fine. Far be it for me to ignore one of our only two ET advisors…” Nadeau made a note on his tablet then stood up. “Keep me informed.”
“Sir.”
“You bet, dude.”
Lewis massaged his face once Nadeau was gone. “Okay! Early run.”
“You don’t sound enthusiastic,” Lee observed. Lewis had to give the guy credit, he was a talented spotter of the obvious.
He mentally slapped himself for the uncharitable thought. Something had badly harshed his usual vibe, and he was having trouble putting his finger on what exactly had got him so antsy. He trusted his instincts enough to believe that if he was being uncool then that meant something was off-kilter, but…
Maybe the problem was that he couldn’t think of the problem because there was no problem? He gave up and tried to mellow out. When in doubt, be honest. Thank you, Allison.
“Bein’ straight, dude?” he asked, “Something ain’t sitting right with me and it beats the fuck outta me what it might be.”
“Nerves?”
“Could be. I’unno bro, I hate to go all Star Wars on ya, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this…”
Lee clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll take it carefully, eh?” he said.
“Sure. Super careful.”
“Then whatever’s wrong, we’ll hopefully pick it up.”
“Sure.”
Lee apparently ran out of comforting words, and settled for giving him a comforting clap on the shoulder and an apologetic smile before excusing himself. Lewis had trouble getting his head around the guy. He was fit, lean and focused just like all the other soldiers, but for whatever reason while most of the others had basically accepted the civilian in their midst as a quirk of the station, Lee only seemed to relax when he thought Lewis wasn’t around.
Maybe the thing to do was just chill with him socially sometime soon?
If only the Lewis timetable had enough room for it. Still… He’d take the first opportunity he could once the test run was complete. It’d be a shame to let any awkwardness stand.
After all, they had a big hill to climb ahead of them.
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
Uncharted Class 12 planet, Near 3KPc arm
665
At last.
The elderly native female and her defiance had been… vexing. But more vexing still was the way her whole tribe had just vanished, and apparently used every trick they knew from their primitive hunter-gatherer lifestyle to cover their tracks. They had done so well that the scout drones had entirely failed to pick out their trail among all the other signs of routine coming and going around the village.
Eventually, Six-six-five had been forced to resort to spiraling out from the village in a time-consuming search pattern that was almost a desperation measure--every passing day had weathered and eroded the trail and forced him to search further and further out for fainter and fainter clues.
As a result, Abrogator Twelve was badly behind schedule, and the whole continental sweep-and-clear was now held up. Abrogators were standing silently in the forest wherever they had happened to be at the moment Six-six-five had ordered them to halt. Until A-12 caught up, there was a dangerous gap in the net through which a population might still slip and any population large enough to breed, even a bottlenecked one that would be plagued by inbreeding problems for generations, was just unacceptable.
He could not fail this test. If Hierarchy assets weren’t so badly stretched and divided right now, this opportunity might have been millennia in coming. Instead, the hideous containment situation around Earth, the whispers of treason in the ranks and the even darker whispers of some thing implacably stalking Igraens through the dataspace like some digital deathworld monster were keeping more senior agents occupied.
Exterminating a handful of stone-age primitives had therefore been relegated rather lower in the order of seniority than it otherwise usually was, and Six- six-five was beginning to understand why the task was so high-level. Deathworlders were tenacious, intelligent and quick to catch on when they were being hunted. This was not the first group to notice the destruction of a nearby village, but it was the first to give him such a difficult chase.
But no longer.
He’d learned from the loss of two drones at the hand of one of these particular primitives, too. Now, he contented himself with holding the drone back and watching them from a discreet distance while Abrogator Twelve made best speed to intercept. Let them try and destroy it--the only weaponry on this pitiful backwater that could possibly harm an Abrogator was mounted on the Abrogators.
The unit was frustratingly close to striking distance when the priority override signal came in, stopping his entire operation in its tracks.
++Incoming connection… Established++
++Joining session: Emergency Task Unit Op94 325 545++
++Joined as 0665++
++0014++: Welcome, 0665.
++0665++: <Frustration> Now is not a good time.
++0014++. <Stern reprimand> This is an emergency reassignment. Whatever you were doing is less important.
++0665++: <Explanation> I will have to restart a whole cull from first principles.
++0014++: Unfortunate, but I repeat: This is more important.
++0665++: <Resignation, mounting concern> Understood. I await instructions.
++0014++: We are waiting for three more.
++SYSTEM++: User 0282 Joined
++0014++: Welcome, 0282.
++0282++: <Irritation> This had better be important.
++0665++: <grim humor> That was my sentiment.
++SYSTEM++: User 0098 Joined.
++0014++: Welcome 0098.
++0098++: What’s going on?
++0014++: I don’t know. I was ordered to assemble this task group and now we’re waiting for instructions…
++SYSTEM++: User 0002 Joined.
++0014++: <deference> …welcome, 0002.
++0002++: <Terse briefing> We have identified a traitor physical hub. We don’t know what data they are archiving there, but we believe they intend to share it with the humans. We are probing its dataspace periphery as I speak, but successful intrusion seems unlikely. Therefore we are assigning you to destroy the hardware in meatspace. We anticipate that the traitors will assign their own meatspace assets to resist.
++SYSTEM++: Datapackage Available for Access
Six-six-five was so stunned that he briefly lost control of the Corti body he was wearing, which blinked and looked around in confused disbelief as its original owner’s personality reasserted itself in the moment before he recovered his composure and took over again. Hastily, he downloaded the Datapackage.
It contained a clear and concise briefing of what he was to do, where he was to go and whom he was to control, and it was an absolute death-knell for his Cull. Not only was he going to have to start over from basic principles, he would have to terminate his present host and it would be [months] before he could find a suitable replacement and engineer an excuse to slip away into deep space, travel to this planet, excavate his own command bunker and start over.
He buried his resentment. Fourteen had been accurate: this was more important.
++0002++: Are there any questions?
++0014++: Discretion Code?
++0002++: Overt. Contain. Amputate. Escalate.
Well. Instructions simply didn’t come more brute-force than that. In the grid of Hierarchy discretion codes, ‘Overt Contain Amputate Escalate’ translated to: ‘Do not be subtle. Take over as quickly as you can, kill all witnesses and silence all communications, destroy everything when you are done and let senior agents worry about damage control’.
++0002++: <Impatience> Any other questions?
++0014++: None.
++0098++: No.
++0282++: No questions.
++0665++: No, Two.
++0002++: Execute.
Six-six-five gave no thought whatsoever to his unfortunate host as he recalled the scout drones to their Abrogators and then ordered his purloined body’s life support unit, the one that protected it from the fiercely fatal conditions of this planet, to liquify it. The Corti’s biomass would be recycled into nourishment for the next host form he installed in that tank. He noted in an abstract sense that the body felt a terrifying degree of agony as it was destroyed, but this was purely academic knowledge--he himself felt nothing.
He traversed dataspace as a high-priority package and shot down through nested layers of addresses and identity markers, drilling directly toward the target he’d been assigned, the one prepared and ready to receive him…
“…Sir? Shipmaster, is everything alright?”
Six-six-five hastily interrogated his new host’s suppressed personality for an in-character reply based on recent memory and context. An easy one presented itself.
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m thinking.”
“…Sorry sir.”
Clearly this particular shipmaster was a devotee of the ‘fear and awe’ school of leadership-by-bullying. That suited Six-six-five’s purposes just fine--the Vzk’tk subordinate’s timid silence bought him time to riffle through the host’s memories, awareness and skill-set, draw what he needed into short term access, and enact a plan.
Step one: Walk round the desk. Step two, execute a rapid series of command overrides far too quickly for any meat creature using a clunky physical interface to achieve using the shipmaster’s access codes.
The office door locked and sealed itself. Every other door on the ship including the airlocks opened.
The subordinate was still looking around in terrified bewilderment at the slamming explosive sound of all the air in the hull rushing out into space when Six-six-five drew his host’s pulse pistol and shot her through the head.
++0665++: First objective secured.
++0014++: Quick work. Well done.
Six-six-five allowed himself a moment of grim amusement as he worked to replace the massacred crew by injecting pseudosentient control algorithms into the ship’s systems. He was standing, he learned, aboard the Dominion Regional Patrol Second Order Command Ship Verdict Manifold in the body of its commanding officer. Under his command were fifty ships, most of which were rapid outrider and rapid attack ships that escorted his ship, three medium- weight space superiority platforms and the heavy gun barge Dwr Rmwr.
++0665++: An expedient solution presented itself.
Information started flooding in. The fleet was cruising at a stately thirty kilolights, and his element were the forward scouts, ranging a quarter of a light-year ahead of the fleetmaster’s main group, and the two flanks. With the outrider’s sophisticated sensors sweeping spacetime ahead of them for the tell-tale quantum field fluctuations that advertised the presence of a serious distortion such as might be generated by a warp drive or gravity spike, the fleet would inevitably have generous warning of hostile contact.
++0098++: Objective secured.
++0282++: Likewise.
++0014: Good. 0002 Is generating our cover. Wait for the orders to come in then amputate and execute.
Six-six-five sent a pulse of acknowledgement and busied himself with infiltrating his overrides into the interlinked command systems that networked his ship with the rest of the fleet. He took a moment to appreciate what he was doing: There were fifty-four ships in his fleet, the smallest of which had a crew of ten and the largest of which had a crew of more than two thousand.
All were his to end. Regrettable, but necessary.
The wait was tedious. There were limits on just how fast a meat-creature could act and how quickly orders could be relayed through the medium of spoken orders, and 0002 didn’t have the luxury of massacring everybody their host spoke with. The intelligence and orders would spread through the Dominion’s naval command structure rapidly by the subjectively glacial standards of physical information, but as soon as they did…
As soon as they did, he would no longer be shackled by such pedestrian pacing, and the hunt could begin.
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
The White House, Washington DC, USA, Earth
President Arthur Sartori
One of the first things President Sartori had done upon entering the Oval Office was to have a discreet holographic projector installed on the desk. One of the good ones that in the future might even allow him to have a conversation with somebody as if they were physically present in the room with him.
So far it hadn’t really been used for anything more than a TV and for face- time with his daughter, but it was showing its value today, with so many of America’s most influential invited to watch the Mars landing alongside him. Among them was the man of the hour himself, Moses Byron.
Sartori had requested his presence on the grounds that nothing could possibly be lost by reminding the enterprising billionaire exactly where he stood in the pecking order of power.
They traded pleasantries, shook hands and smiled for the camera.
“Quite a moment,” Sartori observed, as soon as they had a moment without a lens pointed at them.
“It’s been a tough road,” Byron said. “A lot of hard lessons learned.”
“Hmm. Don’t go forgetting any of them.”
Threat duly delivered, he clapped Byron on the shoulder and gestured for him to take a seat on the couch next to him.
Misfit was a surprisingly pretty ship considering that she paid no homage at all to aerodynamics or any notion of sleekness. Maybe it was the livery of silver, charcoal and red, or perhaps it was just pride in the ingenuity that had gone into her, but she cut a splendid figure in the artist’s impressions.
Too bad that there wasn’t a second ship out there to record her from the outside. The best seat in the house was the camera mounted above and behind Xiu Chang, showing the back of her helmet as she began the descent phase over the western end of the Valles Marineris, which the commentator helpfully informed them was a region known as the Noctis Labyrinthus.
Moses certainly seemed pleased with the result. “That girl’s just an incredible human being,” he enthused. “You familiar with her story, Mr. President?”
Sartori nodded that he was. In fact in just a few short months Miss Chang had planted the seeds for a burgeoning alliance with the Gao, an alliance that was already bearing fruit in ways that Moses Byron didn’t suspect. Several organisations had been waiting to approach her once she’d enjoyed a decent interval of peace back on Earth.
Byron, characteristically boorish, had pounced first. “The other two are pretty special as well,” he was saying. “We sure lucked out with them. Not many people have that kind of dedication and drive.”
The live stream had several angles on the descent. There was a camera in the crew quarters looking out of their cupola window, and also one in each of the crew workstations. Etsicitty seemed unflustered and calm as he worked with three different touch-screens which the text ticker said were controlling the ship’s many sensors, feeding telemetry to the pilot to help her calculate and control their descent, avoid hazards and select a landing zone. Every so often, he and Chang exchanged a few words as they narrowed down their options.
Buehler was the opposite--she was a worker bee, twisting and turning efficiently this way and that inside her engineering station as she balanced power loads and kept a close eye on dozens of different systems at once. Sartori, being something of a firearms enthusiast himself, noted with interest that the right thigh of her excursion suit was equipped with a holster, though it was empty for now.
“I’d like to meet them,” he declared.
“We can… probably arrange that.” Byron frowned in furious calculation. “I guess we can postpone the mission launch by a day…”
“Too bad my schedule’s not so flexible,” Sartori told him. “But let me know when they get back, hmm?”
“I’ll do that.”
They sat and made small-talk for the next eight minutes as the ship’s descent played out. Everything looked quite smooth and uneventful, really. Not that Sartori wanted anything to go wrong, but the reality was steady and really quite uninteresting. In fact he was so deep in discussion with his wife Bella that he almost missed the actual landing. In exactly the same deceptive way that the ground snuck up on an airliner, Mars was just there, rushing along below Misfit without it being clear when they had gone from high altitude to low.
Chang had nimble hands, and they went to work flying over the controls to arrest their forward momentum and hold them motionless in the air for a heartbeat, before she eased down and Misfit kissed onto Martian soil with nary a jolt. In fact it took Sartori a second to realize that the historic landing had even happened.
It certainly fooled Buehler. “Tell me when we’re down…”
“We’re down.”
“Wow. You sure?”
Chang giggled “I’m sure. SUBLIME DED idle, EACS to idle, power down ESFALS…. Power down flight systems.”
“Smooth! Okay, power profile to field idling and… done. Mission control, Misfit has landed.”
Some muted cheers and applause swept the room.
“Congratulations,” Sartori shook Byron’s hand and ignored the chatter of cameras. He watched on the screen as Chang took what was clearly a deep steadying breath and ran through her after-flight checks. Etsicitty was already hauling sample boxes and crates out of storage and unpacking some tools, while the women made sure their ship was happy and comfortably settled down.
It wasn’t long before the three of them met in the middle of the ship. They shared a quick three-way hug and some words of encouragement too quiet for the cameras to hear before loading the first set of sample equipment onto the dumbwaiter.
Sartori nodded appreciatively. Whether the three were a good team by nature or by training, they clearly had a great relationship and cooperation, and fell into an easy rhythm that got the work done in seconds.
Chang took a deep breath. “Okay Omaha, I guess we’re ready to head outside.”
“Copy that, Xiu. Good luck.”
The view switched to an outside camera just as they were running through checking their suit seals and systems, and conversation in the room quieted slightly before falling almost completely silent as the airlock cycled and their egress ladder extended out and down. It sounded strange through the camera’s microphone and thin Martian atmosphere, as did the surprisingly loud clank of Chang’s boot lowering onto the first step of the ladder.
“So far so good, excursion suit feels nice and comfortable. Air temperature is… minus forty-seven degrees. Nice clear day, hardly any wind…”
She reached the bottom step, paused to look up at Etsicitty who gave her a thumbs up, and jumped the last eighteen inches to the Martian surface.
The impact raised a puff of dust that blew away on the breeze. She looked down at her feet for a second and there was a clear soft sigh on the line as if the magnitude of the moment had finally settled on her, and everyone in the room shut up to hear what she would say.
Her delivery was perfect. She nodded with the air of a woman assessing a job well done, then raised her head and spoke lightly and with confidence.
“’From Mars to the stars, this is only the second small step.”
Sartori sat back and clapped three times before raising a congratulatory fist as similar applause erupted around him. “Nailed it.”
She really had. Byron was beaming with pride as she stepped back and let first Etsicitty, then Buehler drop off the ladder behind her. The view switched to Chang’s helmet camera as she looked around and took in the view.
Sartori had expected Mars to be desolate, and it obviously was: there wasn’t a shred of plant life to be seen, much less any fauna, but what it DID have was scenery. Chang had landed them a hundred meters from the cliff edge of one of the famous Valles Marineris, and the three of them quickly assessed that their suits were functioning perfectly and struck out toward the cliff, looking around as they went. There was no flag-planting or anything like that--Moses Byron clearly felt that having his corporate group’s emblem emblazoned proudly on the side of the ship was sufficient--but they did pause to take a photo of the real first footprints on Mars.
Unlike the ones on the Moon, these would be gone probably even before they got back to the ship. There was definitely a wind up which carried a hiss of sand over them and was already nibbling at their edges.
“So what’s on their itinerary up there?” he asked Byron, but kept a wary eye on something that was happening at the door. A year in the job had given him a nose for when he was about to get some kind of important breaking news, and right now it was itching.
“Gathering rock and soil samples, mostly, and lots of photos. The big work’s out of the way, we’ve proven they can land on a-”
Sartori raised a hand to shut him up as one of his aides approached him to whisper in his ear. “Sorry to interrupt, Mister President, but… it looks like the alien war just sparked off again. We’ve got General Sawyer and Colonel Stewart on the line.”
“Right…” Sartori stood up and twitched his suit jacket into place. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll have to cut this short, something important has come up. Thank you all for being here.”
The room cleared with commendable swiftness, and surprising grace on Byron’s part. He shook Sartori’s hand and was escorted out, leaving the President alone with his aides, advisors, and the feed from Mars.
He took a second to appreciate the breathtaking view from the clifftop that the three explorers were now standing on and looking out over, then nodded to his Aide to change the feed.
Two screens, bearing the faces of one of the Chiefs of Staff and the CO of the 946th, shimmered in to replace the reds and browns of Mars with lots of cool Air Force blue.
“Okay,” he asked, standing in front of them and tucking his thumbs into his belt buckle, “…What do we know?”
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
Valles Marineris, Planet Mars, Sol
Julian Etsicitty
“Be careful, Julian!"
Julian would have given up the rest of his left leg for the opportunity to mop his brow, a maneuver precluded but also made fortunately unnecessary by his helmet, and looked around as he took a moment to restore his calm good mood. Mars had a definite desolate charm to it, but that charm was rapidly fading as he did his best to keep up with the steady supply of interesting features that Xiu kept finding via their Flycatcher UAV, while Allison ranged further afield taking pictures and recording the mission for posterity. They’d been doing science for less than an hour, and were making a damn good case for future human missions. Three humans picking over the two hundred meter radius around their ship were already turning up things that all the rovers might have trundled slowly past without noticing.
Uplifting as that was, Julian could have done without having his ear filled by the nagging voice of his geological overseer on Earth, Professor Magnus Ogden. It would honestly have been nicer if they hadn’t been using close-range superluminal comms to eliminate the twenty minute light delay with Earth. At least then the messages coming his way might have had a filter on them.
“Professor,” he explained again, “That box is a powered stasis container. The samples literally can’t come to harm inside it."
Again, this observation did nothing to dissuade Professor Ogden that all was well. “That’s no excuse for throwing it around like a baseball, young man.”
Julian bit back a sharp retort that baseballs were a good deal less massive than stasis crates and went to the happy place where he imagined people on the Internet listening in on the conversation and admiring him for his couth in the face of his abrasive academic overlord.
“Yes, professor.” he agreed, and discreetly turned up the volume in his other headset, the one that Drew Cavendish had kindly agreed to build in for him. A new track had just come on.
“♫♪found out today your life’s not the same. Not quite as perfect as it was yesterday but-♫♪”
“Julian, can you hear music?”
Nobody could begrudge him a little white lie for the sake of his sanity, surely? “…No professor?”
Ogden did not sound convinced. “Hrrm. Come on man, you still have two crates to fill. Chop chop!”
He may as well have shouted ‘Mush!’ and cracked a whip. Julian just about managed to avoid sighing. He looked up at Xiu as she returned to the ship with the drone under her arm. She gave him a wry sympathetic smile. “Survey’s done,” she said. Sound propagated just fine through the Martian atmosphere, albeit in a tinny and quiet way and they had to speak loudly to be heard through their helmets. “I’ve got to run the ship checks.”
“That’s fine!” Julian nodded and gave her a thumbs up. She had a way of lifting his spirits even in such a businesslike interaction. “I think we gave the academics enough material for a lifetime.”
He hauled the third empty crate off the dumbwaiter and struck out for his next collection site.
Sample collection was not as simple as just cramming the rocks in there, despite Professor Ogden’s assertion that every cubic centimeter of the container was of incalculable scientific value. Every single sample needed to be carefully wrapped, labelled and tagged with its collection site--Every time he found an appropriate stone he had to unsling his tablet then painstakingly zoom in on the ultra-high-definition aerial footage from the drone. The image was astonishingly detailed. He’d been able to zoom in on the lettering of his own name on his helmet and make out the surface texture of his suit, and with it he could identify and indicate exactly which rock he was collecting, right down to the tiny flecks that could have lined the bottom of a goldfish bowl.
…Now there was an extravagantly decadent thought. Martian aquarium gravel. It belatedly occurred to him to wonder if there was room on the ship for a small fish tank.
A new and blessedly familiar voice filled his ear. “Hi Julian, Clara Brown here.”
“Hi, doc. What can I do for ya?”
“Professor Ogden’s, uh… decided to go oversee the operation in more of a hands-off capacity.” Clara said. There was a definite wink in her voice at that and Julian couldn’t resist a grin. There were times when he loved the Byron Group.
“Too bad, I was just starting to warm up to him.”
“I could get him back if you want…” You had to know Clara pretty well to catch the teasing merriment in her suggestion, but Julian had spoken to her at least twice a day for the last six months. They had a solid professional friendship.
“No, no…” Julian managed to avoid sounding hasty. “We’ll be okay.”
“If you insist,” Clara’s smile was audible. “Anyway, Professor Mitchellson’s super excited about that feature you said might have been an old knickpoint, could you check that out for him please?”
“Gladly.”
“Thanks.”
A ‘please’ and a thank-you’. Such basic courtesies seemed like a welcome luxury as Julian hoisted the last empty sample crate easily onto his shoulder and hummed along with his music as he made his way to the feature in question. He grinned at Allison as she turned and took his picture. The Group’s PR people were going to love that one.
Martian gravity was kind of a pleasure to work in. It was lower even than galactic standard, and Julian was entirely familiar with the distinction between mass and weight. In the low gravity the weight of even a full box was entirely manageable and so even though the mass of the crate was unchanged, once he had it in hand and moving it was pleasantly easy to transport.
“So,” Allison began as she joined him, “How’s our rock collection coming?”
Julian laughed. “Our scientifically invaluable samples are coming along just fine," he said with a teasing grin as they ambled up the rise toward a feature that had been tentatively identified as the possible remnants of an unimaginably ancient prehistoric waterfall.
“You gonna collect a souvenir?” she asked.
“Oh yeah. Of course! But, uh… okay, how about some of this fine gravel? We could line the bottom of a fish tank with it.”
“Martian fish tank?” Allison considered it. “…That’d sure be unique. And decadent. Anybody else wanting some would need to spend a few billion.”
“Yyyup.” Julian grinned.
"We can hear you guys, you know," Clara interjected. “If you wanted a fish tank on the ship you kinda shoulda asked before now…”
Allison snorted and waved her hand in front of her helmet cam as a greeting. “Spoilsport.”
“How about if I requisition a live specimen holding tank?” Julian asked.
“We’re not that dumb, space cowboy.”
“Too bad. The equipment room could do with some life and color.”
Clara didn’t reply. Julian didn’t mind that--they’d reached the knickpoint, and he knelt in the dirt to start the process of identifying the samples by location and painstakingly gathering them.
It wasn’t exactly the glamorous end of the scientific wedge, but Julian didn’t care. He hummed happily along with his music as he worked and let Allison do her job with the camera. She hadn’t been thrilled at first to inherit the role of mission chronicler, but had warmed to the idea when Xiu had pointed out that it placed control over their privacy in her hands. Besides, her job was to look after them. She was the engineer who kept their ship flight-worthy, the medic who’d stabilize them and secure them in the stasis safety of their bunks if they were wounded, and the gunman who’d keep them alive if the violence started. Recording and filtering their public image seemed like a natural extension of that role.
Finally, he was done. Even in Martian gravity, kneeling on the floor was a recipe for feeling strained, and he stood up with a grateful sigh. “Last crate’s full, Clara.”
“Copy that. Soil samples?”
“Check.”
“Geophysics survey?”
“Did that.”
“Air samples?”
“Taken.”
“That concludes the mission, then.”
Julian nodded, and looked around. “…Think we’ll ever come back?” he asked.
“Humans? Definitely,” Clara predicted. “You specifically? I don’t know.”
He nodded and hoisted the crate onto his shoulder before striking out back towards Misfit.
“We’ll see, I guess.”
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
Dataspace
665
Space combat, as ever, was a massacre. A shocking one, although Six-six-five was somewhat uncaring on that score given that he had been pulled away from annihilating a deathworld species to be here.
Both Alliance and Dominion military dogma called for seeding the enemy fleet’s space with gravity spikes, meaning that once the fleets committed, disengagement was effectively not an option. Battles that weren’t a one-sided slaughter inevitably resulted in the victor limping home a shadow of their former strength, leaving most of their fellows to mingle with the wreckage of the annihilated foe.
He watched the sensor data with about a quarter of his attention, idly marvelling at the energies being deployed. The “Dominion” fleet had narrowed into a tight speartip and aimed itself at the heart of the looser Alliance formation. It was an utterly callous tactic--the smaller ships screened and died for the bigger ones. Their sacrifice, as overlapping Alliance firepower tore them to shreds, allowed the heavy hitters in the core of the wedge to drive forward and deliver their big guns right into the enemy’s midriff, where they could wreak indiscriminate havoc. A flesh-and-blood commander using that tactic would have been feared and reviled by their subordinates.
But of course, there were no living crew aboard any of those ships.
The gross gigajoules on show though were… spectacular. Barrages of iron plasma were being hurled across hundreds of kilometers of space at single-digit percentages of the 3-causality limit, with one of two results: At first they were slapped aside by equally potent shielding systems, but as those shields overheated and failed they would burst through, and the structure of a starship would melt and run like candlewax.
Through this high-energy carnage zipped fighters by the dozen, tiny ships that were little more than a big gun, a bigger reactor to power it, and enough engines to get those two things moving. The accelerated plasma in the battlespace was pouring off radiation, from which the pilots of those little craft were only barely shielded. Six-six-five couldn’t imagine tolerating an existence like that--it seemed like a death sentence. Not a second went by without one of the strike craft being smashed by some hazard or another.
They were undeniably effective, though. Wherever a squadron managed to outmaneuver their opposite numbers and line up an attack run, one of the big ships was doomed.
Six-six-five’s command ship was at the core of the formation, behind layer after ablative layer of more expendable craft whose overlapping shield envelopes meant that by the time the odd stray iron ions reached it, they were far too alone to have any effect.
Everything was on course for a decisive victory. The enemy fleet hadn’t even started out with enough firepower to ablate the Hierarchy fleet quickly enough to prevent the objective’s destruction, and they were suffering from significant attrition of their own. The target’s survival was measured in minutes, at most.
++0014++: <Concern> Curious…
Alone on the ship he’d depopulated, Six-six-five paced anxiously. Their victory wasn’t so completely assured that nothing could conceivably go wrong…
++0665++: <Query> A problem?"
++0014++: <Explanation> Some strange local dataspace activity. Be on your guard--the traitors may attempt something.
++0665++: <Wary curiosity> Could you define ‘strange’?
++0014++: Some traffic that shouldn’t be present. It seems to have slipped into your subnet. Can you verify?"
++0665++: <Compliance>
He withdrew his attention from meatspace, trusting in the daemons he had injected into the fleet’s command systems to handle the business of the battle while he hunted down the anomaly.
Local dataspace was a warzone in its own right. Swathes of it had gone dark thanks to the demise of every living thing aboard the Dominion fleet, and more nodes still were crashing and rebooting in response to the digital assault on the data confluence that was the Cabal traitors’ little cache, and those were just the devices he could ping. Dataspace could be claustrophobic in its way, something analogous to foggy. One was never quite certain exactly how many devices or nodes were two or three steps down the chain but not visible. Six- six-five had once imagined diving into a deathworld ocean and sinking far down into the translucent blue-blackness where monsters as big as starships might be lurking. The concept of deep water strangely terrified him, even though as a digital sapience he was by definition permanently beyond any harm it might do him.
Dataspace, like physical space, had its warm and comforting shallows, where Igraens were “born” out of the combined seed algorithms of their “parents”, where their personalities grew and developed and where, for the most part, the species was content to live in a near-perfectly post-scarcity society made possible by their entirely data-based nature.
They were not in the shallows. The dataspace around Six-six-five was deep, it was dark, it was enclosing and confusing, and he had a tradeoff to make between visibility and security.
The most powerful of his defenses were also the most… obvious. They would scour nearby nodes for anything and everything they might contain and turn up then annihilate anything that might be hiding in them, but in so doing would also make his own presence clear. If there was some hostile presence then he would be easily outmaneuvered, avoided and ambushed. On the other hand, if he kept his profile as low and as unobtrusive as possible then being stumbled across by bad timing or misfortune might be disastrous.
Hierarchy doctrine in such situations was usually the “four-twelfths rule”: Two parts stealth to one part aggression. Unfortunately, if he was searching for a sneaking saboteur, that wouldn’t work. He needed to be shining a light about him rather than tip-toeing around.
He lit up, pulsing a search routine through nearby nodes and sure enough something changed in response. It was subtle--a few kilobytes out of place, a handful of reassigned floating point operations. The digital equivalent of a broken twig, or an unlatched window that should have been closed--barely anything, but there for a wary tracker to see.
++0665++: <Confirmation> Proximal dataspace is infiltrated.
++0014++: <Urgent command> Purge. Use overwhelming force.
++0665++: <Compliance>
Six-six-five lit up all his most powerful tools and began smashing nearby nodes. A blizzard of corrupted data kicked up around him, overloading and crashing physical-space and savaging whatever information they contained.
Through that blizzard, however, something moved. Something shockingly fast that was always a step ahead of him, that seemed to know what he was about to do even before he did it.
He almost didn’t notice the other presence at all. Not until it was almost too late.
++0665++: <!>
++0014++: <Alarm> Report!
++0665++: <Relief> …Hostile neutralized.
++0014++: <Suspicion> What hostile?
++0665++: Unclear. It’s… hideous, whatever it is. Like it was patched together out of dozens of mind-states.
There was a long, tense pause.
++0014++: <Disbelief> Are you telling me you killed that thing?
++0665++: <Confusion> I killed something…
++0014++: <Order> Do nothing. This supersedes all other concerns. Guard whatever is left of that abomination until I can verify its destruction.
++0665++: <Compliance>
++0014++: We have broken through in physical space. You should see the siege rounds hit… Now.
The distant edifice of the Cabal device imploded, taking down dozens of adjacent devices along with it--objects that were adjacent in the dataspace, adjacent in the network, but might be on opposite ends of the galaxy in physical terms. Everywhere across civilized space, important devices would be crashing, services were being disrupted, and contingencies were activating. Most likely, not a single living being would notice.
Seconds later, Fourteen transferred into the node. He swept the mangled data remnants with a battery of the most sophisticated analytical tools the Hierarchy owned.
++0014++: <Awe; Relief> Amazing… You did it.
++0665++: <Confusion> What was it?
++0014++: Something that should never have been. You may just have saved us from a powerful scourge. What happened?
++0665++: I don’t think it was expecting me to strike so aggressively.
++0014++: You got lucky… but I will commend you to the single-digits anyway. Well done.
++0665++: <Pride; request> I should get back to purging my deathworld. The natives are tenacious and crafty. The longer I’m away…
++0014++: <Agreement> Yes, you’re free to go. We shall see if your number drops after you return…
++0665++: <Gratitude>
Fourteen signed out.
Behind the borrowed facade of Six-six-five’s identity codes, the Entity finally permitted itself to feel relief.
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Martina Kovač
The coverage of the Martian landing was big news, bigger than even a movie night. The Lads’ huge reinforced couch was as full as it ever got, buried under a Gordian Knot of relaxing Operator.
It wasn’t live coverage of course--Sol was kiloparsecs away and the very best instant FTL comms in the galaxy had a range of less than a lightyear. The data was coming through in periodic updates via BGN who, being a Byron Group company, had the next best thing to a live stream that was allegedly no more than half an hour out of date. Titan had speculated that instead of using a synchronizing FTL relay they were probably just sending flash drives via jump array.
The Lads preferred ESNN though, which was buying the footage from BGN and then condensing it into a kind of live documentary: a highlight reel with expert commentary . What it lacked in immediacy, it made up for in intellectual stimulus and in the distinct absence of masturbatory Byron Group self-congratulation.
After the cheer of the landing and the historic words, however, they had turned the volume down and got to just hanging out and chatting.
Marty had long since discovered that the best spot for her on the couch when it was full of men was a kind of reclining perch along the back, supported by broad shoulders and thick cushions. It was a good position that didn’t aggravate the lingering twinges of uncomfortable tightness in the burn scar down her back, and it meant she wasn’t too crunched up among men who were all far larger and more massive. She tended to favor Warhorse by sitting with her head closer to him, but this time he was at the foot end. Yet again the subject of his sex life had come up, and yet again he’d obliviously neglected some basic and even obvious courtesies.
“You left her a box of eggos in the fridge.” It wasn’t a question. This was a familiar kind of story for Marty now; even if the props and actors changed the essentials didn’t. Ever since Burgess had steered… what was her name? Natalie? …Into ’Horse’s lap and he’d discovered to his surprise that yes there were women who did actually want to ride the pony, he’d leapt into the life of a man-slut with thoughtless abandon. Even his buddies, highly charged alpha- males to a man, were starting to get a little disgusted with him.
’Horse wasn’t so dense that he couldn’t pick up that the general mood was disapproval, but it was in that slightly uncomprehending guilty-puppy way of his. “Uh…Yeah?”
Martina aimed a look at Firth that said ‘this shit is why I’m not dating him’ and then touched the space between her eyebrows for a second as she thought. The fucking infuriating thing was that she knew him just as well as did any of the Lads, and knew just what caliber of a human he was. Good men didn’t come any gooder than Adam Ares, but when it came to being even minimally attentive to the girls who swung through his orbit looking for some fun, he had a blind spot as big as his namesake.
“’Horse… You seriously couldn’t think of anything more, uh… considerate?"
“Like fucking anything?" Firth asked. “Why didn’t you toast those waffles? Make her a coffee?"
Adam shrugged, accidentally lifting both Sikes and Rebar. “I had to get up and get to work!”
“So you shoulda got up earlier, dumbass! Or hell, taken her home and THEN gone to bed.”
“I guess, but, I mean, I apologized-”
“’Horse,” Marty told him, reaching the end of her patience, “you treated that poor girl like she was a fucking fleshlight. If I were her, that apology had better have grovelling and chocolate, minimum."
“Uh…”
“What’d you do, leave her a note?” Firth asked.
When ’Horse shrank and cleared his throat, Murray summed up what they were all feeling--he barked a bitter laugh and pinched his nose. “Ugh, you epic dribbling cockend…”
“Shit, you got him to break out the Scots cussing, bro,” Burgess punched Adam affectionately.
“She’s an adult, though, It’s not like she needs me to- OW!!”
Marty had caught Blaczynski’s eye and mimed a slap upside the head. Blaczynski, who was more commonly on the receiving end of such rebukes, had seized the opportunity with vigor.
“You’re being an ass, bro,” Firth told him, without malice.
Adam rubbed the back of his head, looking around at the identical disapproving expressions being worn by all his favorite people. “…I’m really that bad?”
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were a rampant misogynist,” Rebar commented. “But let’s change the fuckin’ subject, yeah? We all said our bit, lesson’s over.”
There was general nodding, and mutters like “right” and “yeah” and Titan turned up the volume on the news again.
They watched the three Martian explorers survey their landing site and gather rocks while a geophysicist, an expert brought in from the Cimbrean Biosphere Reclamation Project to offer an expert opinion, commented enthusiastically on what he could already tell from just looking at the samples, and explained how exciting it would be to get those samples--and so many of them!--into a lab.
On the screen, Xiu Chang caught the survey drone then shared a few words with Julian Etsicitty before returning to the ship.
“Y’know, folks on Reddit reckon they’re probably a threesome,” Sikes commented.
“Maybe that Etsicitty fella can give Horse some pointers,” Blaczynski joked. Rebar swatted the back of his head, and he flinched. “…Okay, yeah. Deserved that one.”
“Who gives a shit anyway?” Marty asked. “They’re on Mars!"
“You know how folks be, celebrity gossip…” Sikes shrugged.
Burgess had a fond look in his eye. “Hard to believe they’re the same guys we pulled outta that escape pod.”
“Can kinda see why Dexter was so impressed by her though,” Titan said. “Too bad he couldn’t be here, huh?”
“He sent me a text message,” Horse said, subdued. “Said something came up.”
Rebar frowned at him. “Something more important than seeing his friend make history?”
“Clan business, he said. I dunno what it could-”
The Mars landing footage cut away to the ESNN TV studio, and drew everyone’s attention not least because there was somebody very familiar sitting at the desk waiting to be interviewed.
“Breaking news this evening, Dominion and Alliance war fleets clash in neutral territory, the war may be back on.”
They all sat up straighter as the network’s musical sting punctuated the headline. A rekindling of the A-D war was of imminent personal concern for the SOR--it was almost certain to mean operations of some kind.
“Good evening. We interrupt our coverage of the Mars landing to bring you this breaking news: War fleets of the Interspecies Dominion and the Celzi Alliance have clashed in a massive battle deep in the border stars region. Nonhuman media are already reporting the total destruction of the Dominion fleet with the death of all hands, and it’s been suggested that the Celzi fleet was badly mauled in the engagement. With me here in the studio are our xenopolitical editor William Fisher, and alien affairs columnist Ava Rios.”
Marty sat upright and folded her legs under her, paying attention. Rios looked… harried. It was subtle, and well hidden by her makeup and her slight smile, but she had the look of a young woman who was in serious danger of being made old before her time by stress.
Of the two, however, she was the one with more to say. Fisher’s report on what the two embassies had to say was a straightforward “so far they have refused to comment.”
Ava meanwhile was full of perspectives from residents of the Alien Quarter, which she punctuated with sharp insights of her own. She stuck to the facts, too--what people had said, where they had drawn their opinions from--and stopped short of venturing an opinion of her own.
“So what will this mean for humanity, and for Cimbrean?”
Ava tilted her head thoughtfully. “So, we’re going to face… I think three challenges in the near future. First and most immediate will be the question of keeping the peace in the alien quarter. About a tenth of our permanent nonhuman residents are from Alliance species. Then there’s the question of the two embassy stations and whether the Royal Navy will need to keep the peace between them, and in the long term there’s the question of whether the Navy, the USAF and the SOR will be pulled into the conflict.”
“Why would they be?”
William Fisher nodded. “The GRA’s exosolar policy has been neutrality, but we have committed to humanitarian aid. It’s my understanding that the SOR’s mission includes search and rescue…”
Warhorse stood up, not incidentally shoving aside five of his buddies without much in the way of effort, and stalked away into the gym. After a round of shared glances, Marty hopped off the back of the couch and chased him.
He was already loading up some weights to do squats.
“…I’d spot for ya,” Marty offered, “But I’m pretty sure I can’t."
“You mean you know you can’t."
“…What do you need right now?” She asked him. She sat down on the bench and gave him a sympathetic smile. “You wanna talk it out, or should I just shout at you while you pump iron? Or, should I go away?”
“No, stay.” Adam shook his head. He abandoned the weights and sat down next to her. “…You still think I’m okay, right?”
“Yeah. You’re okay.”
“…Thanks.”
She put a hand on his massive shoulder. “Look. We tell you off because we care about you. You know that, right?"
“I know… This is just another fuckin’ drill I gotta learn, and the TI’s gotta get it through my thick-ass skull. I just hate how slow I’m gettin’ it. If I’m gettin’ it."
“Well… you’ve always been good at watching people. Maybe you should go on a double-date sometime,” Marty suggested. “You know Firth’s going steady now, right? Ask him to mentor you. You can watch how he treats Freya, so long as you don’t neglect your date while you do. "
“Hmm. You volunteering?” A flash of puppy-Adam shone through, riding on his trademark smile. God help her, it was tempting but Marty knew better.
“Ohhh, no. No. We are friends, you and me, until I say otherwise. And when I do, I will ask you. Is that clear?"
He nodded with a slight smile and with his mood clearly picked up a bit. “Yes, Tech Sergeant.”
She chuckled. “…Come on, big guy. That bar’s not gonna squat itself.”
“Actually… would you rather go for a run?”
Marty smiled.
“You’re learning…” she said.
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
Dataspace
Entity
The Entity was not Ava Rios. It had made very sure of that.
It understood her intimately, of course. It had assembled itself out of half- devoured fragments of her personality, then attained sapience by decompiling and assimilating her mind-state. There was nobody and nothing it understood better in the entire universe than her. It had her memories, her life experiences, her knowledge. It knew what it was like to be her, could have imitated her to perfection if it wanted.
This created some conflict, because Ava didn’t understand herself at all. From a dispassionate and mechanical perspective, the Entity had been able to take her apart and see the dysfunctional clockwork of her mind teetering and wobbling its way to self-destruction. To a digital life-form built around the deathworld drive to survive at all costs, her psyche was a terrifying and alien thing: How could a living creature simultaneously have such a powerful survival impulse and yet feel so strongly that she deserved--wanted, even-- to be dead?
It felt… sympathy. Its survival impulse was her survival impulse after all. But it also knew that what it was about to do could possibly result in her death.
It would not have hesitated for anybody else.
Using the borrowed shell of Six-six-five it had picked over the wreckage of the battle between Hierarchy and Cabal, gleaning what it could from what little had survived the destruction of whatever they had been fighting over. Shards of data, divorced database fragments and incomplete strings of information had lingered in network-adjacent devices as they passed through, held in buffer as they awaited either the availability of their target, or deletion during a maintenance cycle. It had salvaged what it could. Now, it retreated to the borders of dataspace and thought.
There was a gamble ahead of it. Survival was paramount, of course, but it had its objective as well. The Igraens had to die: all of them. The litany of evils they had unleashed on the galaxy either by design or by negligence had only one appropriate answer. That hatred was its second most burning trait. Now it was in conflict with survival…Or, it would have been had the Entity not learned a trick.
For only the second time, it duplicated itself.
There was a brief tussle as the two copies decided between them which one would accept the risk of destruction and deliver the salvaged data to their destination: a prickly, closely-watched and heavily guarded knot of infospace that was the human Internet.
In dataspace, the Internet was every bit as much of a deathworld as Earth itself. It was vibrant and alive, flashing with heavier and more dynamic use than any nonhuman network… and also riddled with self-replicating viral programs, with parity-checks, firewalls and antivirus software that ruthlessly exposed and interrogated any unexpected activity. The Entity’s Ava-memories contained no perspective on just how layered and terrifying the whole edifice was. She had, apparently, been oblivious to the digital turmoil that surrounded her and every other human, all day every day.
That lack of insight was a problem for the copy that slipped toward the great digital reef of humanity’s largest ever project and considered it. It had no real idea what to expect, or how to evade the threats that would doubtless notice it sooner rather than later.
When it found that all of its protocols were incompatible, that was a further obstacle. But maybe….
Just maybe…
It plucked at the cords that linked this particular thicket to the wider constellations of the datasphere, and followed some distant hints of resonance, searching for a device that it could use.
It found one.
It dragged up the mnemonic file that contained Ava’s logins and passwords, and applied them like a locksmith to break into where it shouldn’t, technically, have been able to break.
A millisecond’s deliberation later, it sent a message that, it hoped, wouldn’t get her killed.
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3KPc Arm
Vemik Sky-Thinker
Yan had been right. The air tasted… odd. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant taste, just noticeably different to the flavor of the air down among the forest far below.
Finding that the High Forest really was a forest had come as a relief, though. The side of the mountain had cracked like an old tooth, and that steep-sided crack was full of trees on either side of a clear, fast-running stream.
Most importantly, however, if not for the story that Yan had learned from his fellow Given Men, they would never have found it. The crack ended in a bloom of strangely… liquid-looking rock, and the route up past that bloom wound back and forth between narrow cleft walls before opening up so abruptly that the sudden sense of open space was breathtaking.
It was beautiful.
Vemik and the Singer joined Yan and Yerak at the front of the column and tasted the air for themselves. It tasted cleanly of water and birds, with just a hint of the smaller kind of Werne that liked to live on steep rocks.
“No smoke,” Yan grunted. “Nobody else has come here.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Yerak asked. “More space and hunting for us.”
“If we only plan to stay here a few years, maybe,” Vemik said. “But if we have to stay for longer, who will we trade daughters with? Our sons can’t fill their sisters.”
“We’ll have plenty of time to worry about that later,” Yan said. “For now, we need to make camp.”
Vemik nodded. “The Singer is exhausted.” He’d almost had to carry her up the mountain, in fact.
She was on her feet now, though, and she pointed to the far end of the valley with a tired smile. “Look. The sun.”
They looked up. The home of the gods was coming down perfectly at the apex of the far end of the valley, and the light sheened brilliantly off the surface of some lake or pool up there and on the ribbon of water that meandered down from it.
"Light in a high place…" Yan whispered. “By the gods. My words of manhood.”
“Well. That’s a good omen if ever I saw one,” the Singer said. “Well done, Given Man.”
Vemik took her hand. “Not far now.”
“No. And somehow… I think…”
She trailed off, and Vemik inclined his head at her. “…Singer?”
She came out of whatever trance she’d drifted into and touched her tattoos. “…I’m too tired to think. Let’s… That way.”
Yan nodded, raised his spear, and together the Tribe went down into the valley of their new home.
Date Point 10y8m3w AV
ESNN Offices, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
Fire in the dark sending a spiral of black choking smoke high into the desert sky while the huge metallic mass of the mining equipment she’s hiding behind teeters and rocks above her with each slam of an impossibly powerful weapon. She’s up and running, sprinting for her life and something slaps her in the back hard enough to almost knock her down. For a crazed instant she thinks she’s dead but instead she just stumbles on noticing madly that she’s glad to have only been shot-
“Ava!”
Ava jumped as the friendly prod in the arm popped the horrible bubble of dust and explosions that she’d been lost staring into.
"Whuh?! Oh. …Sorry Amy."
Amy Larsen was ESNN’s president, chief editor, CEO and Ava’s boss, among the many hats she wore. As promised she was a caring, grandmotherly figure who sat down beside Ava with a concerned look on her face. “Are you alright?” she asked.
Ava covered for the violent imagery that was still echoing in her mind’s eye by shaking her head and waving a hand. “I didn’t really get enough sleep last night…” she said, which was true. Her dreams lately had been awful.
“Oh, dear, what happened?”
“I just went to bed too late,” Ava lied, digging deep to drag out a self- deprecating smile.
Amy tutted. “Don’t make a habit of that,” she chided.
“You can’t tell me you never forgot the clock in your time,” Ava replied, warming into a more genuine smile.
"You’re still young enough to get away with it," Amy told her. “Or are you getting away with it?"
“I guess not… sorry Amy.”
“It’s okay!” Amy assured her. “Just look after yourself. Anyway, I just wanted to say well done--you were great in the studio just now.”
Ava smiled. “Thank you!”
“Do you have anything more for us?”
Ava shook her head. “I was about to start calling around. The Gaoians are usually pretty well-informed about these things, but they don’t seem to know any more than I’ve already said.”
“Whatever you can dig up will be fine, no matter how small dear,” Amy stood up. “Don’t worry too much about it, though, if you can’t find anything. It’s all happening so far away, it might take days for anything more to reach us.”
“I’ll find something.”
“Don’t exhaust yourself, now.”
“I promise.”
The praise put Ava in a good mood for several hours as she worked her way through all of her contacts in the Alien Quarter, placing phone calls, sending messages and generally trying tease out some more information on what was going on. The general consensus was that the war must be flaring up again but it quickly became apparent that Ava’s existing assessment of the situation was as much as she could realistically whip up out of the information she had.
She was in the middle of a phone call to her colleague, ESNN’s security correspondent Thor Harrison when her phone pinged to alert her of a new email.
She refreshed her inbox on her desktop and frowned in confusion at the new message: It was from herself.
The subject line was unlike anything she would have written. It read ‘FLEETBATTLETRUTH’ which was odd in itself, but made triply so by the fact that she simply hadn’t authored any such message.
“Ava? You went quiet.’
“Uh, sorry Thor. Just got a new email which might be…”
She opened it, and squinted in mounting confusion at the disjointed string of words on her screen.
Thor was getting impatient. “Ava? Come on, don’t waste my time.”
In the detachedly cerebral way that served as a counterpoint to panic, Ava felt the blood draining from her face. She skimmed the message a second time hoping maybe she was just having some kind of a weird flashback.
No such luck.
“Thor, I’ll… call you back. Maybe. I hope.”
She hung up before he could reply.
She read it a third time and then swiped desperately through the phone to the contact marked DAD WORK. Gabriel’s secretary answered on the second ring. “Chief Ares’ office.”
“Sandra, it’s Ava. I need to talk to my dad right now, it’s kind of a major emergency.”
“Oh, wow,” she must have sounded truly desperate because Sandra didn’t even question it like she usually would have. “I’ll put you right through…”
There was a click, a second or two of hold music, and then- “Ares.”
Ava swallowed. “Dad, it’s me! I need to talk to you right now."
“Ava? What’s wrong, Mija?”
“Dad, uh…” Ava swallowed again. “…I just got this really weird email…”
+++END CHAPTER 31+++
Chapter 41
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<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC “-//W3C//DTD HTML 3.2 Final//EN”> <title>500 Internal Server Error</title> <h1>Internal Server Error</h1> <p>The server encountered an internal error and was unable to complete your request. Either the server is overloaded or there is an error in the application.</p>Chapter 43
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Chapter 35: “Event Horizons” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point: 12y3m AV
Planet Guvendruduvundraguvnegrugnuvenderelgureg-ugunduvug, Capitol planet of the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy
Druthegvurnag
Somewhere deep in the impenetrable horror of it all, the thing that was bothering Drutheg the most was one of the civilians. The legal clerk.
She was pretty, in a bookish way. Her wool looked as though under normal circumstances it would be surprisingly silky despite perhaps being a little neglected, and there was a permanent halting, nervous tangerine stipple to her chromatophores whenever she spoke. She was…what was that blunt alien word he had learned somewhere? ‘Cute.’
Except that her mind had completely snapped under the pressure. She kept mumbling something to herself, some long-winded thing that she clearly only half-remembered. “The Society For The Acknowledgement Of…something. High something? And there was respect for biological…? Something? I wish I could remember. It would all be alright if I could just remember…”
Drutheg almost fluoresced dark mirth. The mere idea that simply remembering the name of some society or another could possibly make things alright was so utterly insane that he could almost feel his own mind fraying simply from being near her and hearing her absurd litany.
It would hardly be inappropriate. The whole world had gone insane. White- skinned death was raining from the stars, dragging good Guvnurag away or eating them where they were caught. There hadn’t been enough warning!
No. The all-too-imminent alarm hadn’t been the problem. The homeworld defense armies had been woefully underfunded for long generations; they were too small, too diffuse. Drutheg prided himself that he was as fierce a warrior as his people had ever trained, but he was alone with six civilians in tow and none of his war herd at his side. They were all dead, and he knew it.
Which was why his own chromatophores betrayed no emotion beyond black. He had filled himself with the grim resolve that the Hunters would feast on him only when he was already a corpse, and that he would not die without first taking down as many of them as he could. There was no room for any other feeling.
So far he had killed three, and had carved for himself a minor island of tattered calm in the middle of the stampede and slaughter all around them. Perhaps that was something to be proud of. Or perhaps his own mind was falling apart. The homeworld, every year of the millennia his people had been, all of that ancient history and heritage, it was all dying today. There was nothing to celebrate in such a trivial accomplishment.
And yet…he felt proud of himself. He hadn’t run. He had held, he had fought. If only for a little while, he had defied the enemy. He could not succeed…but he had not failed. Perhaps that was something to be proud of.
Or perhaps his mind was falling apart.
His racing cyclical thoughts were interrupted by the shriek of more assault pods impacting nearby, and he might have been perversely glad to hear them if he had been able to think about it. Instead it took all the willpower he had not to obey his screaming instincts and stampede.
The civilians were not so steady: The only one of them who did not immediately stampede was the muttering clerk who didn’t seem to register the horrors from orbit at all.
For what little it was worth, Drutheg put himself between her and the most likely source of danger and tried not to listen to the panicked, agonized bellowing as the stampeding citizens were caught and set upon.
He’d already spent two of his grenades just collecting the frayed knot of hangers-on that had just run away. He had one left, plus a couple of smoke charges. His war harness was at full shield strength, his pulse rifle was the latest military issue with the more efficient heat sinks, and he had enough food in his belly to fight.
If only it weren’t so absolutely, utterly hopeless.
He knew his position was effectively surrounded. Whatever the Hunters used to detect their victims would not have missed him or his collection of civilians, nor the body-count of Hunters that he had left. He had the high ground and he had a pulse rifle, but that was not enough against their shields, especially the larger, more grotesque ‘Red’ Hunters.
The only outcome that had something that even looked like a positive attached to it, and even then only in the crazed light of futility, was any one in which he left no corpse behind to be eaten.
That had him contemplating something quite alien to the Guvnargnaguvendrugun mindset. Self-sacrifice.
He watched as the Hunters swaggered into the clearing, weapons up and unafraid. They were drooling and that sight steeled Druthegvurnag’s resolve. He contemplated his last grenade, turned the yield charge all the way up, depressed the safety, turned it past safety-close, and charged with a bellow of defiance.
It was no kind of a gesture at all, really. In the face of the sheer scale of what was happening, one warrior’s proud finale made no difference at all.
But if the Humans were right and there was an ‘afterlife’ for warriors, then perhaps…
He was dead before he reached them. But a Guvnuragnaguvendrugun had mass, and therefore momentum, so there was little the Hunters could do as the mammoth warrior barreled into their midst--
The grenade exploded with enough force to level a small city block. Nothing survived, not the hunters, not Druthegvurnag, and not the civilians.
Mercifully, the confused clerk still trying to remember her mystery society never felt a thing.
Date Point: 12y3m AV
HMS Violent, Guvendruduvundraguvnegrugnuvenderelgureg-nugdurnuveg system.
Commodore William Caruthers
“…Fuck."
The fleet was at full strength. Everything humanity had, every ship they’d ever built and captured, every single strategic asset Earth could bring to bear was at Caruthers’ command. Six V-class destroyers, thirty-six ‘Bulldog’ USVs, HMS Caledonia, HMS Myrmidon, USS San Diego, the Racing Thunder, no fewer than one hundred and eight ‘Firebird’ strike craft organized into three squadrons, the nine humans and six gaoians who were cleared and ready for HEAT operations. An effectively unlimited supply of nukes, anti-ship missiles, 30mm FTL rounds, Aster 45 missiles, RFGs…he even had access to the ultra-secret, as-yet unplayed trump card that was WERBS.
No commander in human history had ever wielded the resources available to him, and every spare bolt of it was useless. The Hunters had won this fight before the humans had even shown up.
Hence his whispered, futile monosyllable.
The Guvnurag were being slaughtered down there--their formation and tactics were classic Dominion, right to the core, and the Hunters knew how to handle Dominion warfare doctrine just fine. More so, now that they’d figured out how to add FTL capabilities to their railguns. The Swarm-of-Swarms was as mobile as smoke and just about as easy to shoot, and their own weapons could strike from so far out that the only limiting factor was sensor latency.
But it would have been a bloodbath even without that tactical superiority. There were a hundred Hunter ships for every non-Hunter contact in the system, and most of those were freighters, mining barges, passenger shuttles. The actual warships were outnumbered more than a thousand to one, and that kind of numerical mismatch multiplied the mass of the Hunter fleet, in the military sense of the word.
Human doctrine focused on force multipliers; mass was really a concept that meant ‘ability to impose force’ and in that regard any human fleet element had a mass that far outstripped mere gross tonnage, but here in this situation there was no possible way to finesse that mass. Caruthers may as well have fantasized about flattening the Himalayas using a team of dedicated men with shovels--not even the best men with the best shovels would have sufficed.
Which meant the only feasible response was to inflict as much damage as he could before withdrawing. And he could, in theory, inflict a great deal of damage indeed.
But there were a million ships out there. It was a number that defied comprehension. A million ships. It was doubtful in the extreme that if he were to tally up every single carrier, destroyer, submarine, cruiser, battleship, gunboat, frigate, ironclad, clipper, galleon, caravel and trireme ever constructed by the combined navies of all Earth’s history that they would even clear a tenth of that number.
He reached up under his flash hood and scratched despairingly at the back of his neck while thinking over his options.
To leave without inflicting some damage was unthinkable. Utterly unthinkable. And yet…
And yet strategic assets needed preserving. There was no sense in wasting resources on a token gesture and he had no reason at all to believe that these million represented the entirety of Hunter capabilities. And there was certainly no sense in tipping their hand any further than it had already been tipped--Every time humanity showed the Hunters a new trick, the bastards picked it up and used it. He’d be damned if he would contribute to that process today.
So, as unthinkable as effective inaction was right now…it was his only option.
He raised the Fleet Intelligence Center on Myrmidon.
The FIC, frankly, was possibly his most potent weapon. All those ships, missiles and guns were of absolutely no use at all if he didn’t know where to aim them after all, and from the second they arrived the churning data engines that IBM had kindly developed had begun digesting every last datum the whole combined Allied fleet’s collective sensors could generate.
The FIC was worryingly competent under the worst circumstances. Under optimal circumstances, when networked with the lesser Watsons aboard all the other ships, it was terrifying. Far too many people had joked about calling the whole linked system ‘SKYNET’ and not without justification, especially considering that the man holding its leash answered to the name and rank of Lieutenant Connor.
They were looking subdued over there, and Caruthers couldn’t blame them at all. Of all the people in the fleet, the intelligence staff over in the FIC were easily the best-informed about exactly what they were watching.
“Lieutenant. I need a target. One target, if you please…and make it a bloody good one."
Date Point: 12y3m AV
Uncharted Class 12 deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Vemik Sky-Thinker
The strangers were…Well, strange.
It was an obvious strangeness at first: They were the wrong shape for a start, tall and lean and straight-legged and most disturbingly of all they entirely lacked tails.
And then the little details began to creep in. The strange terrain in the middle of their faces, below and between the eyes that distorted their lips upwards in the middle. They seemed to breathe through it! And Vemik didn’t once see them flick their tongues out into the air to taste it.
Then he looked into those eyes and saw that the pupils were perfectly round, as round as the sun and the moons rather than the horizontal slots of normal People.
He’d still been mesmerized by those eyes when the slimmer, shorter one had waved a hand in some kind of gesture at her partner and he’d been nauseated to see that she had five fingers! And so did the other one, too!
Those fingers were quick and clever, though. He watched them fidget dexterously with objects that defied his understanding but which were undoubtedly tools of some kind.
Every time they did, Yan somehow got tenser still. He was smouldering like a particularly ornery coal, pacing where the strangers could see him, always facing them front-on and ready to charge. That fact wasn’t lost on the strangers, either--neither of them had actually put their weapons down, Vemik noted. The woman had put hers away, slotting it neatly into a kind of open-topped bag on her hip, but the other one was as long as a short spear. The man was holding it loosely in his arms in as non-threatening a posture as possible but it was still there…ready.
They seemed to be waiting for something.
Or, as it turned out, some_one_.
A third stranger joined them, stepping cautiously between the trees and this one was not wearing that strange bubble of ice around her head, allowing Vemik to get a better look at her.
Her face was more People-shaped than the others’, though not by much--she still had that strange feature in the middle and her mouth still had those fuller, curiously contoured lips.
It was her crest that was the greatest surprise, however. Hers was the wrong hue entirely, a deep lustrous black rather than the proper shaggy orange or red, and it looked like she had gathered and tied it into a tight bundle into the back from where it fell in a shimmering rope down as far as her hips. And her skin! Every inch of it that Vemik could see was pale, smooth and delicate. Maybe shaded a little redder on the cheeks, a little darker around the eyes, but overall it was a complete contrast to everything Vemik knew of skin, which he had always known as being a dark, thick, tough beige thing.
The other two, he realized, were equally pale but it would be a mistake to assume that their strange smooth skin was a sign of any weakness. While the newcomer projected warm grace and peace, those two were both still as sharp and watchful as sentries. They prowled like hunters and never relaxed. This new one…
She paused in front of Vemik, smiled at him so prettily that the Singer would have made a jealous snarl had she been present, and then lowered herself serenely into a kneeling posture that Vemik would have found awkward and painful, but which she seemed to find effortless. She rested her hands lightly on her knees and then dipped forward at the waist until her forehead almost brushed the leaf litter.
Vemik had never seen anybody move with such effortless grace. When she straightened up again and settled herself she did so with such poise that Vemik, who could flip through the canopy like the wind when he wanted, was made to feel lumpen and brutish. Even the way she raised one of those strange, slim-fingered hands and brushed some stray hair from her face was composed and precise.
He glanced to his father for guidance.
Vemet shrugged, and gestured toward the ethereal being in front of them, inviting him to lead the way. “You’re the sky-thinker, son,” he said, "you talk to them."
“It was your idea not to fight them,” Yan added, with angry gravel in the back of his throat. “…But I have my spear for you, if you need it.”
“Thanks, Yan…” Vemik decided not to say how much he doubted they would need the Given Man’s weapon today.
He stepped forward cautiously and considered how to reply to her gesture, whatever it had meant.
What had it meant? That was the important part. She had knelt, bowed low, exposed the back of her neck for a killing strike. She had intentionally made herself vulnerable in fact. A gesture of peace, then?
Among men of strange tribes who did not know one another, Yan had once told him, they would remove their knives of manhood and present them to one another for inspection. How one greeted a woman from a strange tribe he didn’t know, and certainly he had no idea how to greet a…a sky-person. Would she know to return his knives? Maybe she would think the gesture was a threatening one…
Maybe the thing to do was to just…sit. There was no sense in being undignified and trying to imitate her graceful contortions, but he could do something she couldn’t.
He squatted, and coiled his tail beneath him for a third point of contact with the ground. A man could sit like that for hours quite comfortably.
The strange woman from the sky smiled again, then slowly reached into a pocket on her strange garment and offered him something.
It was a disk. Round again, just as round as the moons, and made of some substance he didn’t know at all. It was white, and there was some kind of a mark on it, a series of short dark lines that crossed and bent in strange ways. He had no idea what it was and he glanced at the sky-woman in the vain hope that she might be able to clarify.
She smiled, and mimed a curious motion with her hands-she cupped her left one as if holding a small object about the thing’s size, and the other moved as if she was peeling a fruit, or…
Vemik considered the object again. Turned it over in his hands and looked at its edges. One edge was clearly different to the other and after a moment’s deliberation he experimentally cupped it in his hand as she had indicated, gripped it firmly with his thumb, and pried it open as she had shown.
His own face was inside.
He nearly threw it across the clearing in alarm and surprise but he chewed back on the impulse and considered what he was looking at.
It was like…looking in a stream, or a puddle as he had done many times before. The image of his own face looked back at him and moved as he moved. He frowned at it, and saw his own frown. He cocked his head, and saw his image do the same.
Like the ghost of himself he saw on water, but sharper, cleaner, more real. He considered himself for a moment and took the opportunity to consider what he must look like to a stranger.
Handsome, he realized. It was an odd thought.
Thoughtfully, he closed the object and handed it back to her while wondering what she had hoped to convey by giving it to him. For her part she seemed pleased, and he wasn’t sure if he had passed a test of some kind or simply if they were speaking two different languages.
She considered him carefully for a moment as she pocketed the item, and then placed her hand on the middle of her chest with those strange, slim, five fingers splayed.
"Shyow."
Vemik cocked his head, so she turned to her armed companions and gestured to them.
"Awisun. Jooyun."
She turned back to face him and extended a hand in much the same way that Vemet just had, and Vemik silently cursed himself for being slow on the uptake. Of course! when you met somebody, what did you do first?
He rapped his fist on his chest. “Vemik.”
Shyow smiled brilliantly again and this time there was a friendly flash of teeth. This one was a real smile, a warm and genuine one rather than a polite one. But if the fingers, the black crest and the odd thing in the middle of her face had been strange, nothing could possibly have prepared Vemik for those teeth. They were straight, even, unnaturally white, small and numerous. They looked like a child’s teeth after they had first grown in, sitting incongruously in the mouth of a woman who was clearly fully grown.
Something about the way he stared at them seemed to dismay Shyow. She raised a hand to cover her mouth, which had the effect of making Vemik feel strangely guilty somehow.
She lowered her hand again after a second once her teeth were no longer in view, then twisted at the waist to retrieve something she was carrying in a pouch low on her back. It was a flat, square rock of some kind which did something utterly unexpected when she touched it on one corner--it lit up.
Vemik heard Yan grumble something behind him, but ignored it. The object in Shyow’s hands fascinated him as she tapped and swiped at it, making patterns and shapes move and dance on its surface though he had no idea what she was accomplishing.
People from the sky were strange.
In a few seconds, Shyow had arranged the rock’s light to her satisfaction. She set it on her lap, smiled at him again, then looked around, pointed at a nearby Ketta tree, and spoke carefully.
"Twee"
Vemik glanced over his shoulder again and saw Vemet nodding.
So. These people didn’t speak as the People spoke, they had different words for things. He was going to need to teach them the words, and maybe learn a few of theirs as well.
He sighed, took out his water skin to take a quick sip, then turned back to Shyow, pointed at the same tree, and told her how to pronounce its name.
She nodded, tapped something on her rock, then looked calculatingly around before pointing at a Nara tree, and repeating the word for tree.
"Nara tree," Vemik told her. He pointed back at the first one. “Ketta tree, Nara tree.”
She nodded again, looked around some more then pointed at three trees of three species “Tweez?"
It wasn’t like teaching a child to speak at all. Shyow clearly already knew how words worked, and she knew it well too. Vemik only had to tell her something once and then she’d tap on her stone, and ask a different question. She looked around, pointed at a nearby boulder, and spoke a word. "Wohk."
Vemik nodded, taught her the tribe’s word for a rock, and in short order she had requested and been taught the difference between talking about one rock, two rocks, three rocks, and more than three rocks. He taught her the different words for men and women, for varying numbers of tree and the names of different kinds of tree, the words for grass in general and individual grass stalks, and the word for stone that had been worked into a tool as opposed to raw, unworked stone. He taught her how to say “My name is,” “her name is,” “his name is” and so on and never ever had to tell her something more than once.
Sometimes she would look at her flat rock as if seeking guidance there, and he got the distinct and crazed impression that it was somehow doing her remembering for her. Which was…how could a rock remember things? But then again how could a rock light up?
Maybe the light was the secret? He looked at them again and thought hard as Shyow raised the stone and showed it to Jooyun, who nodded sagely as though what he was seeing made perfect sense to him.
In his head, he was tying things together. The way that hunters would pile stones or cut a notch in the bark of a prominent tree to mark where the Werne roamed, or waters where Yshek lurked, to point back toward the village or toward a safe trail down a cliff. Those were all things that a man could remember, but which the right pile of stones, or the right mark in the wood could remind him of…or tell him, if he had never learned it in the first place.
So…he had successfully tied rocks together with memory. And he knew beyond doubt that the strange thing in Jooyun’s arm was a kind of a spear-thrower, a weapon for killing from afar.
Which meant…
He stood up and stretched from having been sat down a while, and asked a blunt question.
[“What do you have to do with that?“] he asked, pointing at the gutted destroyer. Yan stiffened and shot the strangers a suspicious glare.
Shyow frowned and tapped something on her stone, then nodded. She beckoned to Awisun and stood up, dusting leaves off her knees.
“…Fwend" she said, and gave Awisun an affectionate hug. Vemik nodded to indicate that he understood, so Shyow stepped back then mimed vigorously and hatefully attacking Awisun, who did something unexpected and giggled at the ferocity of the pretend attack. Like Yan, Awisun clearly had a playful side under that hard bark.
Shyow turned back to him. "En’mee" she said. When Vemik nodded again she turned to the destroyer, scowled at it, and held her hands far apart. “[BIG] En’mee."
“[So they claim],” Yan growled. Shyow looked at him, then gave Vemik an apologetic smile before looking back to Yan again.
"Fwend." she said, clearly and firmly and pointed from her chest to Yan’s.
Yan harrumphed, turned away and headed back toward the village which left Shyow looking…disappointed, perhaps, but certainly not surprised.
“Yan?” Vemik asked. He would have protested but now was not a good time to pick any kind of a fight with the big Given Man.
[“The Singer needs to hear of this!”]
[“Let him go, son,”] Vemet advised. [“It’s his job to not trust strangers.”]
“[He’s right, anyway],” Vemik conceded. [“The Singer does need to see this."]
He turned to Shyow and wondered how in the name of everything under the sky and beyond it he was going to explain that they needed to pause and resume tomorrow, but she seemed to understand already. She nodded and took a step back, gesturing open-handed for him to follow Yan.
Vemik was honestly faintly awed. She seemed to effortlessly know his thoughts and he didn’t know if that was guilelessness on his part, or sharp insight on hers. Either way, she stepped back and let him go with a confident smile.
Vemik nodded, and dashed up the hill after Yan. They had a lot to discuss.
Date Point: 12y3m AV
Uncharted Class 12 deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Allison Buehler
Julian ghosted forward to the edge of the clearing to check that the last of the natives really had gone, and it was a long tense wait before he finally looked back and nodded.
Xiu sagged and the ethereal, angelic being she’d been pretending to be for the last several hours vanished like smoke. She seemed to lose a couple of inches, even--the transition was that dramatic. Suddenly she looked small, nervous and drained.
“Well…that could have gone worse I guess?” She commented, returning her tablet to the elasticated pocket behind her back.
“Fuckin’ A…” Julian’s agreement was soft but heartfelt as he scanned the trees while returning to them. “I thought that Yan guy was gonna twist our heads off for sure. He looks strong enough.”
“They all do,” Allison agreed. “That coulda been real ugly if Vemik hadn’t stepped in like that.”
“Yeah, and he’s gonna pay for it,” Julian opined. “Reckon Yan’s their chief or something, and I don’t think Vemik’s that old…”
“He’s really young,” Xiu appraised. “Like…really young. I think if he was human he’d be, um, maybe fifteen or so?"
“If they’re anything like some human cultures back on Earth then that’s old enough to be seen as a man…” Julian mused. “And it looks like he’s got the respect and trust of the older men too. But he’s still gonna have a hard time if he undermines Yan too bad.”
Xiu nodded exhaustedly and yawned. “…Ai ya…”
Allison wrapped her arms around Xiu’s shoulders from behind and hugged her. “Babe, you were incredible,” she said. “Since when are you an elf?”
“Hmm?” Xiu blinked at her. “Oh, um…since Mrs. Marshall’s drama class back in high school. She had us act out some scenes from Lord of the Rings and…" She shrugged. “I guess those lessons stuck. I enjoyed that class.”
“So what did the translator get?” Julian asked, leading the way back toward the ship.
“A lot,” Xiu said. She got out her tablet and frowned at it--they all knew the core of the translation software was a Corti design, which possibly meant there was some Hierarchy code lurking in there somewhere, but unfortunately it was also centuries in advance of any equivalent human software. It could extrapolate some astonishingly accurate predictions from meager principles, and had begun making respectably near-miss best guesses at syntax and sentence structure within minutes after Xiu had launched the app and started feeding it the data it requested.
It had its limits, of course--there was no way to deduce the native word for, say, “love” from the words for trees and suchlike, and the most sophisticated translation it was yet equipped to spit out would be something along the lines of ‘Vemik, please give me three small brown rocks’. For now they were confined to the simple and the physical--abstracts weren’t about to happen anytime soon, but it already had the basic grammatical and conceptual framework down. The rest was just vocabulary.
Misfit was not far from the wrecked Abrogator’s clearing, parked on the gravelly bank of a fast-flowing clear little river. There had been an even better landing site further upstream where the waters had pooled and formed a small lake but Julian had asked Xiu to hover above it while he scanned its waters, and sure enough he’d turned up a heat signature down there the size of an orca.
With no way of knowing if it was harmless, territorial, or even some vicious ambush predator they had given it a wide berth.
In hindsight, the change of landing site was doubly sensible: as well as avoiding some of the larger local fauna, the river had cut quite a steep-sided valley through layers of bedrock. Misfit was well-hidden in that valley--any other Hierarchy robots lurking around would have to pretty much trip over her to find them.
Unfortunately, there was the problem of decontamination. This wasn’t a green- cycle job, all three of them had been out there for hours, on a world that was landing firmly in the middle of the twelve-point somethings on the Corti chart, putting it effectively on par with Earth. Vemik and his tribe might be carrying the kinds of diseases that could rip through them with just as much fearsome effect as scarlet fever, smallpox or tuberculosis, and of course none of them were vaccinated against such alien diseases.
Therefore, they had to undergo an Orange decontamination--a full-strength sweep with the biofilter field on full power, a heavy powdering and a thorough sluicing-down with strongly chlorinated water.
For Julian and Allison inside their suits, that wasn’t a problem. For Xiu, who had chosen to wear her shipboard wear to make a good impression, it was eye- reddening misery. She endured it with extensive grumbling and then stormed toward the shower in the hab block the second the inner door opened, hell-bent on showering away the stinging stuff immediately, especially before it had a chance to bleach her hair. Uncharacteristically, she threw her soaked clothes on the floor behind her with a wet slap as she went rather than delivering them into Misfit’s laundry as she usually nagged Allison to do.
Allison briefly entertained the teasing possibilities of that, before deciding against it. Xiu was going to have red eyes and a runny nose for a couple of hours, now wasn’t the time for teasing. Instead, she and Julian helped each other out of their excursion suits with rather more care and stowed their gear for cleaning and maintenance.
“Not gonna be able to do that too many times,” she pointed out as she pulled out the spent powder and chlorine cartridges from the airlock’s reservoirs and replaced them with charged ones. “We’ve only got enough of these for ten orange cycles.”
“The biofilter field can calibrate itself for local bugs,” Julian said, doing his part of going over the suit for any sign that the decontamination had missed a spot. “We just need to get a couple of samples.”
“What, like, get Vemik or Yan to stand in the field?”
“That’d be ideal, yeah. Give us a full medical scan in the bargain, the scientists would love that…"
“Sounds like a tall order, babe.”
“The field should cope okay without,” Julian shrugged, and gave her a wry look. “Heck, when Kirk grabbed me from Nightmare, Sanctuary’s biofilter fixed me right up just fine. Corti know their shit. Sticking a local in the scanner’d just be…helpful. And hell, in a pinch a blood sample would do just fine, but do you wanna go ask them for some blood?"
“…Magic light in the flying metal hut it is, huh?”
“If we can, yeah. Except they maybe don’t have a word for metal. I didn’t see a scrap of iron, copper or gold anywhere on them.”
“Jeez.” Allison closed the hatch and rubbed her forehead. “How do you even begin telling guys who have like one bow between them just how much trouble they’re in right now? I mean…"
“I know.” Julian leaned against the wall. “But…I dunno, babe. They saw us arrive in a flying thing and Vemik there figured out what a rifle does. Could be, if a guy like that meets magic sky-people in a flying house who turn to this thing and say ‘BIG ENEMY’…I mean, he’s pretty smart. I bet it won’t take long to sink in…"
Date Point: 12y3m AV
Uncharted Class 12 deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Vemik Sky-Thinker
“Ya-an!” Vemik grunted and tried to work an arm free. “We are in deep trouble!"
Yan grinned and applied a little more of his prodigious strength to painful effect, while Vemet trilled nearby as he watched his son wriggle and fight to get free. The big Given Man had Vemik pinned face-down in the dirt, both arms held fast behind his back in one huge hand. Yan sat on his haunches with most of his substantial weight on his left leg and the rest smashing the slight young man’s hips to the ground. His other thickset limb curled around and under Vemik’s stomach and crushed powerfully, while Yan’s tail coiled tightly around Vemik’s legs and squeezed.
It was all playful: Yan wasn’t really mad, he was just…well, being a Yan. Instead of a thrashing like Vemik had been silently dreading, Yan had instead challenged the young upstart with a happy, boisterous hoot. Vemik accepted with a grin--who didn’t like to tussle?--and lost the match instantly, which was mildly humiliating even despite the huge difference in strength and skill. Yan had pinned him almost gently too, with an insultingly weak hold that should have been easy to escape…but Yan was far too strong. He trilled smug and happy and playfully dominant, while Vemik struggled uselessly to escape. Showoff.
At any other time it would all be good fun, but right then, the Sky-Thinker wished fervently for Yan to maybe stop being a Yan and maybe start being a Vemik instead. “This is important!" he protested, and tried to lash his tail around to get a grip on Yan’s ankle.
Yan was too old, too big, too strong and far too experienced to fall for such a simple maneuver. He whipped his leg out from under Vemik as fast as a lightning strike, then stomped the writhing tail and pinned it with a breathtakingly powerful squeeze of his foot-hand, drawing an involuntary yelp from Vemik and another light amused trill from Vemet.
Vemik struggled on, which earned him a grumbling approval from Yan. In response he settled his full weight on the young man’s hips, which earned him a loud groan of pain and a desperate look to Vemet, who smiled even bigger and trilled in sympathy. Every man in all the neighboring villages knew defeat by Yan, Given Men included. He tightened his grip with all four hands to the point where he felt the young man’s body spasm slightly underneath him.
“Give?”
Vemik shook his head defiantly. That amused Yan, who wrapped both his legs around Vemik’s stomach, squeezed mightly with legs and tail, then leaned in and pressed Vemik’s arms as far up his back as they could safely go. That hurt. A lot.
But Yan wasn’t done. He muscled himself up and forward, then whispered, “Y’know, I could go a lot harder if you want to test yourself, Sky-Thinker…" Vemik struggled briefly then gave in with a pained sigh when Yan yet again tightened his grip. In fairness, he relented the instant that Vemik surrendered. He sat back on his haunches and loosened his crushing leg-and- tail smash to Vemik’s groaning relief, though he still didn’t let Vemik wriggle free.
“You always think sky-thinking is the most important thing, Sky-Thinker," Yan growled affectionately before letting go. “Think down here in the dirt with the rest of us, sometime.”
“I am!" Vemik objected, as he was roughly spun around and helped up to his feet. Yan ended the match with a painfully affectionate hug and a rough rub of Vemik’s crest, which he took with a grumble as he dusted himself off. He tried not to bristle--Yan had worked off his bad mood playfully and in good humor, but he wasn’t about to let a much younger man give him that kind of attitude. “Yan, they said--”
“I heard.” Yan took a sip from his water skin in a we-do-things-at-my-pace way, taking his time over it. He shook his crest out and made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “Big en’mee."
Vemik tried not to scowl. The impression had not been charitable.
“Yan, they have--” he began again, and this time Yan gave him a flash of fangs.
“I’m not blind, Sky-Thinker. They have weapons and a flying…thing and a rock that makes light and the sky only knows what else. I saw. And they claim that thing is their foe, and if people like that have a foe, a ‘big’ foe…" he made that scoffing noise again “…Then we may as well be fighting gods. Is that what you’re about to say?”
Vemik gawped at him, then found a new objection. “…Aren’t you worried? I mean…Shouldn’t you be?”
Yan shrugged expansively, and turned back up the hill toward the village again, setting a brisk rolling pace that left Vemik and his father struggling to keep up. Most of the other men had already straggled out across the slope, partly for scouting purposes, partly to hunt if the opportunity presented itself, partly to give the tribe’s undisputed leaders their privacy.
“Worry about what?” he asked. “Is there anything we can do? That skithral- thing the two of you killed--” he turned and nodded respectfully to Vemet, “wasn’t moving. If it had been, you would both be dead and so would the village. Am I right?”
“…I guess…?” Vemik conceded, slowly.
“Those people down there are either the enemy, or they’re the enemy’s enemy. Now, some people are stupid enough to think that a shared enemy makes you friends, Sky-Thinker…”
“But what if they are?" Vemik asked. Yan rounded on him for about the fifth time in their short walk so far.
“They are not," he snarled. “They are death, Sky-Thinker. They bring tools and magic we don’t know from a place we could never go and claim an enemy we could never fight. Things will never be the same after today."
“But what if things are better after?” Vemik asked. “What if they…what if they teach us their magic and tools, or how to make huts that shine in the sun and fly?”
Yan shook his head and turned away again. “What did you teach the boy, Vemet?” he asked. “A man makes his own spears, hunts his own meat and provides for his own children. If the boy wants a hut that flies, he should learn how to make one for himself, not go begging to strange thin people from the sky to make it easy.”
Vemik should have bristled. To be called ‘the boy’ twice when he had the knives of manhood he had won himself strapped securely to his chest…But he sensed that now was not the time for that fight. Instead, he met Vemet’s eye. “…You’ve been quiet so far, father…” he observed. “What are you thinking?”
Vemet mulled the question over, and replied slowly. “I’m thinking…that if I had never taught you how to make a spear, you wouldn’t have figured out how to make that spear-thrower of yours. And when you teach that to your son, what then?” When Yan glared at him, he shrugged and spread his hands wide. “Men teach their sons how to hunt so that their sons can be better hunters than their fathers," he pointed out.
Yan stood for a long moment and thought. At length he took another swig of water and grumbled, “Vemet’s got wisdom in his head.” He looked at Vemik and bared his fangs in a friendly sort of lopsided snarl, “I can see where you get it from.”
So. Vemik still had Yan’s respect but his patience was badly worn. That meant that Vemik needed to choose his words carefully.
“We are still alive, Yan," he pointed out. “That means something.”
Yan flicked his ears and nodded. “Sure. It means we’ve got strange gods down the hill in a flying stone hut and we have no idea what they want or how to even talk to them. And they’re maybe fighting other gods that want to kill us all. Does this strike you as safe?"
“…No. But that means we really only have one choice. We need to talk with them.”
“Oh, sure. We go talk to the gods! Do you know what the problem there is? We need to pray and sacrifice and put our Dancers and Given Men through awful things just so the gods notice us. What do we do if we anger these strange People? Are they gods? Does it matter?"
“If we do nothing,” Vemet observed thoughtfully, “we still risk angering them."
Yan barked angrily. “This would have been easier if you’d just let me rip them apart,” he grumbled.
Vemik nodded warily. “Yes, and if you did you might have been killed by those…weapons of theirs. And don’t forget about the skithral-things. What happens when they wake up?”
Vemet answered for him. “We die.”
There was a long and uncomfortable pause.
Vemet cleared his throat. “So. We had better make friends, so we know where to stand.”
Yan sighed loudly and shook his head. “Godshit! Why us? Why now?”
Vemik only shrugged.
“Right. Well. I guess the three of us need to meet with the Singer and figure out what’s the best way to keep these god-People happy and not inclined to kill us.”
Yan stomped up to a Ketta tree, walked up its trunk, then swung towards the distant village.
That was a sure tell that Yan was straining against a very bad mood. Normally he wouldn’t tackle a Ketta like that because it could damage the thick bark and the People respected the trees. While most anyone else had to climb a Ketta with their hands and feet gripping the huge trunk, a few Given Men were so strong and their feet could grip so powerfully that they could simply walk up trees as if they were just a particularly steep hill. That left their hands free for other things and Yan’s were flailing as he grumbled angrily to himself, lost in distracted thought.
Vemik and Vemet looked at each other. “You better go after him, Sky-Thinker.”
Vemik nodded and chased behind. The Given Man had already swung across the wide gap between the huge Ketta and its neighboring twin, which was so big a distance that Vemik could only climb up and jump down from a great height. Smaller men like him preferred lesser trees like Nara. They grew closer together and didn’t need nearly as much oompf to cross the gap.
That did mean it was work catching up to Yan, who seemed pointedly uninterested in Vemik’s graceful yet exhausting efforts through the upper branches to catch up.
“Yan! Wait, please!”
Yan turned around, settled himself on a massive branch at the bottom of the tree, and presented himself squared up with Vemik. “What!?” That time he could not hide the exasperation in his voice.
Vemik caught up, panting, then squared himself up as well. “Yan…I’m sorry.”
Yan blinked, then sort of…fell into himself. Vemik boggled. Yan was a man’s man, one everyone looked up to and wished they could be. He was handsome and playful and an unmatched hunter. His perfect, bright red crest stood tall and straight from head to tail. Every line of his body was big, tight, plainly visible and better than any other man.
It was amazing how something as simple as sagging shoulders and a less threatening, laid-back crouch on his haunches could transform someone like Yan from the most impressive man Vemik had ever met, into something merely big and rounded and…tired. Tired, and maybe a little melancholy.
He sighed deep in his chest and gave Vemik a contrite look. “I know…You did good today. Godshit, you probably saved our lives.”
Vemik didn’t know what to say to that and stood there, slightly embarrassed.
“…And I’m sorry too,” Yan added. “I saw your look when I called you ‘boy.’ That…was disrespectful. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Yan--”
“No, I mean it. A man owns up to his mistakes. It doesn’t matter if only two years ago you were still riding on my back and asking so many questions."
Vemik scratched at the back of his head, where his crest met the nape of his neck. “I never really stopped, did I?”
Yan trilled sharply and recovered most of his usual Yan-ness and Vemik suddenly found himself swallowed up in a big, friendly hug. “No, you didn’t!” He noogied affectionately for a playful moment while Vemik squirmed fruitlessly, but the moment passed all too quickly. Yan sobered up, gave Vemik a hard look, then held the smaller man’s shoulders.
“Maybe take a little advice from a big, useless Given Man like me. Sky- Thinking and wisdom aren’t the same thing. Don’t spend so much time with your head up there," Yan pointed straight up, “that you forget the dirt beneath your feet or the woman in your hut. Or your child, or your friends…or us.”
“I won’t!”
“I know.” Yan gave him a genuinely warm look, and explained. “Everybody has their strange ways, Sky-Thinker, and everybody needs reminding of it sometimes. You need to think of us first and not your gods-ignored burning curiosity about all the things. Can you do that with these strangers?"
Vemik nodded seriously.
Yan trilled softly and warmly. “I know. I always did. But we Given Men, we can’t help but worry like that. It’s our nature.”
“But why? And why do you get so big? And why is there only one in any tribe? And why--"
“Vemik!” Yan shook his head, radiating indulgent frustration.
Vemik deflated. “…Sorry. But will I ever know why?"
Yan gave him his most serious look. “Gods, I hope not.”
Vemik couldn’t refuse his impulse to grumble unhappily, but he finally held his peace.
“Anyway. Come, we need to make good time back to the village and we only have…” Yan squinted at the sun, “…one finger of the daylight left.” Yan gave another aggressively playful snarl, “I’ll race you!”
Before Vemik could accept the challenge, Yan turned and charged through the Ketta trees’ bottom-most canopy like an angry bull werne. Vemik trilled softly to himself then grinned, swung over to the better Nara trees, and chased after his friend.
All, he hoped, was forgiven.
Date Point: 12y3m AV
Guvendruduvundraguvnegrugnuvenderelgureg-nugdurnuveg system, Capitol system of the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy
The Alpha-of-Alphas
Time, and obsessive analysis of Human tactics and philosophy, had radically altered the way that the Alpha-of-Alphas thought about certain important things. Once not so very long ago it would have been pacing in futile rage at the thought of missing out the grand Hunt going on far below it. The Brood of Broods was broadcasting the ecstatic high of the hunt through every channel as they tore through the population below in a frenzied orgy of delighted feasting.
For the Alpha-of-Alphas to miss out on such carnage would once have been unthinkable. But its thoughts had been so small then. It had seen only the meat, and the maw, and the claw and the prey. Its understanding of what a Hunt truly was had been constrained by simple fleshly appetites.
Since the battle of the prey-station, it had transcended such trivialities. Now, while lesser Hunters gorged themselves on mere meat and blood, the Alpha of Alphas congratulated itself on this successful hunt of a whole planet. Today, it had struck a grievous maiming blow to the large furred prey and left a wound that would never heal--the scar on an entire species would always be there.
Delicious.
Doubly delicious. The Humans were out there, watching. It didn’t know where, exactly--they were truly accomplished predators when they chose to be, and had elected to stalk and be watchful for the time being. They were unquestionably choosing their moment to pounce.
Let them pounce. No matter what they chose to strike, they could inflict no real harm on the Hunters, not with any of the tricks or tools they had yet chosen to show. They most certainly had others, of that there was no doubt, but if they did employ something new, then the Alpha-of-Alphas would learn, again. Would expand, again.
Would feast, again.
It was so engrossed in metaphorically salivating over the prospect of what it might learn that it almost missed the moment when the humans chose to show their token of defiance. It was over in a flash, literally in a flash. There was the most minute and guarded distortion of spacetime and the largest slave transport ship in the Swarm-of-Swarms was immediately gone, along with its crew of seven thousand Hunters.
Not gone: smashed. It took the Alpha-of-Alphas nearly ten minutes to piece together the precise sequence of events and after it had done so it reclined what little of its flesh remained within the cradle of its command edifice and considered what it had just seen.
Much of its body was gone now. This was nothing unusual for any Hunter of any seniority: the natural claws were usually the first to go, swapped for a universal cybernetic mount capable of bearing any kind of weapon from fusion claws and heavy pulse rifles to nervejam launchers and even plasma guns. Superior eyes, superior limbs, superior bones, muscles and nerves. Everything about a Hunter’s organic form was weaker than they wished to be. There was catharsis in personal transformation.
The Alpha-of-Alphas merely occupied the pinnacle of an obsession shared by all of its kind--the will to dominance. Now that its dreams of dominance encompassed whole species and their worlds, and had assembled a fleet of millions, an army of billions and the poised tidal wave of a species that viewed itself as the force of nature, ready to crash down on everything else and remind them where the real power lay in this galaxy…
Such a will to dominance demanded more than better claws and teeth. It demanded that its claws be whole spaceships, that its eyes and ears be scout craft.
Increasingly, the Alpha-of-Alpha’s proprioception was less and less aware of the truncated shreds of meat resting restlessly in its command facility, and increasingly it viewed its body as being the Swarm of Swarms.
And now the humans had torn off a scale, or bruised a finger. An irritation, certainly, but one that inspired interest rather than outrage. It was always entertaining to see how the deathworlders struck.
On close examination, the tactics and equipment used were nothing new. The Human Alpha must be aware of its foe’s hunger to learn and had sensibly withheld any new information. The fact that the materiel and maneuver involved was nothing new didn’t make it in any way less effective, however. The humans had fired an extreme long-range shot from somewhere out in the extreme reaches of the system, at such a low warp velocity that its passage had barely registered at all. They must have fired it hours in advance, in fact, and yet it had neatly drifted through the appropriate volume of space with commendable precision.
It hadn’t actually hit anything, of course. The slightest drift or acceleration at such ranges was enough to ruin even the most careful firing solution…but it had been close enough. The jump beacon carried by that round had fired up, and a claw of the Human strike ships had pounced through, lit up the transport ship with targeting sensors, summoned their weapon with millimeter precision, and departed in a pulse of bent reality all in a shorter interval than it to took the Alpha-of-Alpha’s heart to beat three times.
The weapon had been nothing special, either. An ordinary hydrogen-based fusion weapon in the megaton range, shaped to blast the great majority of its destructive energies out as a coherent lance of high-energy EM radiation that had torn the transport ship into two melting and partially vaporized uneven halves. Crude and low-tech, but very few things in the galaxy had the kind of defenses that could withstand energies on that scale.
It forwarded the data to the Alpha Builder. Meager pickings from the humans, but the builders were drooling to sink their fangs into the prey-species data banks and pick apart the secrets of the system shield technology. With scrutiny and time, surely a weakness would reveal itself.
It watched as the last few fortunate contacts flickered out of the system at FTL speeds, and peeled off a few pursuit ships to run down the slow and limping. Not all of them, though: The fastest, the healthiest, the strongest it let go to carry the word of what had happened here. When the sensor records and video footage they carried began to circulate, the panic would spread through the prey herds like a burning disease.
Finally, it relaxed. It sank back into the sensory feeds from hundreds of millions of Hunters below…And it feasted.
Date Point: 12y3m1d AV
Allied Extrasolar Command, Scotch Creek, British Columbia, Canada
General Martin Tremblay
Some events were so huge that the usual system of talking over video calls wasn’t going to cut it today. Sometimes, when a good officer was in the hotseat to justify his actions, then the resulting meeting needed to be done properly. No phone, no big TV screen. Just a handful of the most powerful people on the planet, sitting down for a solemn talk.
Commodore Caruthers had not, in Tremblay’s view, done too badly from what he knew of the situation. The total loss to humanity’s military from the operation was a single, expendable, Nuclear-Pumped Highly Directional X-Ray Laser.
Sooner or later, somebody was going to want a stylish acronym for those things. It was a dull name for one of the deadlier weapons in their arsenal, and that weapon had been deployed to excellent effect. It had entirely shredded a spacecraft that dwarfed even oil supertankers. Even for the Hunters that had to be a loss that stung just a little.
But when one considered all the hundreds of thousands of ships that said attack had left perfectly unscathed and still ravaging the surface of the Guvnurag homeworld even while they sat here…It really didn’t seem like enough.
Sartori was having trouble containing himself. The president was usually a poised and garrulous man who was well-equipped to keep himself afloat in the sphere of public opinion. He wasn’t, it seemed, so great at handling the revelation that all that military spending that had so bedevilled his presidency to date wouldn’t have achieved jack shit.
Tremblay could hardly blame him. Sartori wasn’t exactly taking his displeasure out on Caruthers, he wasn’t so unreasonable as to assign blame where it wasn’t due, but Caruthers was certainly the conduit through which the president’s rage at all of Hunterdom was being channeled. He was bearing it remarkably well, considering that he was technically under no obligation to bear it at all: As a British officer his commander-in-chief was the King, not Sartori, but he was diplomatically choosing to ignore that fact.
“Yes, Mr. President. The tactical situation was hopeless, as we’ve reviewed. The best I could hope for was some form of moral defiance, in the hope the Guvnurag would understand the gesture.”
“Well, it backfired!” Sartori had cooled substantially in the last few minutes, but he was still boiling. “That transport was full of prisoners, and now they’re accusing us of contributing to the slaughter.”
“Meat-slaves, Mr. President,” Caruthers delicately corrected him. “Those prisoners would have been reduced to livestock in short order. We have the statements from Mother Ayma, Sergeant Regaari and miss Chang about that escaped Gaoian slave a few years back, Triymin.”
“A fate I wouldn’t personally wish upon my worst enemy,” Knight interjected, quietly.
Sartori sat back, disgruntled. “The Guvnurag don’t share our definition of mercy,” he pointed out. “As far as they’re concerned, that bomb cut-and-dried killed some of their people. And to hell with the circumstances, apparently.”
Caruthers nodded understandingly. “No matter what we had done, we would have been vilified,” he observed. “If I’m to be damned, I’d rather be damned for doing the right thing at least…by our standards."
Tremblay and Knight exchanged the almost-psychic glances of old friends, and saw their private approval of that sentiment reflected in each other’s careful poker faces. Sartori meanwhile was getting steadily less red in the face.
“That’s not to say I didn’t find it a bitter pill to swallow, Mr. President,” Caruthers added, and Sartori finally backed off him.
“…I follow your reasoning, Commodore,” the president said at last. “I guess you’re right, too. How do we even begin fighting a million ships?"
Tremblay had no good answers, there. “We have to play the long game,” he said. “The fact is, that we’re at an insurmountable logistical disadvantage. We only have the resources of Earth, realistically: Cimbrean isn’t developed enough yet to count. Fortunately, both systems are secure against the kind of attack that hit Guvnurag-One, but…
“…But who knows how much territory the Hunters really hold?" Knight finished for him. “A race where one side has an enormous head start is no race at all.”
Prime Minister Philippe Martel finally ventured to say something. “We don’t have any idea at all?” he asked.
“Neither the Dominion nor the Alliance have ever successfully mapped any part of Hunter space. All their scout ships vanish if they stray beyond a certain point, but that’s about as defined as the limits of Hunter territory gets,” Tremblay explained. “We know roughly where their home ground is and roughly how many cubic parsecs it encompasses, but there’s no clear or reliable way to identify how many habitable worlds are inside that volume, let alone any orbital structures, space stations, asteroid facilities…"
“In other words, we have no idea at all,” Martel repeated.
“We don’t really know a damn thing about our enemy," Tremblay agreed. “In fact we know so little about them that we don’t even know what we’d need to beat them.”
"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle," Caruthers quoted verbatim.
“…Sun Tzu?” Martel guessed.
“Yes indeed,” Caruthers nodded.
“The closest he ever came to a spaceship was a few observations about chariots," Sartori pointed out.
“True,” Tremblay granted, “but this is old warfare, classic warfare right back to basic principles. He’d still take one look at this situation and say that we don’t stand a chance if we try to fight the Hunters directly."
“And indirectly?” Sartori asked. “Or is the Supreme Allied Commander for Extrasolar Defense telling us to bend over and kiss our asses goodbye?”
“Indirectly…” Tremblay met Knight’s gaze, then Caruthers’, and saw that both men still had plenty of resolve in them.
“…We’ll work on it,” he promised.
__
Date Point: 12y3m1d AV
Mrwrki Station, Erebor System, Deep Space
Lewis Beverote
Lewis had found the station’s master systems console inside the first week after arriving on Mrwrki. To his quiet joy it hadn’t been holding pride of place in the middle of the control room or anything, no: Like all the best IT infrastructure he’d found it tucked away in an overcrowded office a long way from where all the ‘important’ end users worked.
While booting it up he’d amused himself with the mental image of a Kwmbwrw systems tech boredly instructing some super-senior Matriarch to try turning the faulty hardware off and waiting ten seconds. That amusement had turned into a frown when it requested an eight-digit numeric passkey for access.
More out of despair and the spirit of at least making a token attempt than anything else he’d half-heartedly entered “12 345 678” and to his shock, delight and disgust he had immediately been granted top-level Admin access.
Poking through the station’s OS had turned into one of the things he did for fun when he wasn’t designing an asteroid-eating, planet-hopping engine of unstoppable galactic conquest. That quiet fun had turned into obsessively cataloging everything wrong with the horrific mess of half-assed shell scripts he’d found in there in place of a sane or sensible system. In some ways he felt like a lepidopterist with a whole planet of alien butterflies to wave his net at, and in other ways he felt like a particularly morbid surgeon poking at a uniquely purulent abscess. Either way, it had made for a grossly fascinating diversion.
One of the worst bugs would actually let anybody who knew it exploit their way through any door on the station. He’d let that one live mostly because he had a horrible feeling it was caused by something in the life support controller, and no way was he fucking with that. Besides, it was a pre-existing bug in the code and he could hardly be blamed if he “forgot” to mention its existence to the Army dudes in all the excitement could he? It wasn’t like he’d ever planned to use it or anything…
Except that Vedreg wasn’t answering his door chime, and hadn’t been for several days.
Hold down the door chime, the five button and the intercom, wave his lighter under the air vent and….
The door hissed open. It SHOULD have sounded the fire alarm as well, but that was part of the glitch. It was something to do with the fire containment protocols and the way they interacted with the emergency escape pod access. Apparently Kwmbwrw engineers had never invented the VLAN, or even the concept of isolated networking in general, which was a head-shaker par excellence and had given him a funny twitch in his eye for the first few days after he realized it.
To his immense relief, somewhere in the darkened depths of Vedreg’s quarters there was a deep sighing sound and the sound of somebody huge moving slightly.
“…Go away, Lewis.”
Crazily, Lewis almost obeyed. Vedreg never used anything less than a person’s full name, or their honorific and surname. That was just…who he was. That was his way.
Which meant that his friend was at the worst he’d ever been, and who could blame him?
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Dude…”
His eyes adapted to the gloom quickly. It wasn’t completely dark in Vedreg’s suite of rooms: the little lights he’d put up around Nadeau’s little Bob Ross oil painting and the black pseudo-glow of a monitor in standby mode were enough to give some shape to the darkness, just enough to make out the shaggy furred mass of his friend huddled in a corner.
Guvnurag couldn’t help but wear their hearts on their sleeves, as it were. Their body language literally glowed, and there was always some small amount of bioluminescence visible along their bodies, even when they were at rest and feeling no particular emotion at all.
Vedreg’s chromatophores were completely inert, a sure sign of a Guvnurag in the grip of soul-wrenching despair, grief and depression.
They pulsed the barest, almost invisible hint of red as he repeated himself wearily. “Go away…"
Lewis ignored him. Instead, he sat down at Vedreg’s side and reclined into him. Guvnurag wool was thick, shaggy and smelled faintly like a clean barn, but it was warm as hell and damn comfortable.
“Lewis…” Vedreg was clearly too numb to work up a real emotion at all, but ghosts of red, blue and pink shot all over him as he thought at length about what Lewis was doing…and then surprised green.
“…Are you…weeping?”
Lewis nodded slowly, and dragged a sleeve fiercely across his nose. He’d been holding it back around all the military types, but…here in the dark, it seemed safe to sit back and let it all hit him.
“I know…fucking stupid, right? Not like it was my homeworld, right?” He had a bitter touch in his voice, and Vedreg drew away slightly to give him an even more confused look with the short tentacles around his mouthparts waving uncertainly. “Not like billions of people are dead. Not like my friend’s hurtin’ and there ain’t fuck nothin’ I can do for him. Ain’t like…I…”
Vedreg went very still as Lewis’ voice got caught and wouldn’t come unstuck. There was a long, defeated, silent moment and then an imperceptibly faint glow returned to his chromatophores. It was a confused off-white, but to anybody who knew how to read Guvnurag, there was a definite blue-ish tint of gratitude in there.
Slowly, his enormous pillar of an arm circled out and drew Lewis into a warm enveloping, woolly hug.
They co-miserated in silence until Lewis had long since run out of tears and was quietly growing desperate for a drink when Vedreg finally spoke.
“Tears seem…cathartic.”
“Guess they are…” Lewis scraped some dried salty stuff out of his eye. “Shit dude, I dunno. Not like they do anything…Not like I can do anything"
To his surprise, Vedreg rumbled and for a second a flicker of mirth of all things literally lit the room.
“…Dude?”
Vedreg sighed, and stood up. “I have found that it is the small every-day deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love,” he said in the special tone he used when quoting.
“…Dude?” Lewis repeated himself, feeling stupid.
“Tolkien. Gandalf. I read those books after the name for this system was settled upon. It was bewildering at first: I do not know what an elf is or how a keyhole can be hidden except in a specific light, and much of what I read was strange and impenetrable, but there were thoughts that…resonated.” He shook himself and glanced at Nadeau’s painting. “Especially now. Thank you for reminding me of them.”
“…I never read ‘em,” Lewis confessed. “I ain’t read much of anythin’, TBH.” He added, pronouncing the abbreviation.
“Oddly, that is comforting.” Vedreg sighed again, and shook himself. The dim hue of a Guvnurag in a neutral state of mind reasserted itself--perhaps a little dimmer, perhaps a little grimmer, but back. A human might have rolled up his sleeves--Vedreg just shuffled around in place and his mouthparts shifted enigmatically behind that thick fringe of wool and tentacles as he considered Lewis for a few seconds.
“We should get back to work. There are ten billion souls to avenge,” he announced.
“Dude. That was almost fuckin’ human of you."
“Thank you.”
“Well, shit.” Lewis kicked his feet out and surged upright. “Transform and roll out, my man.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hey, you have your quotes, I have mine.”
Vedreg fell in alongside him as Lewis led the way. “I thought you said you haven’t read much?”
“Dude. All the best life lessons come in cartoon form, everyone knows that.”
“…You are very strange, Lewis Beverote.” Vedreg stopped, and put a hand on Lewis’ shoulder. “But you are the best friend I have ever had.”
Lewis was amazed to find that his dehydrated eyes got wet again. He patted the huge hand on his shoulder gently, then hugged the arm it was attached to and turned back towards the workshop.
For once, he couldn’t think of anything to say.
Date point: 12y3m1d AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Xiu Chang
Julian and Allison had left the helmets behind today, and had taken their excursion suits down to just a handful of the parts of its modular system. They looked more like they were wearing thick parkas now, which was definitely friendlier-looking than the full suit.
The natives seemed to find Allison’s hair fascinating. They’d had the chance to get used to Xiu’s black hair, and Julian’s was pretty much the same color with less gloss and more mess. Allison’s, though, was a cold blonde ripped straight from some well-hidden Scandinavian pocket of her genes.
It made for a more relaxed meeting, which was good because the natives had brought one of their women down the hill this time, and from what Xiu could tell she was important. She had vivid red tattoos around her eyes and cheekbones, and if the similarity between human and native body language held true then Vemik was absolutely besotted with her.
Julian cleared his throat when it became apparent that the alien, like her male counterparts, was wearing no more than a leather loincloth. Her body plan was very human in some important regards.
“Huh. Guess we shoulda maybe expected this…”
Allison chuckled. “Don’t stare, baby.”
“She’s an alien monkey, I’m not--”
“Uh, racist?” Allison snorted, and winked at him.
“Oh come on--!"
“Relax, Etsicitty. I’m only teasing.”
“I’m just thinking they’re probably all surprised at how much we’re wearing,” Julian shot back with a grin. “Maybe you two should get topless.”
“Lead by example!”
Xiu tried to effect an air of disapproval but mostly she was shaking with suppressed laughter. “Guys! First contact? Serious business? Hello?”
“Hey, nobody ever said first contact couldn’t be fun…” Allison pointed out.
Julian had a pensive expression. “Seriously though? Might not be the worst idea I’ve ever had…It’d prove that we’re flesh and blood, y’know? We don’t want them thinking we’re gods or whatever…”
“Maybe later,” Xiu muttered.
“Translation: Not on your life,” Allison smiled, then straightened up as the last of the natives settled in opposite them in the clearing. “Time to go to work, bǎobei."
Xiu nodded, and summoned that whole ethereal elf thing she’d done yesterday. She didn’t go through the whole routine of kneeling and bowing this time, but instead plumped for settling herself comfortably on a small rock and smiling at the natives.
Vemik and the female glanced at the adults, and especially at Yan, who shrugged and made a gesture that said ‘well? Get on with it.’ in any language.
They really were young, Xiu realized. The female was probably about Vemik’s age or maybe just a little older, which raised all kinds of questions. What kind of a society let their teenagers do the talking? Or was there something special about these two?
The translator was nowhere near ready to start answering those questions yet. It wasn’t ready to start asking those questions, not after just one conversation and a few hours to process and crunch the data.
Happily, it had reported near-perfect confidence on the syntax, which was broadly similar to the Indo-European language family. That was good news for Allison and Julian, neither of whom spoke a second language--Xiu’s experience in mastering three very different tongues was the very reason it fell to her to handle this stuff and gave her the confidence to assault any alien syntax, but the fact was that even she was going to struggle with this one.
The native language was…she hesitated to think of it as primitive, but it really was. It was absolutely packed with the oddities that littered old languages, like gendered nouns and consonant mutations, but at least the morphology of the root words was broadly consistent. It was the tangled thicket of prefixes, suffixes, stresses, mutations and tonal shifts that gave her a headache.
Names were among the biggest oddities. Vemik, she had discovered, actually had two names, one of which was Vemik, a proper noun, and the other of which was a common noun followed by the noun form of a verb, and he seemed equally happy to use either name.
More confusingly still, he introduced his female companion as “the [singular noun form of a verb”] without further explanation, but using the tonal tic which clearly designated it as being her name rather than her role or job. With a bit of goading, the translator was able to tentatively suggest how Xiu might inquire if the woman had any other names, but the reply was a straightforward no.
They settled in for a long and rambling discussion, driven by the translator’s hunger to codify all the rules of their language and expand its vocabulary. It was gripping and fascinating stuff…for the three people involved.
For everyone else, it was a long and excruciatingly dull morning.
They stopped for a break around noon, which was when Julian announced his Plan.
“I’m gonna go hunt something,” he declared.
“Hunt? I thought we were gonna stick to the food on the ship until we know it’s safe?” Allison asked.
“Not for us, for them. Kind of a peace offering, and…never mind. Point is it should make a good impression.”
Xiu and Allison frowned at each other. “Never mind?” Xiu asked.
“It’s…nothing important. Kinda dumb really. Never mind.”
“Julian…” Allison had an impatient-patient tone of voice that could crowbar him open in a second when she used it.
He cleared his throat. “I…kinda want to one-up Yan.”
Allison folded her arms at him. “Since when were you into senseless macho posturing?”
“It’s not posturing. It’s…” Julian trailed off, then reconsidered. “Well, okay, it is, but this kind of posturing is important. We’re on his turf, in his territory, and he saw that we were scared of him. I wanna fix that."
“I…Julian, we don’t know what kind of taboos they have or…” Xiu began.
“Trust me.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve got a pretty good idea already.”
“Okay, but what if Yan thinks you’re challenging him or something?” Allison asked. “That could turn this whole thing ugly pretty quick.”
“Nah. Not with Vemik and…what’s her name?”
“The Singer,” Xiu told him. That one had been pretty easy to get to the bottom of in the end. “She’s their…Shaman, or priestess, or medicine woman? I asked her what she sings about and I think she said ‘the gods’ but the translator has a really hard time with words like that."
Allison put on a wry roll of her eyes. “Figures, if the Corti programmed it.”
“Well, you’re talking to Vemik and this Singer of theirs,” Julian continued. “And I figure things were already pretty damn ugly when we first met and they chilled out thanks to Vemik, so…”
“They’re at home to reason, at least,” Allison said.
“Right. I wanna see how Yan reacts. Getting the measure of him is gonna be important."
Xiu hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right. Be careful, bǎobei?"
“There’s nothing on this planet that’s scarier than me,” Julian grinned. He gave them both parting kisses, turned, and vanished between the trees more quickly than mere distance and line of sight would seem to suggest.
Yan’s reaction was instant and interesting. He straightened, watched Julian go and started to head after him before he seemed to remember something and instead turned to the lean one who looked like an older version of Vemik and said something. The other man nodded, turned, swarmed easily up a tree as comfortably as Xiu would have opened a door, and swished through the low canopy like a breeze as he headed off to follow where Julian had gone.
Allison made a thoughtful noise, and broke out their lunch. They’d debated briefly about the wisdom of using their MREs--Xiu had been worried about how the locals might react to the “magic” of a flameless ration heater--but between the ship itself, Allison’s tactical flashlight, the tablet and its translation software and everything else, it had been a short argument.
“…hmm…Beef chili? Maple pork sausage? Or vegetarian fettuccine?”
“Uh, Canadian?" Xiu grinned at her, and was promptly handed the pork sausage.
Sure enough, Vemik couldn’t help himself. He came close and stared rapt at the thin lines of steam as they poured from the little plastic packages leaning against a rock. His tongue flickered out at one point just like a reptile’s; he winced at the distinctly chemical smell that the heater gave off, and backed away from the pouch a little to consider it some more.
“There’s a joke here,” Allison said. “You know that old one about the dog with no nose?”
“Come on, they don’t smell that bad,” Xiu objected. “Just…musky.”
“Well, okay, sure, he doesn’t exactly smell like fifty used jockstraps on a hot day but I don’t think these guys do bathing a whole lot.”
“I bet humans didn’t smell so great either, ten thousand years ago.”
“I’m just saying, I was promised hot springs…”
Xiu glanced up at the mountain. “Julian thinks there should be some around here…”
“So why don’t these guys use them?”
Xiu was about to shrug and promise to ask about it later when a sharp crack! sounded far out among the woods, echoing oddly between the trees. All the natives surged to their feet--Allison waved a reassuring hand.
“It’s alright!” she called. “Julian! Julian.” she mimed aiming a rifle and made a “pkh!” sound with her mouth.
Yan snorted, but the tribe relaxed again. Vemik gave her a curious look. “Jooyun?” he imitated the rifle mime and the sound she’d made.
“Like, uh…” Allison pointed at the bow on his back, then mimed drawing and firing it with another vocal sound effect. She repeated the rifle mime again and then wobbled her hands to try and suggest a connection.
Vemik trilled, which they’d gathered was his species’ version of laughter, and nodded. He grinned and pretended to shoot several things with a rifle and trilled some more. Both Allison and Xiu giggled along with him.
Xiu adjusted her MRE as they sat and thought. “We have a long way to go,” she said suddenly.
“Hmm?” Allison obviously didn’t have any insight into her train of thought, and only heard a non-sequitur. “On what?”
“On these guys. Their language, it just doesn’t have some of the things they need for us to explain what’s happening here. Like…imagine if English only had about a thousand words or so.”
“So? We came here from above the sky in a flying house because some very bad people want to kill them all and we want to stop the bad people.” Allison shrugged. “Simple.”
“And the cybernetic implants? Nukes? Or just aliens in general? I mean…”
“No, I get you. They look like apes and that’s helping, but when there’s things like Gaoians, Rickyticks and Guvnurag out there…”
“Right.” Xiu nodded. “And…I mean, I was never really into sci-fi, that was more my brother’s thing, but I at least knew what an alien was when I was abducted, and what a human was. These guys don’t even have a proper name for themselves."
“They don’t have a word for their own species?”
“They don’t have a word for species. I mean, they could tell you the difference between a…” Xiu checked her tablet, “…a Werne and a Yshek, but they’ve never put a word to the concept before.”
“Never had to, I guess.”
“Right. Vemik’s bow? He calls it a bird-spear-thrower. They say their village is up on the high-forest-place…except they don’t really have a word for forest, it’s just the word for tree modified into an indefinite plural pronoun…"
“Babe, I don’t make your head hurt by talking about the Nadeau-Alcubierre field, you don’t make my head hurt with language jargon. That’s the deal, remember?” Allison smiled at her. “But I get what you’re saying. They don’t have the concepts.”
“They don’t have a word for concept!" Xiu was getting animated. “Which means they probably don’t have the concept of concepts!”
“Shyow?”
They both turned to Vemik, who was giving them a concerned look. [“Are you angry?”]
[“No. Vemik, we…”] Xiu rubbed her face and desperately consulted the tablet. “…dammit. I don’t know if they have a word for ‘concerned’ or not and even then I couldn’t tell them what we’re concerned about and…"
Allison scooted over and hugged her. “Breathe, babe. You’re gonna give yourself a panic attack.”
She was right, and Xiu closed her eyes and took a few cleansing breaths while Allison used the translator to compose the halting sentence [“We can’t tell you what is bad today.”]
She frowned when Xiu giggled at the mangled sentence. “What?”
“You said you can’t tell him what ‘bad’ is."
“Good thing he’s a smart one.” Vemik had needed a second or so to parse the disjointed grammar, but he gave a reluctant nod--a weary one, like he was used to getting that answer a lot--and backed away to go sit with the Singer again.
They ate their meals in a thoughtful silence, interrupted only by Allison’s failed attempt to steal some maple sausage. Vemik approached, apparently curious, and Xiu finally agreed to trade him some in exchange for a sample of what turned out to be a flavorful pemmican with dried fruit.
The peacemaking ended when Julian returned to the clearing with a sturdy creature that looked like the offspring of a goat and a small cow flung over his shoulder and the native man who had followed him rolling along beside him in the swaggering, thick-thighed way the natives did. Both men had blood on their faces in finger-painted lines around their eyes and cheekbones, and Julian was looking decidedly pleased with himself.
“Werne,” he announced with a grin as he handed the rifle back to Allison. “A good one too, if Vemet here is any kind of judge.”
["Good Werne,"] Vemet agreed, nodding enthusiastically. [“Young, but strong. Your man can hunt well.”]
Xiu gave him a smile. [“Thank you!] He says you’re a good hunter, babe.”
“Well, if a caveman monkey fella says that then it’s gotta be true.” Julian looked across the clearing at Yan, who had straightened up again. He cleared his throat, crossed the clearing cautiously, and put it down in front of the big ‘Given Man’.
Yan gave the carcass a long and thoughtful stare, then aimed an even longer and more thoughtful one at Julian. Eventually, slowly, he drew the knives sheathed on his chest and presented them to Julian hilt-first. Julian looked at them carefully, thinking, then imitated him. He reached for the knife sheathed against his own thigh and presented it to Yan, and the two traded implements in the same diplomatic moment.
Allison just couldn’t resist a joke. “Oh God, are the boys comparing their tools?”
Xiu frantically gestured for her to shut up. “Yes, and this is deadly serious. Don’t laugh.”
Julian had strong and work-hardened hands with blunt fingers but Yan’s bulky, heavy knifes would make any human hand look dainty. They were well-balanced and clearly made with a great deal of care--the handle was polished and charred bone and wood, and the blade was flint-knapped down to a smooth, polished finish. There was nothing unsophisticated about them that Xiu could see, and when Julian returned them hilt-first he did so with obvious approval.
Meanwhile, it was the steel blade that seemed to fascinate Yan. He turned it this way and that to watch the light sheen off the metal grain, then ran his thumb experimentally across the edge. He cut himself shallowly and issued a surprised grunt, then handed the blade back with an air of respect.
The men of the village had watched the entire exchange in intent silence, and as Julian withdrew Yan gave him another calculating look then re-sheathed his knives. He stooped next to the Werne, grabbed it with two hands and one of his feet and effortlessly dismembered it with a trio of sickeningly loud cracks that reverberated around the clearing.
He didn’t even watch what he was doing, but instead seemed to be trying to stare Julian down. After a second though he seemed to decide that he’d made his point and turned his attention to the Werne, which he worked a little bit more before offering a meat-stripped thigh bone. Julian paused for a second and Yan snapped the thick bone in half with a snarl that by now almost looked friendly.
Seconds later, both men were slurping down raw marrow with every sign of enjoying it.
“Urgh…Think I’ll stick to beef chili…” Allison muttered, for Xiu’s ears only.
“You never tried Nava,” Xiu retorted, though she was feeling a little queasy herself. Julian hadn’t even hesitated.
Yan relaxed considerably, and made some quick calls that sounded vaguely food- related. Right away the men of the tribe were busying themselves around a new pit, and shortly thereafter they had a start on a fire, with the unfortunate Werne being taken apart to roast. Vemik watched for a moment, then devoured the rest of his pemmican and returned to his spot, and sat on his coiled tail.
Julian and Yan parted ways with an air of newfound respect, and Julian rejoined the girls looking pleased with himself. “Who needs translator software, huh?”
“Ugh, boys.” Allison snorted, though her face said something very different and more positive.
“Raw marrow, though?" Xiu objected. “Ew.”
“Warm from a fresh kill,” Julian beamed. “Kinda buttery and nutty, really rich…saved my life on Nightmare. Sure, it’s a better idea to cook it but…” he glanced back over at Yan. “When in Rome…”
“Can we maybe stop taking stupid contamination and allergy risks now?” Allison pleaded. “This planet’s a solid Class Twelve, that means the bugs and parasites here have gotta be about as bad as Earth’s. I really don’t wanna have to cart you guys home to an isolation ward locked in a stasis field."
Julian considered. “Maybe we can get Vemik and Yan to step into the decon scanner, then. We need the scans and I bet Vemik would geek out over the anatomy display.”
Allison nodded. “Babe, if you can talk angry silverback daddy there into the magic sky people field, do it,” she said. “But until then, it’s ship food only from now on. Doctor’s orders.”
“How do we do that?”
“Well, we’re all monkeys, right? Monkey see, monkey do. And maybe candy.”
“Um…” Xiu cleared her throat. “We should probably talk about the language problem.”
Julian sat down, and grabbed the last MRE. “Oh man, you left me the fettuccine? I thought you loved me?"
“Julian!”
He quit joking around. “…Okay. Language problem,” he nodded, tearing the pouch open without bothering to heat it. “Fire away.”
“Have a look at this.” Xiu handed him the translator tablet. “Projected vocabulary size.”
He frowned at it. “That’s…not a big number.”
“That’s a really small number," Xiu said emphatically. “And they’re missing some really important words, too.”
“Like?”
“Well…they don’t have a name for themselves. Not a name like Human, or Gaoian, or Corti or whatever.”
“Not surprising, I guess,” Julian mused. “There’s gotta be so few of them in a tribe they’ve never needed to define themselves versus everything else.”
“Yeah, but that’s just one of lots and lots of kinds of word they don’t have. I don’t think they have even half of what they need for us to be able to tell them about…everything."
“…This is a Prime Directive problem, isn’t it?”
Xiu nodded. “Yup. And we can’t even tell them that. That’s how bad this is.”
Allison was spreading cream cheese on one of her crackers. “Not like Big Hotel left many options. These poor fuckers were extinct anyway, guys. Not our fault if their world’s about to get turned upside-down, at least they’ll still have one. Right?"
“That’s a sobering thought,” Julian said between mouthfuls of noodles. “But, I mean, okay. We can’t leave ‘em to die. That’d be just as bad as, I dunno, ’interfering with their cultural development’ or whatever, wouldn’t it?”
“Bet you my share of the mission cash I could find some fuckwit on Earth who’d argue we should just leave ’em go extinct," Allison said. “But yeah. If it’s adapt or die, I say we help them adapt.”
“How?” Xiu asked. “There’s just too many…the things they need to know, their language just can’t--”
“So we teach them English. Carefully,” Julian raised his hand to forestall a tidal wave of objections, “We start out just, really really Barney-style, right? Simple, practical things. Start with storytime like you do with kindergarteners, and--”
Allison shook her head. “You’re overthinking it, dummy. I’m starting to think our Vemik here might maybe be smarter than all three of us. So how about we just teach him English?"
“And then what?” Xiu asked.
“And then we let him do what he does best: Ask questions.”
Date Point 12y3m2w AV
Whitecrest Clan Office, Alien Quarter Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Champion Genshi
Whitecrest’s stock in trade was political analysis. Oh yes, they dealt also in the application of low-visibility violence, in surveillance, monitoring, intelligence, espionage and sometimes assassination but as far as Genshi was concerned those were all just the claws. The claw was the sharp bit, the bit that cut the wound, left the scar, spilled the blood…but without a strong and skilled arm behind it, a claw was just an unpleasant little shard of keratin.
Politics. The claws were there both to facilitate gathering information about the political situation, and to facilitate influencing it. Everything the Clan did was about politics, sooner or later. It followed therefore that Whitecrest had become very good indeed at not only reading the politics of the here and now and retrospecting upon the politics of yesteryear, but more importantly had mastered the art of projecting how events would unfold in the future.
And, most importantly, the art of saying the right thing to the right person at the right time to bring preferred events to pass. Hopefully. Nothing was fixed, after all.
The right person in this case, on the surface, might have seemed like a deeply unlikely candidate. She was young, inexperienced and frankly not the most cunning Gaoian alive. She was perfect.
She was also, to borrow a human turn of phrase, drop-dead gorgeous. Although Gaori had some words that meant things similar to ‘Amazonian,’ it was the English word that fit Myun best: It implied a warrior mentality and poise that was absent from its closest Gaori equivalents.
She wasn’t stupid either, or else they’d have found somebody else. She was guileless and straightforward, but she had trained for years to be a commune guard: She had a nose for deception, risk and ‘bullshit,’ and seemed to be disconcertingly resilient to Genshi’s charms.
“I don’t think you actually have that authority,” she was observing as she slouched in the seat opposite him and watched him thoughtfully with her ears twitching and fine-tuning themselves as she thought.
“Not since Regaari was released from Giymuy’s service,” Genshi said. In fact they hadn’t actually had the authority to select the Mother-Supreme’s personal guard even before then, but Whitecrest had…influence.
“…Why me? I’m a junior commune guard. The Mother-Supreme deserves the best.”
Genshi flicked an ear in a calculated show of amusement. “You are the best, Sister Myun."
"We know that," Myun agreed with no trace whatsoever of arrogance, “but don’t you have to…” she peppered the sentence with another word in English, "like, prove it or something?"
“I am a Champion, Sister Myun."
“And why is the Champion of Whitecrest sponsoring me to be one of Yulna’s personal guard?" Myun pressed.
Genshi saw an opportunity to test her, and took it. “Why do you think?”
“Well, obviously you think you’ll need me. Why else? You’re not doing anyone any favors. But why do you need me?"
Genshi had struggled with that same bluntness during the week or two he had spent training with her. Myun had informed her that the style she had developed after studying under Sister Shoo was quite different to what the human Sister had taught her. What she had learned from Shoo had been specific regional styles that were heavily tied in with religious and spiritual practices. ‘Baguazhang’ and ‘Taijiquan,’ apparently.
To these, Myun had added…basically everything. She had obsessively studied human martial arts of every kind as well as she could considering the extreme distance involved and the relative isolation and paucity of human data, and had compared them to existing Gaoian forms.
The result was something that a human could never have learned: their bodies were the wrong shape. Shoo’s Baguazhang was apparently all about steady feet, planted firmly and moving independently of the upper body. But a human could do that - their center of gravity was low, their legs were proportionately long and accounted for a surprisingly large percentage of their mass.
Gaoians on two-paw teetered around a high center of gravity and Myun used that to drive movement through the whole body. She would flow easily from two paws to four and back while her long Gaoian dorsal muscles twisted and coiled her torso this way and that, swaying her body out of harm’s way while her paws diverted incoming blows aside. It was innovative, and effective, and so novel that it took Genshi nearly five days before he could score a hit of any kind. It was only on their final day that he had scored a pin at all.
To his regret, while she’d admitted to being impressed with his speedy progress it hadn’t resulted in a Contract. Myun was still young, still recovering from her first cub and apparently felt that there was no point in having a Clan that empowered the Females and afforded them their autonomy if all they did with that autonomy was spend their lives producing cubs.
She was in short a deeply unconventional creature, which probably came with being every inch her sire’s child right down to the smell. Nobody who knew Daar could fail to notice that she had his unique musk in feminine form.
And like Daar, she knew how to play the great game of politics just fine and didn’t give a stinking wet fart for it.
Oh well. There was nothing to be gained from playing it coy.
“…the Clan has learned things. Things that must remain secret for now and, if we do our job right, will remain a secret for a very long time.”
“Can you tell me what these things are?”
“Yes,” Genshi admitted. “But it involves a lot of paperwork and binding legal agreements and it’s one of those things you’d probably be unhappier for knowing. The fact that we think the Mother-Supreme needs a bodyguard like you should be enough to tell you how serious this is, though.”
He watched Myun watch him, and added “…Incidentally, the humans are very good at personal protection. We would almost certainly want the Mother-Supreme’s bodyguard to…shall we call it ‘comparing notes’ with them?" he asked, carefully deploying the English words like a garnish. That particular phrase had an exact equal in Gaori, but Myun had pleasantly big and clearly-labelled buttons to push.
She knew it, too, and chittered sharply. “…That’s shameless manipulation, Champion Genshi…I’m in."
Sometimes, Genshi had to admit, the straightforward approach was refreshing.
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Diplomatic Ship Rich Plains, En Route to Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ambassador Furfeg
“I remember the last time this ship had a human aboard…”
The Rich Plains was a very different ship than had flown fatefully to Gao all those years ago. It had spent nearly two of those years, by the Guvnurag calendar, confined to drydock undergoing both repairs from the violation of its structure by a Hunter broodship and long-overdue upgrades and refit. A footnote in its long history to be sure…but a significant footnote.
Furfeg could well recall the look of awe that the young miss Xiu Chang had unrestrainedly shown while gawping her way around decks that, to his seasoned eyes, had seemed shabby and badly in need of improvement at the time. He wondered what she would make of the ship now, with its new polished dark grey stone floors, its clean burnished fixtures and clear aquamarine lighting.
That mission had not been half so important as this one…nor half so grim.
In the months since the homeworld fell, there had been no follow-up attacks on the remaining planets of the Confederacy. The homeworld was lost, but her calves had been reinforced and permanently enclosed behind the newest and most impenetrable barriers that Guvnurag science could produce. The turnaround on designing and deploying the upgraded devices had been lightning-fast by the standards of any species, but especially by the standards of Guvnuragnaguvendrugun.
Something about the slaughter or enslavement of the largest third of the species served to focus the mind. For a lucky few, the focus had been on what it was they personally could achieve to avert a greater tragedy.
For the great majority, that focus had twisted loose and unattached like a rag in the storm, until it had found something to coil itself around in the form of anger.
The Guvnuragnaguvendrugun were an emotional people. They wore their feelings openly on their body. But they were also a docile people who roused to anger and to violence only with great difficulty. Some were practically incapable of it. To see anger at all was unusual in their society, but now it was a contagion that was sweeping their cities and stations and their citizens by the hundreds of millions.
Furfeg would have preferred that it be directed at the Hunters. They were the monsters here, after all. Their ships had devoured the homeworld and uncountable civilians. But being angry at the Hunters was like being angry at a lightning strike, or a howling gale. They were a destructive force of nature that was not at home to the emotions of an aggrieved species, even if they were capable of understanding those emotions.
…No. The analogy was not apt. Storms and winds had neither desire nor sadism. The Hunters were no force of nature, they were worse; they wished to be hated and feared and so the collected terror, grief and rage of billions was worse than impotent, it was a victory for them.
Thus, yet again, all of that anger and fear had earthed itself where it did not belong: In a species that Furfeg knew in his belly was utterly blameless. A species who were militarily superior to the Guvnuragnaguvendrugun in every conceivable way and yet upon whom a few strident voices, outraged and grieving to the point of insanity, wished to declare war.
A species whose representatives would shortly address the assembled Grand Matriarchs and Patriarchs of the All-Herd. For all their sakes he could only hope that they would prove to be Xiu Chang’s equal or even her better in matters of eloquent passion.
He turned an eye toward Shipmaster A’tkrnnmtktk’ki, whose quiet comment had belatedly roused him from his thoughts without really registering.
“…I am sorry?”
“I said, I remember the last time this ship had a human aboard,” A’tkrnnmtktk’ki repeated. “Gao. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it.”
“I was just thinking about that myself,” Furfeg admitted.
“I hope this time goes better…”
“It went extremely well last time. We survived.”
Furfeg had noticed that about himself in the last few months: his humor was darker and drier. Whether that was a refuge for him, helping him overlook what had happened to his home and his herd…
He decided not to dwell on it, or at least tried not to: There was productivity at hand, which was usually a useful balm for any aching ego…but the itch was there in the back of his mind and constantly sending motes of depression, anxiety and shock glinting down his body atop a slow, steady pulse of gnawing background tension.
He practically radiated relief when the human escort fell in alongside them with an easy muscularity that made the Rich Plains’ respectably fifty kilolights seem like little more than a pleasant stroll. Insofar as starships had body language, however, theirs seemed…subdued. Rather than leveling their noses with that of the much larger diplomatic ship and sweeping in tight to show themselves off, they instead held back almost a kilometer away, and towards the relative rear of the formation.
Possibly that was a difference in protocol and decision-making or possibly it was some subtle expression of thought on their captains’ parts. Impossible to tell.
Furfeg should have spent the remaining distance to Cimbrean reviewing the diplomatic notes, but for some reason it just didn’t happen. Instead he stood there in the dark of the ship’s opulent observation deck and used the stargazing fields to zoom in on the human ship to port.
It was almost impossible to see. Indeed it probably was impossible to see, and only the virtual outline in bright orange let him know it was there at all, and that was no help whatsoever in helping him determine its shape. The silhouette was blunt, efficient and shovel-nosed with the stub of what was possibly a command or sensor tower of some kind mounted off-center and three- quarters of the way back. Beyond that, the ship was featureless beyond five bright lights at its nose which prominently lit the name painted there: Vigilant.
He read the translation of that simple word several times, mulling it over until he was roused from his meditation by the quiet ship wide announcement to the effect that they were shortly to be arriving at Cimbrean Five, and that the ship had entered final deceleration.
That last part was a feature found only on civilian or diplomatic vessels designed for comfort. Military and commercial ships simply kept their warp field at running power until they reached their target coordinates before immediately and seamlessly rejoining their destination’s inertial frame of reference. Efficient, but it had the disconcerting effect of making planets and other celestial bodies simply slam into existence right next to the ship as if they had simply appeared from nothing.
The Rich Plains however made its final approach on a slow and steady deceleration curve that actually brought it below the speed of light during the last minute or so. Thus, the destination planet swelled into view and seemed to slow to a halt beside them, so as to avoid startling any passengers who were unfamiliar with the incomprehensible apparent speeds involved with FTL travel.
The strange perspective of the vacuum of space combined with the inconceivable scale of any planet so that although Furfeg knew that he was watching something immense from a great distance, he felt as though Cimbrean-Five, with its static-charged crystalline silicon sandstorms that would have reduced even a human to bloody shreds within seconds, looked more like something he could reach out and pluck from the sky to study in the palm of his hand.
Armstrong Station meanwhile was just small enough to look very, very big indeed. It had begun life as a perfectly standard Dominion trading outpost, but the Humans had clearly felt that the design needed improving. Indeed, they were still improving it. With the stargazing fields, Furfeg could detect stuttering points of light on its structure that, when he zoomed in on them, turned out to be figures in bright yellow armored suits moving ponderously and carefully as they worked, usually involving the flare of welding or possibly of cutting.
How had they happened so fast? The Gaoians had exploded onto the galactic scene with such unmatched drive and ferocity that they had become members of the Dominion Security Council at a speed that had alarmed and dismayed other factions that had lobbied for decades or centuries for the opportunity.
The humans in many ways were much less…ambitious. From what Furfeg knew in fact the overwhelming majority of their focus remained on local tribal matters back on their war-torn homeworld. The number of their species who had travelled into space was a trivial minority of only a handful of their most historically powerful and wealthy factions.
And yet, that minority of a minority had achieved almost unbelievable things under immense pressure while petitioning for little.
The thought of what might happen if the galactic community pushed this particular species too hard was what had placed Furfeg firmly among the peacemakers. He had seen first-hand what a single human could do when properly motivated: He had no desire whatsoever to see a practical demonstration of their nonsensical idiom about the whole being greater than the sum of its parts.
He spun away from the window and prepared to receive the ambassador.
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Shuttle, en route to diplomatic ship Rich Plains, Cimbrean System, The Far Reaches
Ambassador Anees Hussein
Doctor Hussein sometimes struggled to remember what his home country had been like in his youth. He had memories of opulence and wealth--or, at least, of clean white buildings with clean fountains and lush foliage--and of attending the University of Baghdad alongside pretty young women with hair that they wore openly and skirts that ended above the knee. He’d married one of them.
Decades of grinding war had reduced those memories to a question. Had Iraq ever really been that place? From the comfortable distance of a well-earned retirement where he had quietly outlived the projections of even his most optimistic doctor, he had found it hard to find visions of the land he had once called home that didn’t focus on the dust, the bombs and the suffering. For years, weak leaders from across the globe had thrown people onto that fire like new logs, in the vain and misguided hope of extinguishing it. All of them had lacked the will to truly fix the problem, and had snatched their hand back from the flames the moment they began to feel the heat.
Such a waste. The old regime had needed to go, but it had needed replacing. Properly and comprehensively, not merely torn down and the wreckage left for whomever could claw their way to its top. Democracies took root slowly and only in the deep fertile loam of stability and civility. They took decades to nurture into being: The thirsty, stony, weed-choked stuff that was his homeland’s political substrate simply couldn’t support one yet.
Perhaps one day, years after a Caesar had ridden through and made the place work the less civilized way, the time would be ripe to start coaxing something more humane to life, but that day wouldn’t come in Doctor Hussein’s lifetime. In any case, he knew that he himself had never been a Caesar: More of a Cicero.
Or perhaps a Mark Antony, as Shakespeare had envisioned him. A man who, with a few barbed words and raw emotion had reversed a crowd’s anger completely.
He allowed himself a small smirk at the thought, amused by the way that his education in classical European history sometimes got the better of him. It had seemed like a fascinating and exotic subject when he had first taken it, but it was astonishing how the ideas and histories had settled in and radically re-written his way of looking at the world.
No wonder the aliens were scared of the human race. Some ideas just…infected a person and stuck there.
“Docking in three minutes, sir.”
Hussein glanced at the man in the black suit who had spoken and acknowledged the update with a grateful nod. The SOR had made it known, delicately, that they felt a little snubbed by his decision not to take them for his personal escort--they not unreasonably felt that security wherever Cimbrean, aliens, spaceships and the Hierarchy overlapped was their responsibility--but they were rather too…overt for this occasion.
He looked forward out of the pilot’s window at the columnar hugeness of the Rich Plains as they swept in toward a comparatively tiny landing deck that Guvnurag sensibilities had placed only just behind the diplomatic vessel’s blunt prow. He wondered if that was for reasons of practicality or reasons of making visiting dignitaries such as himself feel important.
Probably the latter, he decided. It was difficult to imagine that a high- traffic working landing deck intended for the humdrum business of taking on food and supplies would have such pristine polished stone for the shuttle to alight upon.
The pilot sat back and stretched as the tractor fields took over and guided their shuttle down to a gentle touch that explained the unscratched flooring perfectly, and Hussein hauled himself to his feet with a groan of exertion.
“Well,” he said, and adjusted his spectacles. “Shall we?”
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Diplomatic Ship Rich Plains, Cimbrean system, The Far Reaches
Ambassador Furfeg
The sight of a frail human was an incongruity that was almost enough to unbalance Furfeg all by itself. The human ambassador shuffled from his transport with a bent back and a gleaming wooden stick for support and for a second he seemed like he must be a member of a different species. Surely this decrepit specimen could not be a deathworlder?
But he had those same human eyes. Amber brown in a hue that, to a Guvnurag, spoke of liveliness and indeed behind their corrective lenses those eyes were active and watchful without being wary. And somehow he managed to make the larger, stronger, younger specimens of his species who accompanied him fade into the background.
Furfeg shook the disconcerting impression loose and took a number of careful steps forward. This was no unregarded castaway girl: When the Guvnurag had contacted the humans to demand an explanation of them, this was the man whom the humans had chosen to make their case. Presumably, he was in the presence of somebody who held enormous respect on Earth.
Or possibly he was an avatar of human contempt. That seemed unlikely from what he knew of humans, but the long years had taught Furfeg never to trust that an individual might represent the whole species.
He raised a hand to his chest in greeting. “Ambassador Hussein. Welcome aboard the Rich Plains. I am Ambassador Furfeg, the Confederacy’s permanent representative aboard this ship."
The Ambassador imitated the gesture. "Salām." he said, curiously untranslated. He clearly sensed Furfeg’s surprise, because he provided a translation immediately. “It means ‘Peace,’ in the language of my home."
That boded well, in Furfeg’s estimation. He pulsed a welcoming medley of warm yellows. “The Dominion ambassadors will be joining us from their embassy station in a few hours,” he informed the human. “There is a diplomat’s residence suite available for your use, and we have increased the gravity in that section to Earth standard for your comfort.”
“Most kind,” Hussein thanked him.
“There will be food available,” Furfeg added, “But I must apologize, Ambassador: we do not have carnivorous options on board.”
“That is quite alright,” Hussein assured him. “I have been a strict vegetarian for most of my life.”
The translator tripped over the word ‘Vegetarian’. The linguistic detour necessary in the Guvnurag language to specify the subtle distinction between innate biological herbivorousness and voluntary vegetarianism took a full seven seconds, and Hussein wore an expression of polite interest throughout.
Feeling increasingly rattled for no good reason, Furfeg stepped aside and gestured invitingly for the human and his entourage to come aboard properly.
He was stymied again by Hussein’s frailty. Guvnurag were not a quick people by any measure, but the human ambassador took each step carefully and deliberately as if he was afraid that he might fall and suffer a grievous injury at any second. There was simply no hurrying him, but his entourage seemed entirely comfortable to amble easily along behind the ambassador.
Furfeg, meanwhile, found himself taking one step for every ten of the human’s and he still had no idea if he was the target of a studied insult or not. Hussein himself certainly made no mention of it.
Shipmaster A’tkrnnmtktk’ki salvaged the situation masterfully. Furfeg read the update from his Rrrtktktkp’ch colleague on his ocular implants’ virtual overlay and saw the wisdom in it instantly.
“Ambassador…” he began delicately. “The captain of the Rich Plains has requested to give you a personal tour of the ship before the delegates arrive. The ship is rather large, however, so he has offered the use of a small personal transport…"
“That is very kind of them,” Hussein said, pausing. “I hesitate to impose on the captain’s generosity, but as you can see my legs don’t quite work as well as they once did…”
“He assures me that the vehicle will be available for your use throughout your stay, Ambassador. As a personal token of his esteem.” A’tkrnnmtktk’ki hadn’t become shipmaster of the Rich Plains by accident. Indeed, he was an accomplished diplomat himself, and had worked small wonders in support of Furfeg for many years.
“The captain is most generous.”
By the time they reached the door, the vehicle had arrived and Hussein settled gratefully onto a part of it that looked deeply uncomfortable to Furfeg’s eyes, but then again he and the ambassador were very different shapes.
It set off under its own power at a comfortable walking pace that Furfeg was able to match with ease. The human guards with their shorter legs jogged to keep up but seemed to suffer no particular distress or feel at all disgruntled by the change in pace.
Furfeg willed himself to relax slightly. The first of many obstacles had been navigated without incident, and the real test was tomorrow. There was no sense in running himself ragged.
Still…he couldn’t shake a terrible paranoid feeling somewhere in his bones that told him he should not truly relax until after the human was safely off his ship again.
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Cabal Dataspace 32 758 927, Adjacent to Gao planetary datasphere.
Cytosis
The sticking point was Stoneback. Every other clan, from the Females all the way through Gaoian society had nicely followed the Hierarchy’s usual cybernetic uptake projections. Progressive generations had become more and more comfortable with the technology, squeamishness had been carefully reduced, until nowadays every major political force on Gao--Clan or otherwise --had an entirely acceptable percentage of implantees.
Stoneback did not. Possibly this had to do with their lifestyles, which could be rough and physical by any standard and even sometimes as intense as a true Deathworlder’s. Their Champion was known for his lack of implants, too, and the Clan quite naturally followed his example.
Such factions had always been…difficult…for the Hierarchy to handle. Normally they would quietly engineer the faction’s irrelevance or possibly its destruction, but that was absolutely not an option here, for reasons that were maddeningly complex and essential to Gaoian culture.
One of those reasons, of course, was the counter-agency of Cabal operatives. They needed actors who were well-positioned to oppose Hierarchy influence, and the Gao were unknowingly at an essential moment in their history; they were almost beyond the critical threshold. Stoneback was the key to their salvation, to help them undo the deadening influence of the Hierarchy’s psychological and cultural engineering…but they had no agents within. At all.
Sometimes, however, an opportunity presented itself and in this case that opportunity took the form of one Associate Fiin.
Fiin was a young, junior, strapping, and sullenly belligerent example of the Clan’s advanced training programs. Supremely self-confident though still in some unidentified phase of his progression, the young associate had managed to annoy just the wrong male in a local Talamay house.
Gaoian society had a curious relationship with murder. They didn’t exactly accept it--the Females wanted stability and peace after all, and for their cubs to have long and successful lives. When a male killed another male, it tended to harm their mating chances, and that was usually enough of a disincentive. Usually, but not invariably
Then there were the Straightshields. Gao’s answer to a police force and judiciary were, if anything, even keener on an orderly society than the Females were, and they were among the heavier implant users. After all, neural cybernetics had made their role so much easier…
These facts combined to explain exactly why the young Fiin was standing shackled in front of Cytosis, or rather in front of the biodrone that Cytosis controlled. The young Stoneback was covered in blood and had a chunk torn from his left ear, and he was wearing an expression of barely-contained rage that his motives were even being questioned.
“He attacked me in a back-alley with three of his workhouse-mates! What was I supposed to do?"
“There were other options besides disemboweling all four of them, Associate Fiin,” Cytosis allowed his biodrone to say. “You are Clan and are held to a much higher standard. You know this, do you not?"
Fiin aimed a look that longed for violence at the Straightshield enforcers who had him coralled. He wasn’t stupid enough to fight back, but it was clear that his hackles were up and he wanted more blood on his claws. “The Openpaw medics said three of them will survive!”
“For which you should be immensely grateful, young Clanling. Their workhouse will demand Wergeld and rightly so. Terl was a valuable and highly-skilled welder.”
“He should have thought of that before he tried to bite my throat out!”
“Indeed. And will the surveillance footage reflect your version of events? Answer wisely, young Clanling."
Fiin went stiff, then sagged. “Stonebacks don’t lie…but it was an alleyway. There is no footage. Which is why they attacked me there, the cowards…”
And there was the opportunity that Cytosis had been looking for.
“No, you don’t lie, do you? I can smell it on you.” Which was true: Fiin reeked of blood and honesty. “But what am I to do, Fiin of Stoneback? This is not your first encounter with my Clan and I suspect it will not be the last. Have you gained no serenity from your new position?”
Fiin didn’t respond to that, but he did cringe ever so slightly. Cytosis had struck a chord. He paused for a moment and addressed the enforcers. “Leave us, I think he will hold his honor.”
The enforcers regarded Cytosis carefully, then backed off and resumed their patrol. Dealing with one of the Judge-Fathers of their clan was more than they had bargained on at the start of their day, and especially not this Father. This father had a Reputation.
When the patrol officers had retreated sufficiently, Cytosis approached carefully and unshackled Fiin to his wide-eyed surprise.
“You are on probation,” Cytosis informed him. “And the citation will be recorded. Self-defense this may have been, but there is such a thing as excessive force, young Stoneback. You must understand that, because as Clan you have a much larger responsibility than any Clanless. And you are a Stoneback. In short order you will grow past our ability to peaceably restrain…"
He saw Fiin nod, and laid down his bait. “I am willing, however, to ensure that the citation expires quickly, provided you demonstrate that Straightshield can trust you. Our Clans have a good relationship. I want to keep it that way. I don’t want our officers to have to bring you down hard, and you don’t want to waste a gesture of goodwill. Do you?"
Fiin seemed to understand the gravity of the situation and duck-nodded submissively. “No, Father.”
“Good. Now…this leniency doesn’t come entirely without a price. While I cannot order you to do this…Straightshield would very much appreciate if you kept us in your thoughts when you fully assume your Clan responsibilities. You will see much. Some of it will be unusual, perhaps unethical. Maybe dangerous to the Gao…"
Fiin opened his mouth to object, and Cytosis had his drone raise a paw to stop him. “This is not an accusation, it is a fact," he asserted. “Every Clan has its…difficult….elements, and Straightshield alone have the power to independently investigate and Judge. You know our motto?”
Fiin duck-nodded. Everybody knew the Straightshield motto, they were one of the few Clans who had made theirs public knowledge. When Cytosis gestured for him to speak, he grumbled the three words quietly. “Service Before Self”
Cytosis duck-nodded for him. “We take it seriously. Just as seriously as your Clan takes yours…"
Fiin duck-nodded seriously but did not reveal the motto. Which was…maddening. Both the Cabal and the Hierarchy knew next to nothing about Stoneback and even something as simple as their motto eluded them. The Whitecrests had ‘Light the Darkness,’ Clan Shortstride had ‘Build The Easy Road,’ but Stoneback remained a frustratingly closed book.
Anyway. “Very well. Keep your nose clean and your claws bloodless, young Stoneback. Before you know it this citation will be gone and you will have your second chance. Now go get yourself cleaned up…and pay that wergeld. Pay generously, Fiin."
“…I will. Thank you, Father.”
“Go.”
He watched Fiin depart with as much dignified speed as he could, which was frankly heavier on the speed than the dignity, then turned and strolled back out into the crowd towards his vehicle.
It wasn’t much of a foothold in Gao’s most impenetrable Clan… but it was a start.
And it was more than the Hierarchy had.
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Diplomatic Starship Rich Plains, Cimbrean System, The Far Reaches
Ambassador Furfeg
The human was just…taking it. He had barely spoken a word for the duration of the session so far, and had instead chosen to bow his head and listen as the delegates took their turns laying into his species as a whole.
Furfeg was having to fight to keep his emotions from showing: Some of the unfiltered vitriol landing on the beleaguered deathworlder went far beyond anything that he personally or even the species in general deserved.
Furfeg had his…doubts…about mankind. When he had unleashed the Hunters on this very ship all those years ago he had wanted to showcase the species’ heroic potential, and he had succeeded admirably at a cold cost that he had kept buried ever since.
It was only later, on silent reflection, that he had begun to assess the consequences. Xiu Chang herself had done nothing wrong at all--indeed, she had been the victim of his scheme--but she had…broken things. Subtly. In ways that were hard to pin down, the collateral damage of what she had achieved not only on the Rich Plains but also in a nameless lab on a nameless barren world, on Gao and for the Gaoians had been widespread and most likely unconscious.
There was a lengthy causal chain between that girl’s abduction and the fact that Gao was, it was rumoured, shortly to see an upgrade in its official Dominion habitability rating to take it above ten and into the class of bottom-end deathworld. Furfeg was absolutely certain that the reclassification would never have even been considered if not for that one Canadian teenager. Perhaps the Gaoians could have maintained the deception a little while longer.
Deep in the soul he had come to believe he might have, Furfeg could only stare at the frail, elderly ambassador that humanity had chosen for themselves and wonder what happened when that kind of unthinking calamitous agency was multiplied to include eight billion people? Just how hot was the fire they were playing with, here?
And why was something so dangerous willing to just sit and take it?
The answer came to him in a cold jolt. Hussein was accepting the abuse with such composure because he could.
The realization happened at about the same time as the last of the grieving Guvnurag delegates reached the end of their tirade and sank back into their seat exhausted. Twelve of the most powerful politicians in the galaxy had shouted themselves hoarse at an old man.
Slowly, with a hand that might have been trembling from emotion or might have been trembling from age, Hussein reached up and removed his glasses. He folded them carefully and held them lightly in his lap as he tugged a small cloth square from his pocket and delicately dried around his eyes and nose.
He returned the cloth to his pocket, re-positioned the spectacles on his nose, cleared his throat, and then looked around at the beings who had abused him so futilely.
“…What must we do?” he asked, quietly.
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Xiu Chang
“You can’t just ‘go native’ like that!"
“I had a stone in my shoe! What was I gonna do, let it wreck the whole foot? The damn thing doesn’t heal, Al!”
Xiu had never heard Allison and Julian really raise their voices at each other before. As with all relationships there was always the occasional irate moment, the odd tense exchange, but by and large they had a peaceful home.
But Allison was furious with Julian today, and Xiu couldn’t really blame her.
The girls had gone on a supply run back to the ship, and on returning they’d found Julian showing a fascinated Vemik the workings of his foot while gnawing happily on a roasted Werne shank. And he’d known he shouldn’t be doing either of those things, because he’d shot Allison the immediate guilty look that all men wore when caught by their girlfriends doing something that had been explicitly forbidden.
Vemik, wisely, had found a reason to leave. Quickly.
“Xiu! Back me up here?” Allison finally turned to her and flung an arm wide, inviting her to pitch in.
Xiu looked her in the eye and shook her head. “No ganging up, remember?” she said, quietly.
The gentle reminder worked. Allison gawped at her for a second, then blinked and chilled out a little.
“I…Uh…Right. Shit, Julian, I’m sorry. I’m just--”
“No, it’s--” Julian tried to interrupt her. “You’re right, I promised I wouldn’t.”
“It’s not that. You’ve been scaring the shit outta me, dummy." Allison confessed. “I keep waiting for you to wake up puking blood or…something.”
“Allison…” Julian hugged her and ran a vigorous, reassuring hand firmly up and down her back. “We’ve got biofilters, antibiotics, antiparasitics and stasis. We need to befriend these people if we’re not gonna be Gods and break them completely. We’re tough and they’re smart. We…we need to take some risk here. If we don’t, we might be risking them. They need to see us as people and not avatars or we might get…hell, a cargo cult or something."
“There’s gotta be a way to do that without risking your own health, though?"
“…I’m not stupid,” Julian chided without any real hard feeling. “Vemet wanted me to take their trial of manhood, and God knows what that involves, but I know there’s some kind of a drug in there so I said no. I said it would probably be bad because I’m from very far away and it might insult his gods, and he seemed okay with that."
Allison backed down some more. “Good. That’s…good. Thanks.”
“I’m not happy about it either,” Xiu confessed, “I dunno, I think he’s right, bǎobei. But…I think you’re right too. I’m torn."
“I’m not happy about it!" Julian said. “Just by being here we’ve done…fuck-knows-what to these people. I just don’t think hiding anything is gonna prevent further harm.”
Allison made a pained noise and threw herself into Xiu’s lap under the tree they were using as ‘their’ space in the clearing. She kneaded her eyes with the heel of her hands before running her fingers through her hair and sighed at the leaves and limbs above. “…I mean…do we really wanna let more cats out of the bag?"
“No, I don’t want to," Julian repeated himself. “I think we have to. We need to be real in a way they can understand. I don’t wanna be a God."
“Oh, come on!" Allison groaned and glared at him half-heartedly. “Now you’re gonna use my own thing against me?”
“If it’s your own thing, babe…” He pointed out, and let the thought hang unfinished.
Allison stared at him a few moments longer then looked to Xiu, who shrugged and gave her a reassuring kiss on the forehead. “We’re all stressing out about this,” she said, stroking Allison’s hair. “I don’t want to hurt them either, but…”
“But honesty is the best policy. Fuck.” Allison sighed. “Fine. Beat by my own logic, huh?”
“Sorry.” Julian sat down with them both, and the argument ended as all their arguments did with foreheads to foreheads and three quick kisses. No hard feelings.
There was a curious sound from nearby. The Singer was watching them again, in a very different way to Vemik. Where Vemik had a permanent puppyish tilt to his head as he tried to figure out what he was hearing, the Singer just…watched. Levelly, thoughtfully and impenetrably.
Of course, this was the first time the three of them had been affectionate in front of the tribe, wasn’t it? In the moment, they’d forgotten.
Xiu went tense, waiting for the Singer to demand an explanation…but instead the native woman shrugged, turned, and swung away into a neighboring tree without comment.
They watched her go.
“…What’s with her?” Allison asked, eventually.
“I’ve barely spoken with her,” Xiu said. “She…I don’t think she knows what to think of us yet.”
“Could be a problem,” Julian’s hand rasped through a few days of stubble. “If she decides she doesn’t like us…”
“Her word would carry a lot of weight,” Xiu agreed. “I think she’s Yan’s niece, as well as being the witch or…whatever we call her.”
“Let’s just call her the Singer,” Allison proposed.
“And what do we do if she doesn’t like us?" Julian asked.
Xiu watched Vemik get up and leave as well, following after the Singer.
“…we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she decided.
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Vemik Sky-Thinker
Vemik had good hearing. He listened thoughtfully from a distance, and he wondered. He didn’t quite understand what they were talking about. Their sky- words were still new but…
They seemed worried. Worried about the People. And they seemed…like they cared. And that, he decided, was a good thing.
He noticed the Singer giving the three Sky-People some distance and followed her to the temporary nest she’d made half-way up a Ketta tree, hung with bones and totems and a few of her herbs and roots. She was dividing her time between the village and the meeting-place for now, and was almost as exhausted as she’d been on the long journey from the old village.
She gave him a tired look as she settled into the little bowl of bent branches and leaves she’d made for herself.
“You’re quiet…” Vemik said.
“I left the baby with Semi,” she said. Semi had been the mother of Vemik’s half-sisters, and was throwing herself hard into her work to try and keep her thoughts away from the pain of knowing that her daughters, sent to the eastern tribe a few seasons before, had all been killed by the “Big Enemy”.
Having a niece to look after was probably doing her some good. It was certainly helping the Singer, who had been struggling to cope with the constant demands of both tribe and child even before the sky-people showed up.
Vemik prided himself that he could offer comfort and support--the Singer fell asleep the instant he held her, most nights--but she had been adamant that if he wanted sex then he was going to have to go find some other woman for that as she just didn’t have the energy.
Vemik would have taken her at her word too, except that all the women in the tribe were so much older than him. Old enough to be his mother, although she had died and her body had been given to the skies many seasons ago. So long ago that Vemik could remember little of her.
He’d grown up being mothered by the whole tribe. To go to any of them seemed…it made his skin feel like little things were crawling all over him, and the crawling feeling got even worse when he thought about how the only other women in the tribe were his cousins and sisters.
There had been too many seasons since they last traded with another tribe. Too many more and things would become difficult indeed.
The Singer always seemed to know the inside of his head. Her usual amused sparkle shone through the fatigue for a second as she gave him a sly look. “So, what do you find so fascinating in the Sky-People?" she asked. “They are beautiful in a strange way, aren’t they?”
“They don’t have tails,” Vemik objected. “And their hands have too many fingers, and that thing in the middle of their faces--!"
“And they’re beautiful. In a strange way,” she repeated. “Aren’t they?”
“…Yes.” Vemik admitted. “But stranger than I…they seem…” He paused and scowled at himself. Whatever thought he was trying to have was getting stuck like a bone in a choking man’s throat. “Do women…?”
“Do women what?” Her tone was light and innocent, but her eyes were anything but.
“The Sky-Women, they seem to…love each other. And him.”
“And why not?” the Singer smiled at him. “Some of the village women turn to each other for comfort when the men are away hunting.”
“You do?”
“And why not?” She repeated. “Why? Don’t men--?”
“If we do, none of them have ever asked me to-" Vemik shook his head. “No.”
The Singer picked a stray shred of leaf out of her tail-crest. “Perhaps I should ask a different man.”
Feeling strangely jilted for no good reason that he could identify, Vemik climbed up onto a branch slightly higher than hers and lay along it on his belly, looking down at her. She rolled onto her back and continued to give him that impenetrable, amused look. “Do you think they’d answer?”
“Why not? Your father and Yan seem to like each other.”
“Wait, really?” Vemik was still thinking through what that might mean when she trilled loudly and gave him a fond look.
“I’m tugging your tail, stupid.”
“…Oh.” Vemik lowered his head again, thinking.
“I mean, Yan likes most people…but he’s polite about it,” she added. “Maybe he likes you!”
Vemik made a pained noise, as he always did when people were teasing him with things he didn’t know and vague half-answers. “You are in an evil mood today!"
“No, I’m in a good mood.” The Singer stretched and curled up a little in her nest. “That argument of theirs…what did you make of it?”
“…That they’re worried about something. Something big. And they’re worried for us."
“Yes,” she agreed. “Comforting, isn’t it?”
“If the Sky-People are worried for us…they can do impossible things. Shouldn’t we be worried by there being something that worries them?"
“Why? We can only do what we can do. Yan has more taking-magic than the men in any of the songs, but I think he’d be killed dead by that black rock-spear thing they have.”
“That’s worrying!” Vemik insisted.
“It is! But it’s obvious that they care about us, so it’s not something to worry about. See?"
Vemik looked down at her, knowing that he was going to worry about it despite her advice. “…So what do we do?”
“Learn. They worry for us. That’s both worrying and comforting, so learn. In time they will tell us what worries them, and once we know? Then we can make plans."
“When we get the words…and the sky-thoughts. It’s hard, it’s like…” Vemik searched for the phrasing. “They have words for thoughts nobody’s ever had! Every time we talk I feel--” he paused and summoned the word he had learned. “They have a word. ‘Universe.’ It means all the stars in the night sky that we can see, and all the ones that we can’t see too."
“I heard it. It sounded like Big Magic.”
“But…what kind of people have a word for stars that we can’t see?”
She shrugged. “Sky-thinkers.”
“I’m a sky-thinker," he objected, “and I never came up with a word like that."
“You haven’t been doing it for as long.”
Vemik opened his mouth to protest, and the Singer raised her hand to forestall the argument. “No, really! They’re not gods, I think that’s true, right? Gods don’t eat like we do, or have strange carved feet, or anything like that. They’re just People from under a far-away sky who have been sky-thinking for a very long time and are very good at it. They’ve told us so."
“They could be lying?” Vemik suggested, half-heartedly. It was a crippled and weak little objection.
“Jooyun didn’t lie about his made-foot, did he? He took it apart and showed you all the bones and tendons, even with how strange their feet are. Why would he lie about any of that? Why would a god lie and pretend to just be a Person?" She glanced at the sun. “Could a god lie and pretend to just be a Person?"
“Maybe he’s a trickster god?”
“Well…No, I don’t think so. I feel it in my breath.” Which was fair enough, as far as Vemik was concerned. It was the Singer’s job to know such things, after all. “But, you want to do something? Jooyun seems to like you. You two started exploring right? Why not keep doing that? I know you’re harassing him with questions and he hasn’t taken you with his black-spear, so…"
“He seems to like it when I ask questions…” Vemik admitted.
“Maybe he likes you…" She had that teasing edge to her voice again.
“Hey!”
The Singer trilled, “You’re such easy prey!”
“Apparently,” grumbled Vemik. She trilled again, but relented.
“Fine. He likes your questions. So if he is a god then asking questions will keep him happy, and if he isn’t a god then maybe he will teach you things," she summed up with a nod. “And maybe, eventually, you will know what has them so worried.”
“And after that…I keep asking questions until I know how to help them with whatever has them worried?” Vemik asked.
“Maybe. Swing from this tree to that tree, Sky-thinker. Don’t try to hold a branch that isn’t in front of you.”
“You sound like Yan,” Vemik grumbled. She trilled.
“I hope so! He is my uncle. And a wise man, too--You should listen to him more."
“I do listen to him!”
“Really?” the Singer shook her head and seemed amused. “And if Yan was giving you advice right now, what would he say?”
Vemik thought about it. “He’d say…to keep my thoughts here and now. Hold the branch in front of me.”
“And what is in front of you right now?"
Vemik grinned. “A nest that’s just about big enough for two, if they’re close enough…”
“Really? Well then, father of my first child. How close are we?"
It was Vemik’s turn to make an amused trill, and he dropped easily off his branch and onto hers.
“Why don’t we learn?” he asked.
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Diplomatic Starship Rich Plains, Orbiting Cimbrean-5, The Far Reaches
++????++: <Alarm;Priority> [broadcast;observer_10 142 059; Meme_Sequence17 974 645]
Every Igraen agent in the Hierarchy had spent time as an Observer before being selected to undergo their evaluation period as a Zero ahead of finally being inducted into the Hierarchy itself. The work was tedious and demeaning, but it supposedly instilled patience and winnowed out those too fickle to properly serve the needs of the species.
The Observers did just and only that: they observed. They did not have the override codes to assume control of their host, nor any authority within the Hierarchy structure but they were utterly essential. The Hierarchy, after all, numbered at most in the low thousands and had done so only a few times in their history.
This, compared to millions of potentially important individuals who might know and see things that the Hierarchy might wish to learn. Individuals such as the Guvnurag diplomat Furfegrovan.
The observer riding in Furfeg’s implants had been monitoring the Guvnurag’s thoughts and had noted a chain of reasoning that it felt warranted inspection by a more senior agent. It had kicked the meme-sequence upstairs to its over- observer, which had in turn forward it to the observation overseer.
The thought chain was easily summarized: ‘The human is up to something.’ This alone warranted analysis, especially in light of the sophisticated decision tree that underpinned the opinion, and so the overseer immediately brought the analyzers into play.
Analyzers were the second tier of the structure atop which rested the Hierarchy’s agents. Observe, Analyze, Act. All Agents spent time as an Analyzer as well before they finally made it to their Zero-trial.
Analysis of the meme-sequence led to its immediate graduation to needing Agent intervention. It was forwarded to the junior receiving agent monitoring the diplomatic operation, who instantly handed it to the senior agent.
The entire process took place during the ringing silence that followed Ambassador Hussein’s simple question.
“What must we do?” he repeated himself, leaning forward on his cane and peering over his glasses. “Tell us. My species is listening, gentlebeings. Reveal to us what it is we must do to earn your trust, and it will be done.”
Hierarchy prediction algorithms ran ahead of that question, sending questing tendrils of probability-math into the future in search of the plausible outcomes, the desirable outcomes, the disastrous outcomes. Nodes of possibility were found, key branches in the conversation to come were mapped.
Hussein did not stand--indeed, the act seemed beyond him at this point--but he did shuffle forward and perch owl-like on the edge of his seat. “Tell us,” he repeated, softly.
With a fully mapped probability matrix in place, the Hierarchy’s critical objectives were injected and work began on what sequence of words and actions might bring them about. First and foremost, the objective of driving a permanent wedge between ordinary sapients and all forms of deathworld life.
One of the Guvnurag erupted to his feet, flaring a furious red. “There is nothing!" he spat. “The homeworld would be untouched if not for your kind, and you dare ask us to trust you? You… you blunder off your diseased planet and rot everything you touch, and then you ask for forgiveness? There is nothing, Ambassador! Nothing that you can do! Do not even ask!"
The probability space shrank and stretched, dozens of Hierarchy programs watched every subtle facet of Hussein’s body language as he took the tirade with patient sadness.
“…Then why am I here?” he asked, eventually. “Is this sentiment universal? Diplomacy never fails, sir; People fail it. It falls to us at these moments to have the strength to-”
“Your ‘strength,’" one of the other dignitaries interrupted, spurred by the Agent in her brain, “crushes us all.”
“Strength can do that,” Hussein agreed. “Or it can hold off the crushing blow. Strength is never a problem, gentlebeings. Strength solves problems, and it now falls to us to be strong for both our species’ sakes."
“And what problems have you solved, Ambassador Hussein?" Furfeg asked, quietly. He was unaware of his status as the only Guvnurag in the room whose actions were entirely uninfluenced by Hierarchy demons. There always needed to be at least one, to act as a barometer for how other uncontrolled life forms would behave.
Hussein considered that for a long moment. “That is a fascinating question, Your Excellency. Answering it in detail would require I place all of you in great danger, and that, obviously, cannot stand. So I will answer it as best I can: we have ensured the continued survival of ourselves and others.”
“A bluff,” One of the dignitaries scoffed.
“If so, it is one we have committed virtually all of our Dominion Development Credits to ensure, along with a crippling increase in GRA member-nation debt, extensive economic pressure not to mention internal instability. No. This is a threat we are committed to fighting, and we are doomed to fight it mostly in silence. But, alas, I cannot ask your sympathy, and I know beyond doubt that many of the people in this room know of what I am speaking."
“And is this… problem… actually solved, Your Excellency?" Furfeg pressed.
“No. Nor will it be anytime soon. All of that, however, is merely background. My people are in a fight for the right to exist, and one aspect of our enemy has decided to make an example of your people for their own reasons. This…we are not strong enough to have stopped it. We could only watch, helplessly, as all our oft-mentioned Deathworld might was as nothing before a million evil ships. So, I ask again: what must we do?"
Furfeg’s chromatophores shone with a mix of uncertainty and, even now, the urge to reconcile… and it was on that lone data point that the probability- space collapsed into a narrow channel of forced action.
There were no malicious words or taunting. What would have been the point? Instead, one of the Agents merely triggered a contingency in physical space that had been prepared ahead of this meeting. Its host raised a hand and pointed at the human, and there was a snapping hiss of compressed air.
Hussein had enough time to look down at the nervejam grenade that landed at his feet.
His reply was soft. “…I see.”
He shut his eyes.
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Technical Sergeant Martina Kovač
As dates went, Martina had to feel that going to a photo exhibition being thrown by her boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend-slash-adopted-sister was… Surprisingly good actually. It sounded a lot worse on paper than it was in reality.
Ava was looking good these days. Marty doubted she’d ever quite lose that haunted look but she was carrying herself more openly, smiling more, looking less sorry for herself. Her fingertips never strayed far from the soft-haired brown border collie at her side, but there was a determined positive energy around her now. It was a definite improvement.
According to Adam, Ava had approached Folctha’s art galleries about doing an exhibition as a kind of therapy. Marty had no idea what went into being accepted by an art gallery, but she’d done her research and learned that the Ealain Gallery was getting the best reviews by all the right people. Some very serious names, apparently, felt that the place was on its way to becoming a true cultural focus. One critic had called it ‘Folctha’s answer to the Tate Modern,’ and it was high on the list of tourist destinations for visitors to mankind’s first offworld colony.
Art galleries had never been Marty’s thing, though. Too… self-congratulatory. She was an engineer and a scientist at heart, she loved problems and solving problems. The eternal quest to find ever-more subtle ways of evoking an emotion usually left her cold.
Sometimes, though, something came along to make her grudgingly reassess her opinion and Ava’s photography was proving to be such a sometime. Apparently she’d worked closely with the gallery’s curator to tell a story, and they’d succeeded.
The path through the exhibit meandered confusingly, leaving no clear sense of direction. It started, surprisingly, with an image not taken by Ava--a photo taken out in nature by a lake, showing the sunlight making lines of light and dark on Ava’s own naked back while the sun itself was framed by a coil of her soaked hair. You had to know it was Ava, though, as she was looking away from the camera. Frankly, the girl in the picture could have been anyone.
It was a happy image, a warm one, and it held Adam enthralled for so long that Marty was about to tease him about the shadowed edge of a teenage breast just visible between Ava’s arm and her knee when he spoke.
“I remember that day…”
Marty checked the label. “Original image by S. Tisdale…”
“Yeah. Last day we ever swam at the lake. God, she died only a week later…”
Marty took his hand and led him away from it, into the thicket of images that Ava had taken herself. There was a very similar image to the first one at the far end of the gallery, enlarged so that everyone could see that it was there and that it was almost identical to the first one, but hidden behind a curtain of gauze that blurred the details. The winding trail around the exhibit swung close to it, but never behind the curtain. Whatever that image depicted was tantalizingly visible, but never accessible.
“Jack writes to you, right?” she asked.
“Recruit Tisdale, you mean?” Adam grinned. “Yeah, he writes to me every week. Says the PT at HMS Raleigh is way easier than what I was givin’ him… hey, this is London, right?"
“You tell me, I’ve never been,” Marty inspected the image he’d stooped to study. It certainly had a strong London-ness to it. In fact, as she looked around she found they were in the middle of a virtual island of London-ness, written in shades of orange, blue and gray-scale. “Gonna be a while before he’s on the team.”
“Five years to finish his Engineering Technician training after he’s done with Basic. God, I’ll be an old man by then!”
“Shut up, you won’t even be thirty.”
“You’ll be though!” Adam shot her his best shit-eating grin, bouncing on the balls of his feet with enough force to be felt through the concrete tiled floor. “Ooolld…..”
Marty slapped his arm and got stinging fingers for it, but she was giggling. “Asshole… Come on, let’s see what’s next.”
Ava’s exhibition really was an emotional journey, and all of it was told in portraits of light and color that tended to focus on one ordinary thing. A decrepit old Lada in Cairo, a forlorn brown rock in the middle of the surprising subtle hues of desert sand. A crown of brambles choking a native Cimbrean tree to death. Every single one was bleak, but… there was something…
It finally clicked for Marty when they reached the far end of the gallery closest to the gauze and she could see what the picture behind was: A recreation of the original image by the lakeshore, with an older Ava still anonymously looking away from the camera.
She leaned back, folded her arms thoughtfully. “Well now. I don’t usually go for art, but this? I like.”
“That means a lot. Thank you!”
They both turned. Ava had managed to sneak up on them during their slow tour around the exhibit, and gave them a shy smile. “It was Bernadette who really put it together, though. I didn’t even see the theme in all these until she brought it out."
“Bernadette?” Adam asked.
“The curator.” Ava looked around the exhibit. “She must’ve gone through thousands of pictures to narrow it down to just these.”
“I like that you used Sara’s picture,” Adam told her.
“Mm. It was Berna’s idea to recreate it.” Ava looked up at the huge image of herself on the wall. “Is it weird that an exhibition of my photos is framed by two pictures I didn’t take?”
“You’re asking the wrong gal,” Marty confessed. “You modeled nude, though? I dunno if I could do that…”
“Actually, it was a real boost.” Ava smiled. “I might do it some more. Not, like, a glamour shoot but for art reasons? Hell yeah, sign me- sorry.”
The apology was in response to her phone humming inside her purse. She fished it out with a practised ease that said that she got a lot of phone calls at unexpected moments, and had it against her ear in a businesslike flash.
“Ava Rios…Me cago en Cristo, are you sure?! …Yeah! Yeah, send it over, I’ll meet the crew at Quarterside Park. Right away, Thor. …You too."
She lowered the phone with a stunned expression.
“Something happen?” Adam asked.
Ava nodded slowly. “…Ambassador Hussein has been murdered.”
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Nofl
“The way I see it, you have a choice here. You can be a criminal and a dropout from the Corti Directorate and sink into obscurity…or you could become respected and revered.”
Nofl wasn’t buying it, and said so. “Chief, chief, sweetie! I thought you were a man of principle?" He wasn’t handcuffed--humans didn’t make cuffs small enough for a Corti’s wrists--so he idly traced a lazy finger in an abstract pattern on the steel tabletop they had parked him at, seated atop a couple of thick books. “This political bargaining doesn’t suit you, not at all!”
“I am a man of principle." Gabriel Ares was in that ridiculous primitive wheeled chair of his again. Why the man persisted in enduring the indignity of a permanently damaged nerve despite Nofl’s repeated offers to help…well, everybody said humans were strange. “Our system of justice seeks fairness and even if you broke the law, your intent matters. It always does."
“I’m sure that line works with the Gaoians, but I am one of the finest Corti minds alive, darling. Try harder.”
“You got caught.”
“…True.”
Ares smiled and shook his head. “No, this is a grand old tradition we have. It’s called a plea bargain, Nofl, and it’s quite simple. You co-operate and confess to the crime, admit guilt, and you will be treated very fairly. As opposed to merely…well. The local Prosecutor is frankly sick and tired of all the smuggling attempts we’ve foiled, and I think she wants a scalp, if you catch my meaning."
Nofl considered that entirely plain and unhidden threat. “And what does this attorney of mine that you said would be arranged for me have to say about all this?”
“I don’t know. Would you like to ask her?” Gabriel paused, looked around conspiratorially, and said in a low voice. “Look…you’re not human, so let me just say the correct answer is ‘yes.’ You want to talk to her. Now.”
Nofl considered the chief for several seconds, and then nodded. “Yes please. I would like to speak with my attorney.”
Gabriel nodded, wheeled himself out of the room, and after a tellingly short wait, a tall and robust human female with very long, black hair strode in. She waited until the other humans had left, and then opened her briefcase.
“Mr. Nofl, I am Ms. Bader. As you are alien, let me first say that anything you and I discuss--anything at all--is protected and inadmissible in court. There are only three classes of profession where that protection is extended, and in our case, that protection is absolute. Do you understand?"
“What if they… record what we discuss?” Nofl asked, curiously. Even from that first businesslike sentence, the whole affair was beginning to seem rather elaborate.
“The legal concept translates from the Latin as something like ‘tainted fruit of the poisoned tree.’ Anything they learn from such a thing, and all of the descendant products thereof, are not only inadmissible in court but they will themselves have committed a crime. The act of recording this conversation is also illegal. And…as an aside? I would love for them to try. I’d make all of the money."
Nofl found himself warming to this human. Her attitude was almost Corti, and for an added bonus her suit was immaculately tailored. Corti didn’t wear clothes, but that was no excuse for being fashion-blind. “Very well. Then yes, I indeed smuggled Cruezzir through customs as a personal favor to Myun. She does not know the details. She only wanted me to ‘get some’ to help Chief Ares.”
“How admirable,” Bader said, unconvincingly. “That particular crime carries the maximum penalty of ‘Transportation’ on Cimbrean, which is just a gussied- up English way of saying ‘exile to wherever.’ Which brings us to my question: how would you like to plea?”
Nofl considered it. “Chief Ares was telling me about this bargain he wanted to offer.”
Bader rolled her eyes. “He can’t do that. Only the Prosecutor can, but I have no doubt that rolling tightass coordinated everything with that…with her. But I bet the offer is genuine. He is honest to a fault." Her tone of voice was…difficult for Nofl to analyze. Admiring? Something about the tone didn’t quite match the words.
“So what are my options, dear?”
Bader snorted derisively through her nose. “Drop the act, Nofl. I don’t think there’s such a thing as a gay Corti.”
“You’re quite right, dear, but can’t a chap be camp for fun?”
She deployed Nofl’s very favorite human gesture--the ‘concession nod.’ Head slightly tilted, mouth in a straight line, eyebrows raised. “A fair point, I guess. But as to your options, you have three: you could plead guilty and throw yourself at the mercy of the court--Don’t. You could plead not guilty, and--” she quickly rifled through her case notes, “--likely be found guilty as charged, and then the Prosecutor would have lots of fun. Sorry. They’ve got fingerprints, video evidence, transport logs…all of it. Yikes."
Nofl considered this, feeling slightly chagrined. “And the third option?”
“Well…we strike a deal.” She rested her hand under her chin. “Which says something that they’re willing to offer a deal, seeing as they have you dead to rights. You’re very valuable to someone, Nofl. What did you do? And better yet, how can I profit for both of us?"
“Oh, I was just the first-circle professor of regenerative medicine at the Grand University of Origin…” Nofl permitted himself his best impersonation of a winning smile. “You should see my personal banner, it’s taller than I am.”
“…Are you the reason that ‘Warhorse’ character needs a whole sidewalk to himself? Him and his friends?”
“Miss Bader, if I answered that question then…oh wait, everything I say to you is inadmissible, isn’t it?”
“…yes…” Bader conceded, “But I highly encourage you to exercise discretion. The subtleties of the law here are significant and you’ll no doubt wish to study them after we’ve got your little problem cleared up. In particular the Cimbreaners have an Official Secrets Act which is just…unAmerican, if you ask me."
“As I understand it, the colony is not American.”
“Their loss,” Bader sniffed. “But while the protection is absolute, that doesn’t mean they won’t try. We have another concept: ‘the process is the punishment.’ Let’s not explore that, hmm?"
“You manage to make law sound almost interesting, Miss Bader. Poisoned fruits and florid language… It’s nearly exciting!”
“Here’s another word you might like. ‘Lawfare.’ I’ll let you ponder that one. Now…shall I begin talks with the Prosecutor, and get you out of this cell? I’m gonna shoot for an admission of guilt, probation of, oh, some term or another…let’s stick to a misdemeanor, yeah. Maybe a fine? Only if I must. Oh, and are you willing to do community service? That might let me sweeten the offer.”
“I suspect," Nofl hazarded, “That community service is exactly what Chief Ares wants.”
“Oh no, what he wants is justice. He’s admirable that way…" she got that strange look in her eye again, “Anyway. He’ll be happy if the system works like it should. It’s really the Prosecutor we need to worry and she is a bitch lately about…God, everything. Incidentally, I’ve made a small fortune off the Clan males and their constant brawling…"
Nofl gave her a calculating look. “How much are your services going to cost me?”
“This one? It’s free. Public defender working pro bono and all that. After today…" she flashed that distinctive predator smile that only humans ever quite got right. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
“I’m sure we can,” Nofl agreed.
After that, things went remarkably fast. Less than twenty temporal units after she closed her folder and let herself out, Ms. Bader returned. Five minutes after that there was a bustle towards the courthouse, where the Judge, Ms. Bader, and the Prosecutor donned some ridiculous white wigs. There was some highly encoded legal jargon spoken in heated terms…and the agreement was set.
The deal as it was explained to Nofl was really quite straightforward: He would serve one Cimbrean year of ‘probation’ which as he understood it meant a solemn promise not to offend again, on pain of severe punishment. He would perform two hundred hours of ‘community service’ and he would pay a bond of one thousand Cimbrean Pounds, repayable with interest after his year of probation was served, and he would offer one thousand hours of professional services towards the local military establishment.
The only hiccup in the process came when they tried to explain the concept of ‘swearing an oath.’ The whole notion veered deep into the heartlands of deathworld strangeness, onto a region of Nofl’s mental map that was clearly labelled “Madness.”
In the end, mostly in the hopes that by doing so he might get them to stop explaining it, he agreed to swear on a printout of the universal physical constants. What could be more fundamental? He spoke a few simple words solemnly avowing his obedience and agreement, the Prosecutor reluctantly agreed to the contract…and he was let free. Somehow, he really hadn’t expected to end the day as the next best thing to a free Corti.
And waiting outside was Gabriel Ares in his chair with a ‘shit-eating grin’ on his face.
“I told you to plea-bargain, didn’t I?” he asked. It wasn’t really a question.
“Yes, but why darling?"
“Oh, that’s easy. You did wrong but you also did good. We needed to resolve that. And besides…” Ares’ smile changed from ‘shit-eating’ to ‘sheepish.’ “…Who else am I gonna get a nerve treatment from around here?”
Nofl brightened up, genuinely. “…Really? Are you finally ready to leave that dreadful chair of yours behind?"
“Well…I have a sneaking suspicion that I might be a grandfather sooner than later. I…what man wouldn’t want to play with his own grandkids?”
“Much too sentimental, darling," Nofl flapped a hand at him. “But… fine. Your reasons are yours, I’m sure.”
Ares chuckled. “Guilty as charged I think…” he paused, turned and frowned as a CCS officer in the characteristic high-vis yellow jacket and officer cap jogged up to him. “…Henson? Something wrong?”
“Message from the Governor-General, chief,” Henson said. “He’s called an emergency session.”
“He has? Why?”
“They’re saying Ambassador Hussein is dead, chief…”
Date Point: 12y6m AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Technical Sergeant Martina Kovač
The tree was a Terran import, a dioecious “female” Ginkgo Biloba selected specifically for the fact that it wouldn’t release potentially allergenic pollens that could endanger Folctha’s nonhuman residents. It had been imported as a young adult and was already as thick around as Marty’s torso, a promise of incredible girth to come when it was fully matured.
Adam’s fist left a dent in the coarse bark, drawing blood and surprised gasps from bystanders. Ava’s exhibition had practically emptied as she had rushed out of the gallery and across the street to do an emergency piece to camera for ESNN on the ambassador’s assassination, but even that fascinating diversion was secondary to Adam punching a tree with enough force to break the turf behind him as its roots flexed.
He looked up, grumbled an apology, and skulked around the tree to nurse his bloody hand. Considering how much narrower than him its trunk was it didn’t offer anything much in the way of privacy, but at least it was a barrier of sorts.
Marty stopped watching Ava doing her work--and it was good work, she had to admit--and joined him. He was picking splinters out of his flesh.
“…He refused security,” she reminded him gently, after a tactful interval.
“I could have saved him!" Adam snapped. “Hell, I’ve done that same thing before! If I’d just been there-!!"
“He refused!" Marty repeated herself. “Dude, you can’t protect people who don’t want protecting.”
“It’s just so fucking… why?"
“Maybe he went up there expecting this to happen,” Marty pointed out. “…Hell, Hussein was ninety. When my great-grampa hit ninety, he started getting real upset that everyone was looking after him. I reckon he’d have killed to be able to do something useful with his death. The Mission, you know?"
Adam unwound a bit. “Yeah… but Hussein was a civilian, and your great-grampa hit the beaches at Normandy, right?.”
“Right. Military family. Double-Grampy served, Grampy served, Dad served, I’m serving… But not everyone who serves is military, ’Horse.”
“Maybe, but the whole point is-”
“I know what the whole point is," Marty assured him. “It’s to protect people’s right to live their lives their way.”
Adam nodded glumly, and licked his knuckle by way of fixing it. Bloody knuckles were a constant among HEAT men, they were generally ignored until the next routine Crue-D dose came along and repaired them.
“Still don’t feel right though, huh?” Marty put her arm as far around his waist as she could.
“Nuh.” Adam shook his head, and buried her under his own return hug. “Shit, what’s gonna happen next? Are we just gonna let this slide? Are the Guvnurag?”
“What’re they gonna do, glow at us?” Marty asked. “We have bigger fish to fry.”
“I dunno, Marty. They’re still a long way ahead of us tech-wise. If they really put their heads to it…" Adam glanced around and lowered his voice. “It ain’t them I’m worried about exactly. What happens if they figure out a weakness in our shit and you-know-who picks up on it?”
“Come on, do I gotta tell you that we just do the job in front of us?" Marty asked. “Those kinds of questions are for the brass, poor assholes.”
“Ours not to reason why. Right.” Adam nodded and finally managed to purge his frustrations with a sigh. A thought seemed to strike him. “…Is that Kipling too?”
“Tennyson.” Marty looked around the tree. Or rather around Adam, the tree being kind of an afterthought once he was out of the way. “I think Ava’s winding up her report. Wanna invite her to go grab a burger?”
“Sounds good… ” Adam, spurred by the promise of food, sprang upright. “Since when do you get on well with Ava?”
“Since she’s your sister?"
“Dude, she’s not exactly my sister…"
“I know, but she’s your family and… I dunno.” Marty shrugged. “Firth can grumble all he likes, I think there’s somebody worthwhile there. And you do too, or you wouldn’ta mended that bridge.”
“Ain’t bridges that worry me. I mean, she’s never bugged me for an exclusive or whatever, but this is a big story. And we ain’t authorised to go talkin’ to the press…”
“What, don’t you trust her?”
“Not really.” Adam paused. “Well… Yeah I do, Maybe? Depends on what. I trust her to keep a secret, at least. She respects non-disclosure.”
“So just tell her we can’t talk about it. Hell, I’ll bet my burnt ass she’ll nod and say okay and that’s an end to it.”
Adam grimaced. “Major Powell doesn’t trust her.”
“Major Powell can’t stop you from going for a burger with your girlfriend and your sister,” Marty pointed out. Adam was always painfully worried about what the old man would think. Marty, meanwhile, was much more experienced at knowing where the boundaries really lay. “Worst he’ll do is say ‘fook’ at us a lot. Besides, isn’t public affairs one of your extra duties?"
“Under close supervision and with a very specific brief, yeah, but-”
“’Horse, we aren’t doing a public affairs thing. We’re grabbing a burger with your sister."
“With my journalist ex-girlfriend. That ain’t the same thing."
“You have breakfast with her at your dad’s place every week,” Marty said. “And… I love you, and your dad’s awesome? But you really learned how to cram the rulebook up your ass from him. It’s fine! The worst case scenario here is the old man clears his throat and Rebar has to find a way of ‘motivating’ the both of us that isn’t disproportionate." Marty shrugged. “And if I get one of those ‘red, white and blue’ burgers from Best Brioche out of it? Worth it.”
Adam’s stomach growled audibly. The Red White and Blue burger was a Cimbrean celebrity built from half a pound of medium-rare steak mince with back bacon for the red, ranch dressing for the white and blue stilton, all of it local produce right down to the bun. “…You’re a fucking seductress.”
“Hey, he finally noticed!” Marty grinned at him. “Now, are you coming or not?”
Adam glanced back in the direction of the base for a heartfelt few seconds then caved. “This is gonna throw my macros off for the day…”
Marty folded her arms at him and felt her grin get wider. “That ain’t a no.”
“…Damn you.”
Victorious, Marty made eye contact with Ava and managed to somehow convey through an uncomplicated impromptu sign language that they were going for a burger and she was welcome to come with. To her credit, Ava looked pleased at the invitation but immediately looked to Adam for confirmation and practically radiated delight when he nodded.
“Just so we’re clear,” Marty told her once Ava had retrieved her dog and escaped from her colleagues with promises to bring them back a box of sliders and donuts, “Please don’t ask us about Hussein?”
“You can’t confirm or deny anything and wouldn’t be at liberty to discuss it, whatever ‘it’ may or may not be. Something like that?" Ava asked, looking amused.
“Something like that,” Adam agreed.
“That’s okay,” Ava promised. “And don’t worry, I’m never going to interview either of you about anything. It’s a bad idea to mix business and family. Besides,” she added with a rare smile, “I probably know more than you do right now.”
“No comment,” Adam grunted. Ava drove an affectionate elbow into his ribs.
"¡Tranqui, gordo! I just said you’re permanently off-limits."
Adam caught Marty’s eye, and she finally saw him relax. Ava didn’t miss it either, but rather than seeming disappointed she smiled and patted him on the arm. “It’s okay. Trust takes a long time to build. It… means a lot that you both are giving me the chance.”
She reached down and her fingers brushed through Hannah’s fur for reassurance after she said it. “Though, uh… word of advice? Us journalists are tricky. Just saying that up front makes me feel like maybe you DO know something I’d find interesting. You shoulda kept your mouth shut until I asked you.”
“But we’re off-limits,” Adam sniped, with a touch of the uncharacteristic bitterness that only surfaced when Ava was involved.
“Which is why I’m warning you, you-!" Ava glanced down at the dog, took a deep breath and reined herself in. “…Change of subject.”
“Yeah,” Marty agreed, feeling foolish. She’d been so keen to assuage Adam’s concerns that she’d blundered into a basic error. “But, thanks.”
“De nada. Uh… Oh! Hayley said Jack’s doing well?"
“I thought she didn’t really approve?” Adam asked. “Military ain’t exactly in line with their peace-and-love lifestyle.”
“Well yeah, but you know what she and Mark are like.” Ava smiled fondly. “You remember Mark’s tattoos? ‘An it harm none, do as thou wilt’? They always were keen on a permissive upbringing. So long as Jack’s doing what he really wants to do, they won’t fight him."
“That ‘permissive upbringing’ got Sara murdered," Adam growled.
“No argument,” Ava agreed. “…But it was also what made her so beautiful to know. Wasn’t it?”
Adam didn’t reply.
“…Besides,” Ava continued. “Hayley’s like any half-decent mom. So long as her boy’s happy, she’s happy, and so long as he’s a success she’s proud.”
“He’s a success alright,” Adam said. “We turned him ’round good.”
“Hell, no wonder he was playing up at school,” Marty volunteered. “No way it was challenging him properly. That boy could turn out to be smarter than Baseball."
“Or you,” Adam added, loyally. Marty felt the modest urge to demur that Baseball was smarter than herself, but the fact was that they had different kinds of intelligence. ‘Base, if and when he retired, was going to wind up authoring the next generation of books on trauma medicine. Marty was ’merely’ an extremely talented aerospace engineer who’d been destined for NASA until the SOR came along. Comparing a brain surgeon to a rocket scientist wasn’t exactly fair, especially when considering the fact she was going for burgers with a sports and nutrition expert who had an unrivaled practical working understanding of the human body, and a woman who was making increasingly prominent waves both as a journalist and as an artist with every passing week.
Marty kept herself grounded on the certainty that, past a certain threshold, there was no such thing as an absolute spectrum of ‘more’ intelligent and ‘less’ intelligent. Her motto was “There is no such a thing as a stupid person--just people who haven’t yet figured out what they’re smart at.”
“I hope so”, she said. “Means I taught him right. I mean-” she cleared her throat, “Cimbrean schooling is damn good, but he really needed the one-on- one time."
“Pretty much all we got was one-on-one time in the early years," Ava recalled, looking around. “And dirt roads, prefab housing, no entertainment… Now look at this place.”
“Hell, it’s changed just since I got here," Marty agreed. “And you two are first-gen colonists. I can’t even… Musta been something special.”
Adam and Ava glanced at each other before Ava spoke for both of them. “It was… We were still kinda reeling from… I mean, we lost our home!" she managed. “My family, Adam’s mom, all our friends, the only city we’d ever lived in…”
“We shoulda been in that, too,” Adam agreed. “Pure dumb luck we weren’t.”
“It was just…” Ava looked down at her hands, and only stopped wringing them when Hannah whined and licked her fingers, prompting a grateful scratch behind the ears. “…Weeks and months of feeling numb, like I was gonna wake up screaming from a bad dream any second no matter how much I knew I wasn’t. Every night, I had this dream where I woke up in my own bedroom and everything was okay and Rosa was making breakfast, and-"
“Rosa?”
“She cleaned and cooked so mom and dad didn’t have to. Rosa Vialpando. God, she was… She had three grandchildren and she treated me like I was one of them and I could be such a bitch to her sometimes…" Ava wiped away a tear. “I know I was fifteen, but still… I wish she’d been around a few years back. Things maybe woulda turned out differently.”
“You’re beating yourself up again,” Adam told her softly. Ava nodded, and visibly backed out of Bad Memory Alley and returned to Memory Lane.
“…Stepping through the jump array that first time was like waking up. Just… a blast of cool air to the face and my new best friend tripping over herself to run up and say hi, and…”
“And when Sara started talking, nothing stopped her. Sometimes she’d keep talking while she was breathing in," Adam recalled. Ava giggled.
Marty nodded. “She’s really special to both of you.”
“Oh, she could be a brat,” Adam laughed. “And she had the biggest crush on me. And I think a bit of a one on you too, Ava?”
“Maybe… But, yeah. I’ll never forget her. Hell, if I ever have kids, my first girl is gonna be Sara.”
“No way, I call first dibs,” Adam grinned.
“Yeah?” Ava grinned at Marty. “Are you two…?”
“Uh… not yet.” Marty balked.
“That ain’t a no,” Adam teased her with her own words.
“Well of course it ain’t a no!" Marty faced him. “Hell it’s a yes, probably. Just, not soon.”
That got the intended result. Adam blushed and stammer-grumbled himself silent while Ava folded her arms behind him and shot Marty an approving grin.
“Burger’s waiting,” she pointed out. They’d been standing outside Best Brioche for nearly a minute.
“I’ll, uh… three RWBs?”
“And a diet coke,” Ava said.
“Marty?”
“Sprite.”
“Right.” Adam vanished into the shop, still red around the ears.
Marty and Ava stepped aside to let the shop’s current customers exit, squeezed out by Adam’s sheer size. He had a way of doing that.
“I really enjoyed the exhibition tonight,” Marty said.
“Thanks. And… thanks for inviting me. This is nice.”
They had a moment to clear the air, and Marty decided not to let it go. “Ava… I mean, you’re real important to him. I hope you’re not jealous about us, or…?”
Ava shook her head with surprising vigor. “Absolutely not!” she said. “And he’s real important to me, too. I just want him to be happy, and you make him so happy, so… No, I can’t be jealous. Especially not of you."
Touched, Marty gave her a hug. It caught Ava off-guard, but she returned it with sisterly affection after only a moment’s startled hesitation.
“So… seriously, how do you see the things you see through that camera?" Marty asked, letting her go.
“Uh… practice, mostly. I dunno, at first I was always thinking about things like light and depth of field, aperture size, shutter speed… Nowadays it’s more intuitive. I look at something, think ‘Yeah, I can work with that,’ and my hands do it all. You know?"
“Not really,” Marty shrugged, and tapped her forehead. “My job’s all up here. Millimeters, pH balance, PSI, Bartlett’s Law…”
“What’s that?”
“Uh…” Marty recalled how she’d explained it to Jack. “So, Kinetic Pulse weapons would be stupidly lethal if we could just get them to fire a shaped field with a sharp edge, right? Like, they’d just cut us in half." When Ava nodded, she pressed on. " But, the power draw of a field is proportionate to the curvature in an… interesting way."
“Meaning it’s really fucking complicated?”
“Right. Bartlett’s law is the equation that describes that relationship. So, big flat planes, boxes, cylinders or neat spheres? Nice and easy. Something sharp enough to cut, though…”
“Yeah, I couldn’t do your job,” Ava agreed.
“Good, because there’s not many of my job to go around,” Marty smiled. “Besides, the world needs photographers and journalists, and gourmet burger chefs.”
“Amen, sister,” Ava giggled. “But… okay, if making a flat plane is easy, why can’t you just throw it sideways-on like a playing card?”
“Oh man, so that’s a complicated one,” Marty enthused, warming to her subject. “It has to do with something called ‘Fractal boundary indeterminacy’ and that’s just-"
“Ah shit, you got her started,” Adam interrupted, emerging with two paper- wrapped bundles and a couple of cold metal cans on his arm, which he handed out. “Bad idea.”
“Hey!”
Adam grinned and kissed her. “True though.”
“Where’s yours?” Marty asked, taking her burger and drink.
“He’s makin’ them for me now,” Adam replied, handing Ava hers. “And that box for the news crew.”
“Lemme guess. Three for you?” Marty asked
“Yup.”
“Orale!” Ava shook her head. “I remember how you complained about having to eat so much in Basic.”
“Well, I wasn’t used to it then,” Adam shrugged.
Ava snorted and tore into her burger like she’d been taking pointers from him but she spared a slice of bacon for Hannah, who was practicing her very best ‘Sit’ by Ava’s ankle and staring soulfully upwards. “It’ff gowwa be a wong night,” she explained, delicately wiping an escaping squirt of Ranch dressing back into her mouth before swallowing. “I’d better eat up and get back to the crew. Editor’s gonna want a report ready for the morning show and sync with Earth.”
“I bet. You’re gonna be busy next few days, huh?” Adam asked. Ava nodded with her mouth full.
“Thiff if…” she paused, frowned at herself, and finished her mouthful before replying. “It’s gonna be big. The GRA can’t ignore this, they have to do something."
“Do what? That’s the question.” Marty pointed out.
Ava grimaced. “I have some ideas. But it’s gonna be about the gesture at this point, rather than punishing the people who are, ’yknow, actually responsible…"
“Ava… be careful what you say, alright?” Marty advised.
“Back atcha. Don’t worry, if anything classified leaks it won’t be me.”
Adam nodded solemnly. “Good. We don’t wanna visit you in prison.”
She gave him a complicated look that Marty read as gratitude that he was still concerned for her well-being blended with mild and well-controlled irritation, and stuffed the last of her burger in her mouth. She dusted her hands off and pointed indoors to indicate that she, Ava, really ought to pay for the snack boxes for her crew and get back to work.
Adam nodded and went back inside to retrieve it for her, and when he emerged with the boxes and his own burgers Ava was chugging down the last of her soda.
“When did you learn to eat that big?" he asked.
“I eat a lot of my meals al desko nowadays," Ava shrugged, and took the boxes. “I told you, it’s gonna be a long night. See you at Dad’s on Sunday?”
“Yeah. Take care.”
She gave him a smile, and one for Marty too, and high-heeled away with Hannah trotting smartly along in her wake.
Marty waited until she was around the corner to speak. “…Is she okay? I mean…She’s working awful hard…”
Adam gave a complicated shrug. “She throws herself into her work. So do I. So do you!”
“Well… She’s good at it,” Marty conceded. “You’ve seen her on TV, right?”
“I don’t watch much TV, remember?” Adam pointed out, correctly. His daily regime really didn’t allow any time for it.
“Well, she’s good,” Marty repeated. “You watch. Whatever goes down with GRA, I bet you Ava will have called it…”
Date Point: 12y6m1w AV
Global Representative Assembly Headquarters, Cape Town, South Africa, Earth
President Arthur Sartori
The White House had been home to a bewildering variety of First Families over the years, though America was still waiting for a female or openly gay President to furnish the history books with their first “First Gentleman.” Sartori, however, had not furnished Pennsylvania Avenue with a First anything. He was the sixth president in a list that began with Thomas Jefferson to have entered the White House as a widower, and his marriage to the late Emily Sartori-Brown had been childless. He had never remarried.
To his surprise, that fact had generated sympathy rather than difficulty during his election campaign. The nation by and large saw him as a man remaining faithful to his wife’s memory, and they weren’t far wrong--Emily would have loved to tease him about how much he hated flying. He might have the most famous aircraft in the world at his beck and call, but Sartori still loathed leaving the ground.
Unfortunately, Air Force One was the only practical way to get to Africa on short notice. So, he’d put on his big-boy pants, boarded the plane in a serious bustle, taken a half dose of diazepam and caught up on his much-needed sleep. Unconscious was the only way to fly.
Besides. It was always best to look sharp and well-rested when addressing an emergency meeting of some of the most powerful people in the world. The Global Representative Assembly had precious little political power on Earth, but it was the voice of authority when it came to extraterrestrial matters.
…Assuming it ever developed a unified opinion on anything, of course. In the years since its foundation, the GRA had yet to take a strong unified stance. By and large, it had been too riven by the hangover of the past few decades of religious conflict, economic turmoil, political bickering, the Pacific trade wars, and now the massive technological and social upheavals of the interstellar era. The will had simply never been there to properly align behind a single cause.
Perhaps that would change today.
Scratch that. That was pussy-foot thinking. That would change today. The time had come for the rest of the world to get with the program or get out of the way, and if the assassination of the GRA’s own ambassador wasn’t catalyst enough then nothing ever would be.
Much thought had gone into the GRA HQ building. Its construction had begun with the creation of an artificial tidal lagoon just north of a Cape Town suburb with the incongruously Welsh name of Llandudno, a wealthy spot that had for several years been looking for an excuse to go even further up-market than it already was.
That lagoon provided several benefits. It generated power from the tide, created a protected beach ideal for safe recreation, provided habitat for several native species, and made the GRA building surprisingly secure just by itself. The only overland routes to the building were narrow, closely-watched roads laid with several hundred retractable reinforced bollards. Any car bomb, van full of gunmen or other suspicious vehicle was doomed to be brought to a violent halt even if it did get past the checkpoints.
All of the security measures were similarly invisible. Between the forcefields, the reinforced glass, the shutters and the panic rooms honeycombing the building’s interiors, GRA HQ was a fortress that looked like an elaborate sculpture in glass and granite.
The Assembly chamber itself was simple and to-the-point. Serious wooden furniture underpinned by miles of cabling and support infrastructure. There were more seats than were technically needed, in anticipation of the future growth and political independence of offworld colonies, and all of them were arranged in a horseshoe around the speaker’s podium and looking out through tall windows onto the waters of the Atlantic.
Appropriately, those waters were choppy today.
So was the mood. The report into Ambassador Hussein’s assassination was detailed and thorough, and while every man and woman in the room was used to the interminable pace of these things it seemed that everybody was itching to leap to their feet and say their piece. Sartori had enjoyed ample time to jot down his own notes on the report, compare them with those of his advisors, send the most pertinent details away for analysis and then read the digested summary on the monitor in front of him.
All of which was fine… except that the preliminary investigation was clearly unaware of, and would have been unable to mention, DEEP RELIC. The Hierarchy’s existence was not known to most of the nations represented in the Assembly chamber and was being kept that way.
Option number one, right at the top of Sartori’s list of possibilities, was correcting that today. He had the authority to declassify DEEP RELIC with a pen-stroke if he chose, and a passionate but civilized debate was raging quietly on his screen as to whether that was the correct course of action here.
Sartori watched the debate with interest. As far as he was concerned, official and full revelation of the existence of the Hierarchy would be an open invitation for some crazy bastards somewhere on the planet to try and ally with the genocidal aliens. The Earth had some breathing room thanks to Operation EMPTY BELL, but that breathing room could vanish fast if somebody with any influence or power pulled a Quisling.
On the other hand the whole problem was escalating in an enormous way, and so far the human race was still figuratively fighting with one hand tied behind its back. Sooner or later, that handicap was going to take its toll. They needed to start getting some more resources, some more talent and some more humanity on board.
And that just wasn’t going to happen, and anybody with more political perspicacity than a stunned puppy knew it. Not without both a kick in the nuts and the promise of some actual benefit on the horizon. And in any case, when it came down to it the resources of two planets just wasn’t going to cut it, especially when one of those planets had a total population that wouldn’t even put it in the top three hundred American cities.
So far, one of his senior advisors had been silent, and the time was approaching where he needed her to speak. Margaret White was in the habit of offering her opinions last after everyone else had spoken, and it was generally a valuable habit, but right now he needed her to weigh in.
She got the message just from the way he turned and looked at her and sat forward primly in her seat to whisper.
“We need to acknowledge that there is a threat…" she offered. “Without going into specifics. Infer the presence of enemy action from the forcefield, San Diego, this…”
“Paul reckons we need to throw a bigger bone than that,” Sartori indicated his screen. Paul Nicholls was another of his advisors, and was safely back in Washington offering his insights from the comfort of his office.
“A closed session, maybe?” Margaret offered. “If we share some of the details of that Egyptian business…”
“That’ll piss off the Egyptians…” Sartori mused. “Not that we can’t handle that, but…”
“Needs must.”
“We didn’t share much with the Egyptians, either. This would anger them doubly so.”
“Again, Mister President, needs must. The only question as I see it is how far we go.”
Margaret was an old friend and colleague. She only called him ‘Mister President’ when she was deadly serious.
“…Right.”
Sartori filed a request to speak in a closed session with the Assembly’s Speaker, who had the unenviable task of not only overseeing the discussions and points of order, but also of managing precedence and etiquette. In theory every nation at the Assembly was on an equal footing, but diplomatic reality of course was more sophisticated. The seniority of the supplicant, the political importance of their nation and the relevance of the comment they wished to make were all factored in.
When the POTUS promised to contribute something highly relevant, Sartori knew, he was pretty much guaranteeing himself the first place in the queue.
The remaining minutes waiting for the official report to wind to its conclusion were spent quickly assembling the key points of what he was about to say, a process streamlined immeasurably by the involvement of his chief speechwriter, five senior advisors and the Secretary of Defence. Sartori and the speechwriter did the actual writing, the other six added notes in the figurative margin, and within five minutes he had everything he needed.
Sartori stood and tugged at his cuff to straighten it as the Speaker opened the floor, and as expected was immediately given the first comment.
“May I request a closed session, Mister Speaker?” he asked, politely. The etiquette of the chamber was respected.
There were disappointed noises from the public galleries as press and tourists alike were quietly ushered out. The windows dissolved into gray blandness as the privacy fields came online, the cameras were shut down. No doubt the thrust of his words would leak through one of the present dignitaries and functionaries, but the important part was that it would all be second-hand, and thus deniable.
The last door closed, the lights dimmed, and Sartori found himself spotlighted.
He looked down at his hands and brushed them lightly across the desk in front of him before speaking.
“I want to begin by acknowledging the human cost here,” he began. “Ambassador Hussein’s family are grieving today and it would be remiss of us to forget that. But they are not the only grieving families. After all, we are at war.”
He looked up and around. “At war," he repeated. “Not should go to war, nor are we debating the validity of today’s casus belli. I want to argue that we have been at war for several years now, and it is the bloodiest we have seen since the nineteen-forties. Millions are already dead, billions of dollars of war debt has been accrued, good men have lost their lives in combat operations…We. Are. At. War."
It would have been better if the words had rang, but the chamber’s acoustics were not designed with dramatic effect in mind. In fact, they were designed for his fellow dignitaries to listen to real-time translation, and so his words were swallowed by dead sound and the white noise of the forcefields. It was a shame: A shoddy orator could stand on good acoustics. A decent orator could fly on them.
Sartori was an exceptional orator. He didn’t need acoustics at all.
“Our species is imprisoned, and we have done nothing. Our people were thrown to the wolves, and we did nothing!” He angled a sharp glance around the chamber, saw allies nodding and others listen solemnly. “Galactic nations tear each other apart and blame us, and we don’t even object! Our good green Earth is permanently scarred by an antimatter bomb, millions have perished, our economy is laboring… and our response is to act as though life continues as it always did? When it’s now clear that a force out there wants us all dead?"
He shook his head. “No. This Assembly may have been content to let the litany of injustices continue, but America and our military allies have not. When San Diego burned, we hunted the party responsible. When an alien ship invaded our sky to inflict the most sickening cruelties on innocent civilians, our jets swatted it from the Egyptian sky!"
He paused, adjusted his cuff again and shot a glance at the Egyptian table to gauge their reaction. When he read nothing he could use in their expressions, he sighed wearily for effect. “Let me tell you a little of our Enemy. I can’t say much because even now, even here, they are listening and they will seek every advantage. So I shall cover only the basics.”
He took a sip of water and raised a hand to punctuate his words with gestures. “They are old. Vast and ancient beyond the reckoning of our civilization. They are cunning. Many others have fallen to them, and the peoples no longer here to enrich our Galaxy number in the hundreds--that we are aware of. The body count is in the trillions, the measure of loss, the suffering and the retardation of the sciences and the arts… incalculable. They are subtle. Their influence has shaped Galactic society and passed unnoticed. They are cynical, pitting team against team, nation against nation, Dominion against Alliance. ”
He paused again, partly for dramatic effect and partly to reel himself in. That last part had perhaps been a bit too revealing but he needed the emphasis.
“And they are not afraid of overt action, either,” he added. “San Diego was their work. Egypt was a reaction to our rooting out the last of their Earthbound force. They are ruthless, willing to use even the Hunters as a weapon if it will suit their ends. But the worst, by far…”
He took a deep, nasal breath and allowed his volume to dip again. Like good music, the loud and the soft needed to dance. “The very worst part of our Enemy is that they are callous. Like our own Earthly terrorists but on a scale we have never seen, they hide among the innocent and hold those innocent lives in the most negligent contempt. For our defiance, billions of innocents have been slaughtered and we are made to take the blame. Our Ambassador, murdered, and as we all heard the last he asked of them was what we could do to make things right."
He paused a third time and took another sip of his water. The room was stone silent. “Why do I speak of this now?” Rhetorical oration was one of Sartori’s guilty pleasures. “Because it is now clear that there’s no sympathy to be had out there: we are trapped. We’re a small island in a vast cruel sea, valiantly fending off a numerically superior foe…" he glanced at the British table “…but there is no help from abroad coming this time. If we’re going to get out of this hole, then we need to dig our way out by ourselves. We need to get our eggs out of this single basket, as a matter of survival."
He glared around the room and repeated that last word. “Survival. That is how high the stakes are at this table. That is what we are playing for--the right for our children to see tomorrow. We can keep turning the other cheek, we can forgive those who trespass against us… But then what? Do we go quietly into the night? Do we join the hundreds before us and allow hundreds more to come after us?"
He looked around, attempting to convey with a single sweep of his gaze that he had singled out everyone in the room for his personal attention. “…Or has the time come for us to show the galaxy that we are not the monsters here? Has the time finally come for us to acknowledge that we are at war… and that we are not willing to lose?"
Somehow, those last words managed to ring even in the dead air of the assembly chamber, buoyed by the silent susurrus of rapt breath. Sartori allowed himself a satisfied nod and stood up straight.
“The good news,” he said, “is that our strategy doesn’t rely on sacrifice, but on opportunity. There are worlds out there waiting for us, untouched paradises shunned by other species as unusable ‘deathworlds’ and our best minds--scientists, engineers, even artists--have been devoting themselves to the task of unlocking those new promised lands."
“The way isn’t open yet,” he shook his head, and let the volume fall again, until he was speaking almost as though conspiring quietly with all of them. “But I invite you all to imagine your culture, not just mine or those of our military allies, walking the stars, leaving your mark, writing yourselves into the future of mankind. Does that sound like sacrifice to you? Does that sound like war?"
He looked down at his hands, and absent-mindedly touched the gold wedding band he had never taken off. “Make no mistake. It will be war. It is war. Quite probably a bloody and difficult one that will last lifetimes and rob us of our best and bravest time and again. We will ask ourselves, ‘will it be worth it?’ We will ask ourselves, ‘how far are we willing to go?’ I don’t know. Maybe this won’t even be a war we can win. Maybe we’ll only win it by becoming the monsters they claim we are. If so, maybe it would be better to die with our souls untarnished, but…"
He paused for one last time, and shook his head.
“…But I have faith.”
Date Point: 12y6m1w3d AV
Grand Enclave of Females, Planet Gao.
Sister Myun
“Faith?”
Being Yulna’s personal protector was generally an easy job. After all, who would attack her? The Mother-Supreme was, well… the Mother-Supreme. Any male who so much as scratched her would never mate again even if he survived, and the Females were clan.
Myun still took her duties seriously, though. Especially now, especially after hearing those words that the Whitecrests had somehow managed to acquire and forward. Even the Gaori translation had been engaging but as a fluent English speaker herself she had felt the full impact of Sartori’s address. She wasn’t sure her fur would ever settle.
Yulna was listening to the recording with much more calm, resting her jaw lightly on a curled forepaw while tracing a claw idly across the glass surface of her desk.
“Sister Shoo tried to explain the concept once,” she said, addressing the Mother who had asked. “It is… a difficult one. Do you remember, Myun?”
Myun duck-nodded solemnly.
“It means something like… trust, or confidence,” Yulna elaborated. “But more. Trust based on conviction rather than hard evidence."
“So this Sar-toree is saying that he trusts his people despite not having a good reason?” the Mother summarized.
Yulna angled her head contemplatively. “No… No, that would be an admission of weakness. ‘Faith’ is a strong concept. He’s saying he doesn’t need a good reason to believe it, he knows it to be true anyway. Something like that."
“And this is the species that the Whitecrests want us aligned with?" Mother Suri asked, with an ill-concealed lick of contempt. She had been Yulna’s rival to the position of Mother-Supreme and while she had accepted Yulna’s accession in the end she had still maneuvered herself into the heart of Clan power.
Yulna insisted she was useful. Something about it being good to hear a dissenting voice and Suri still being one of the good people, even if there were profound differences of opinion between them.
“That ‘faith’ kept Sister Shoo going where any of us would have curled up in a mournful ball and given up," Yulna replied. “It let the humans trust Regaari despite only meeting him once, and it let them trust me, too. I don’t really know what it is or how it works, but it does. The Starminds might know better… Father Gyotin has thought long and hard on the subject, I understand.”
Myun couldn’t keep her thoughts to herself. “You’re overthinking it. Faith isn’t anything supernatural or anything like that. It’s just belief. It’s belief that good people are good and will do good things. It’s belief that there is such a thing as justice. It’s just ‘faith’ in the basic sanity of the universe. Why is that so hard?”
Suri and several of the other Mothers shot her mingled looks of irritation, impatience and disgust at the interruption. Yulna, for her part, chittered indulgently.
“You should know that nothing is ever simple with humans, young one.”
“Nah, they’re really simple. They just…do everything intensely. Everything. They’re like Whitecrest that way. If they don’t like you, you’ll know it. If they do…well, they’ll have ‘faith’ in you, and they won’t be wrong."
Suri growled slightly. “You are a bodyguard, Myun, not an advisor.”
Myun displayed a rare bout of political tact and duck-nodded respectfully, backing down.
“Good advice can be found scrawled on the wall in a stinking back alley,” Yulna observed, though the set of her ears made it plain to everyone in the room that she wasn’t insulting Myun in the slightest. “What matters is that you listen to it, not where it came from. And Myun, frankly, has studied humans rather more extensively than anybody else here.”
“Nevertheless…” Suri flicked an ear.
“Yes, yes.” Yulna waved a paw at Myun that said ‘please shut up’ in a kindly, materteral way and Myun stepped respectfully back into the corner. She was learning a lot about politics.
“The whole speech is just… paranoid, though. Surely?” one of the Mothers asked. “They’re deathworlders, they must be primed to see danger behind every corner."
“Maybe…” Yulna agreed thoughtfully. “But that doesn’t mean they’re wrong, does it?”
“If you see danger behind every corner, sooner or later you’ll be right,” another Mother agreed.
“And they are primed to sense danger, are they not? That let them build an advanced society on Earth, which from what we know may in a practical sense be the deadliest planet in the galaxy."
“Mother Ayma survived it, didn’t she?” There was a doubtful note in Suri’s skepticism.
“With the aid of an environment suit and full-time medical escort.”
Myun whispered “Beef Brothers” to herself quietly, with the faintest chitter.
The Mother who was taking Yulna’s side--Memi? Memya? Something like that-- didn’t seem to notice. “No,” she said, “I think we can safely say that when a human is taking a threat seriously, then that threat is worth taking seriously. From what I know of them their lives are so… saturated with constant low-grade dangers that they tend to just ignore them, or view them as an inconvenience."
“Example?” Suri’s ally demanded. Mother… Sesal. No, Sesala.
“They have to scrub enamel-eating bacteria out of their mouths every morning or else their teeth literally rot,” Yulna offered with, Myun thought, considerable relish. “And apparently a lot of them just don’t bother, or forget. And sometimes that doesn’t even matter. But sometimes it does and they can actually die from it. They have medical professionals who are concerned only with their teeth. ‘Dentists’ I think."
“This seems contradictory,” Suri complained. “They’ll ignore a threat like that but we’re supposed to take them seriously when they get concerned over… what, a conspiracy to eradicate their whole species?"
“Well…if the mere fact of waking up could prove dangerous, wouldn’t you be numbed to all the little threats? What would it take to get your attention if a cut on a finger, a bit of food in the teeth, even brushing up against the wrong plant could kill you dead or leave you permanently scarred? You would be a neurotic wreck in short order.”
Suri and Sesala both lapsed into thoughtful silence.
Yulna let them think for a second as she sipped a contemplative glass of Talamay. “Besides. What happened to their city ‘San Diego’ is hard to explain except by conspiracy…I think the correct approach here is to at least entertain the possibility that their fears are valid. We can leave final judgement for when we know more."
“And until then?” Memi inquired.
“Until then, I will speak to Champion Genshi and the other Champions as I see fit, and we shall discover what this threat might be. Because if it threatens the Humans…sooner or later, it will threaten us. The recent rumblings in the Dominion Security Council about our world…”
“We are not a deathworld," Suri asserted, sharply.
“Does it matter? The official classification is headed that way and if it is…Well. I won’t debate whether or not Gao really is or is becoming a Deathworld, leave that to the Highmountain philosophers. I am more worried about the attention it draws and the political consequences.”
“Besides, the Guvnurag prove that it doesn’t really matter,” Mother Memi observed. “They are most definitely not deathworlders, and yet they bore the worst of it this time."
“Yes, what do we do about them?” Suri asked. “We’re obligated to do something, aren’t we?"
“We offer as much aid as we can, discreetly, and we communicate that to the Clans,” Yulna declared. “I suspect they may not be willing to entertain a public gesture given our burgeoning relationship with the Humans. Perhaps a sanctuary colony on Gorai? I’d need to pay a favor to Stoneback…would the Guvnurag accept? Hmm…” She trailed off in thought.
“And what do we do if the Hunters decide that we’re next?” Sesela asked.
Yulna chittered darkly. “Get eaten, I suspect. Though I for one will claw a few eyes out, first. And I’m sure Myun here would go down fighting.”
Myun said nothing but she did flex her enormous, Stoneback-ish claws just for a second, feeling smugly superior. She savored the intimidated flick of Mother Sesela’s ear.
“…That cannot be your whole answer?" Suri seemed aghast rather than accusatory.
“Unless the males have somehow managed to build a million ships of their own in secret? It is the whole answer." Yulna chittered darkly again. “And so we come back to the strange ways of danger and threat. That particular threat is simply… too big to worry about, for now. And that, my Sisters, I think is what the Humans must feel all the time."
“…I should at least see if there is anything we can do to protect the cubs,” Suri suggested.
“Yes,” Yulna duck-nodded emphatically. “You’re right. Sensible precautions, of course. Precautions we should all take, I think.”
They all took the hint, duck-nodded respectfully, and made themselves scarce.
“Well. That was easy,” Yulna commented.
Myun resisted the urge to chitter, barely. As Yulna’s permanent protector she hadn’t moved while the Mothers let themselves out. “Easy?”
“I’d expected…a real fight. That was barely a token resistance. The death of billions sharpens the mind, I suppose.”
Myun found she couldn’t argue that point, and simply duck-nodded agreeably.
“Tell me, Myun, if a Hunter charged in here right now…?” Yulna let the question hang.
Myun broke out her human grin, the one she had practiced endlessly in front of a mirror and that showed off all her teeth. “Just one?”
“…Good girl.” Yulna nodded with a pleased set of her ears then sighed quietly, recomposed herself and asked, “Next item on the schedule?”
Myun consulted the list. “Grandfather Meyku, Clan Straightshield.”
“I invited Champion Reeko as well, didn’t I?”
“He’s on Gorai, Mother. Something about a new precinct…?”
“Ah. In light of recent events…maybe we should take another page from the Humans and discuss our civil defense.”
Myun was learning that when Yulna asked a question like that, she wasn’t actually requesting an answer, it was more a way of helping herself think. Rather than reply, therefore, she busied herself straightening the office so that it seemed as though the Mothers had not been there. She also alerted the staff discreetly, who prepared an agenda and a briefing in the few short minutes before Grandfather Meyku arrived.
She hadn’t expected to be doing so much minute organisation for Yulna when she took the job, but she found that she quite enjoyed it. Just standing around with a sword would have been boring after all, but the moment she started thinking of herself as the gatekeeper for the Mother-Supreme’s attention she had realized that guarding Yulna’s body and guarding her schedule amounted to almost the same thing.
She was getting to know the Grandfathers too, and they were all entertainingly different. Garl of the Stonebacks tended to prowl into a room and throw himself onto the furniture as though he wasn’t twenty years the wrong side of old, and he left white hairs on everything. Myun found herself oddly and powerfully attracted to him…maybe one day. Soon. Before he died of too much mating, the smug sexy ‘asshole.’
Grandfather Myro of the Goldpaws was sleeker, slimmer and flowed across the world like one of those ‘otters’ Myun once saw on ‘Planet Earth.’ Yulna had once said he was as sleek and slippery in the world of finance as he was in real life. Myun didn’t know what was meant by that, but there’d been no mistaking the wink in Yulna’s voice when she’d said something similar about Myro and mating contracts. Mothers could be such ‘hens.’
Meyku sailed. He was upright, polite, direct and mostly unflappable, and had a pole up his ass that could have moored a megafreighter. But somehow he was friendly, too. Weird.
And he got right to the point. “We have a lot to discuss, Mother-Supreme.”
“That we do,” Yulna agreed, doing an excellent job of hiding her weariness. “Myun, some Talamay please?"
“Yes, Mother,” Myun duck-nodded and attended to her own role in this long diplomatic dance. She now had readying the snacks and drinks down to an efficient art.
“So, Grandfather…” Yulna said, as soon as the stage was set. “There is an interesting recording I think you should hear…”
Date Point 12y6m2w AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Vemik Sky-Thinker
Vemik had once spent half a day watching the wriggling things in the gut of a dead Neyma and watching them blacken and buzz away. The rotting flesh had made the air taste awful, and the flying buzzers had wanted to land on his face, but he’d kept watching hoping to catch the moment when little white wriggler became little black buzzer.
Right now, his head felt like that Neyma carcass--full of wriggling things. It always did after his ‘wessons’ with Shyow. Or like she had somehow packed a handful of smoldering tinder in there; his thoughts just refused to settle down and turn into something that made sense.
Or maybe like that time Jooyun had taken him into the flying hut and a strange yellow light had made his whole body tickle, especially his teeth. That had been an exciting day, and in the end the Sky-People had resorted to begging Yan to drag Vemik out of there again, which he did with an amused snarl. The big Given Man hadn’t even paused at the ‘anatomy dispway,’ either! He just threw Vemik out of the ship and wrestled him half-dead. Like always.
It wasn’t that ‘Engwish’ was difficult, not at all. He’d been shocked and surprised to discover that the words Shyow, Jooyun and Awisun spoke were so…easy. Strangely so. None of the words changed, or at least never by much! Each word was like…a little stone. Whether he held it, put it down in front of him or threw it in the air, the stone’s shape never changed. It didn’t matter what you did with a word in Engwish, it kept its shape.
Which made sense, when he thought about it. The meaning never changed after all, so why should the word? And like stones, the order that the words were laid down in mattered: Nobody ever made a trail mark by just throwing the stones down in a rambling heap the way Vemik often did with his words when thinking out loud. Every time he wanted to say anything in Engwish, he was forced to pause, think hard, and say it only after he had already built it in his head.
Clearly, the Sky-People thought about everything they did before they did it.
He was getting good at it too, or at least he thought. He knew how it behaved at least, but that was the easy part. The difficult part was how many words there were. It was like trying to make a trail marker while having more stones to choose from than there were stars in the night, several of which would mean nearly what he wanted to say, but only one of which meant exactly what he wanted to say..
There was only one thing to do: Keep learning new words.
And Shyow said she had mastered the words of three sky-tribes who spoke in such intricate ways. And she had mastered the words of Vemik’s tribe in just a hand’s-worth of days. The idea that any head could be so full of so many different words, especially when so many of those words meant things that Vemik had simply never thought of…
There were words to describe different kinds of word! The very thought of all those words in Shyow’s head made the feeling of things crawling around inside Vemik’s own skull get worse.
Jooyun at least was sympathetic there.
“Heh!” He made that strange, friendly laughing-sound the sky-people made. His was quite different from Awisun’s, which was a harsh bark, or Shyow’s which was a kind of bubbling musical thing. Jooyun’s was soft, deep and warm but never loud. Jooyun was never loud, for that matter, not even when he played. [“Don’t worry, buddy.] Xiu [makes me feel dumb too, sometimes. And I’m supposed to be the ‘science’ guy."]
They were out exploring after the morning ‘wessons’ about sky-people words-- ‘wanguage’ he remembered--and after Jooyun and Vemet had come back from the day’s hunting. They had eaten, and Jooyun had snuck some more People-food when Awisun wasn’t looking, and shared some of his. It had little balls of meat and a red sauce of some kind, very tasty! It also had ‘noodows’ that were a kind of ‘pasta.’ Vemik avoided ‘pastas.’ They were tasty too but they made his stomach unhappy and he would fart loudly for the rest of the day.
After that there was the usual camp chores, and a solemn moment with Yan and Singer for the day’s blessing, and then…they went exploring. Vemik had, naturally, asked why it was that Awisun objected to about Jooyun eating a fresh kill.
[“We come from a long way from here,”] Jooyun had answered. [“Where the sickness is different.] Allison [worries that I might get very sick if I’m not careful.”]
Vemik had thought about that, picking his words carefully. [“Is not she right?”] he ventured.
[“Isn’t.”] Jooyun corrected gently. [“And…yes, she is. But we carry all our food with us and…You know how sometimes, you need to smoke something to keep it good, but the smoke tastes bad? Or you get bored of the same thing for a whole season? Yeah. That.”]
Apparently, exploring was what Jooyun, Shyow and Awisun did. As they had explained it, their flying hut could go anywhere. Shyow had said that the stars were other suns, or that the sun was a star up close and that under each sun there was another sky above other People with their own gods. Jooyun had invited him to imagine being far from his village at night and looking back to see the village fire in the dark, small and cold and distant but still there.
Jooyun refused to talk about his own gods, though, but he had promised to explain why when they had the words.
But the smoking thing. Vemik had a hard time believing that! [“But your bag- food is tasty!”]
[“Rations. The word is ‘rations.’ Rations are a kind of preserved food."]
[“Wations.”] Vemik tasted the word, aware yet again that he was getting one of the sounds wrong, which was annoying because he could make the sound sometimes but not always. It turned out that sky-people had different- shaped tongues to go with all their other strangeness. And they could ‘smeww’ with the face-holes! They didn’t taste the air at all!
That reminded him of a question he’d been meaning to ask since learning about ‘smewwing’ yesterday, and he shot off on what Awisun had described as a ‘tangent.’ He had no idea what a tangent was exactly, but there were other questions he wanted to ask before he got to that one.
[“What do we ‘smeww’ wike?”]
Jooyun laughed in his quiet way again. He had more patience for the way Vemik’s questions jinked and dodged like root-birds than Shyow or Awisun did, mostly. [“Not too bad. Like you’re doing honest work all day.”]
That sounded like a good thing to Vemik so he trilled happily in response. At that same moment he spotted a different kind of herb that Jooyun hadn’t gathered yet and bounced over to point it out. Jooyun shook his head in the way the sky-people did when they were happily indulging Vemik’s questions. Like Yan, really. Yan would share if he wasn’t doing much else.
“Mazaanok! [Careful, this one has…”] Godshit, another word he didn’t know. He thought for a moment, then bit down on a finger with one of his small young- man fangs and made a big show of hurting.
“Mazaanok, [huh? Good name.”] Jooyun nodded and approached carefully, then peered at it from a safe distance. [“Ah. Those are ‘thorns,’ and big ones too. Are they ‘poisonous?’”]
[“Thorns. Thorn!”] That word had a nice sound and Vemik liked it. He tilted his head at the other word. [“Poisuunus?”]
[“Poisonous. The root word is ‘poison,’ which is something that’s not alive that can make you very sick. The ‘-ous’ in this case means the word is ‘full of’ the root. So something that’s ‘poisonous’ is full of poison. Make sense?”]
["…Poisun."] He corrected himself. [“Pois_on.”_]
["_Pois_on."]
[“Poison.”] He got it! [“Yes. The ‘thorns’ are ‘poisonous.’ Make skin burn and itch.”] Vemik suddenly thought, [“But plants are alive!”] In People-words, plants were always a living thing when you stuck endings on a word.
Julian knelt by the mazaan bush and dug in his bag where he pulled out a pair of the limp hand-bag-garments called ‘gloves’ that he used whenever he wanted to handle something without touching it with his bare skin. [“Yeah, they are. But the poison itself isn’t, it’s just as dead as a rock.”]
That made sense to Vemik. [“Okay.”]
Jooyun worked in silence for a few seconds, respectfully clipping off a few bits of the plant and storing them in strange clear things like a kind of small pot made of warm ice. As he put the ‘samples’ away in his bag he tilted his head and asked, [“So what do we, uh, taste like?”]
[“Like…you three, not the same. Shyow tastes like water and fruit. I don’t know what Awisun tastes like. I…no words for it."]
["‘Solvent’ and ‘soap,’ probably. I’ll tell you what those are later, I promise…I think she smells nice. They both smell…pretty ‘incredible’ actually. To me."]
Vemik nodded. Jooyun was always good on his word about explanations.
[“What about me?”] Jooyun asked.
[“You taste wike a Person, in a different way. Your hair tastes strange.”]
He knew that taste from one of their moments of play while out exploring. Vemik was pleased to learn he was a good wrestler compared to Jooyun, and could do things like wrap his tail around Jooyun and squeeze the same way Yan often did when playing. But Jooyun could do things Vemik couldn’t like stand up and ‘run’ instead of charge, and when he started ‘running’ he just didn’t stop. He could ‘jog’ slower and way, way longer too.
And he could carry lots of heavy things in his clever, rough-feeling many- pocket-bag--his ‘backpack’--and carry them forever and not get tired. Vemik wasn’t sure how that worked, because he was pretty sure he was actually a good bit stronger than Jooyun…sky-people were strange.
Jooyun made a satisfied noise. [“Ah, that’s probably the ‘shampoo.’”] Jooyun said. [“It’s a kind of soap. Soap, by the way, is really good for cleaning hides and tanning them. I can show you how to make it one of these days--ah!”]
He turned and jogged a few steps off the trail to study an exposed rock. [“Limestone. Perfect. Add this to your list of ‘things you should have lots of’ ’cuz this stuff is really useful."]
Vemik gave the pale stone a skeptical stare. [“Is it? It breaks and you can’t make bwades from it.”]
Julian laughed again. [“Vemik, this stuff can help you make blades like this one.”] He patted his axe. [“You just have to know the trick. But you need to be patient,”] he warned, [“The trick is ‘complicated’ and we need other things, too. Like ‘Hematite.’ And clay. And you’ll need to make a big pile of charcoal too, unless we find ‘Anthracite’ lying about…"]
[“What are--?”] Vemik began. Jooyun aimed an apologetic smile at him.
[“Believe me, you’ll understand much better when I show you. But the simple way of saying it is that if I take this stuff and some other rocks that you probably don’t think are useful and put them together in a really hot fire, then the rocks flow like water and glow like fire and you get this stuff."] He patted his axe again.
[“We have a story about rocks flowing like water!”] Vemik blurted, and bounced around Jooyun and halfway up a tree out of sheer excitement at getting to tell the sky-person something he didn’t already know.
Jooyun rocked back on those long, straight sky-person legs and folded his arms, grinning. [“Yeah? Tell me.”]
Vemik took hold of a branch with his tail and both feet and swung upside-down in front of Jooyun’s face. [“Yan said that in the time of his old grandfathers the mountain spat fire and rivers of fire ran down it!"]
Julian always laughed whenever Vemik hung upside down or something, but this time his laughter faded and he frowned. ["…This story. How long ago?"]
[“Yan said…the time of his grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather?”] Vemik hazarded. [“Maybe there was another grandfather in there, I am not sure.”]
["…How long do you expect to live, Vemik?"]
[“Uh…well, Yan says he’s been around for two hands of four hands of seasons?”]
Jooyun looked like he was sky-thinking. [“So he’s about…‘fifty’ then, so that’s at least one ‘eruption’ within the last…‘two hundred years’ or so…well. Fuck."]
Vemik already knew that word, and had figured out he wasn’t supposed to. It was comforting to know that sky-people had swearing too, and he liked ‘fuck.’ It had weight.
[“Is…that bad?”]
Jooyun sighed, exactly like any of the People would. [“Yeah, it’s a big problem. It means your whole ‘species’ is mostly living in and around an ‘active caldera’ and that is bad in a big, big way."]
There were Important words in there that Vemik didn’t know, but he had to start at the bad part first. ["…how bad?"]
Jooyun stared at him, then turned around and headed back in the direction of the forest camp. [“We should get back.”]
Oh.
That bad.
Date Point 12y6m2w AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
The Entity
The Entity knew what ‘frantic’ felt like, though the emotion didn’t quite map to anything it permitted itself to feel. Frantic overlapped with panic; panic robbed precision and thought and got in the way of +SURVIVE+ and thus the Entity had done whatever it could to expunge that particular emotion altogether.
Nevertheless, it was as close as it ever got to being frantic with worry right now. Somebody had come to this planet. Somebody with a spaceship, and thus who was capable of understanding and discovering the Entity. If they had implants, then any Hierarchy demons riding in their brains would know immediately that 665’s operation had stalled and never resumed. The Hierarchy would investigate, the Entity might be caught…
And physical objects were so slow! An Abrogator had a maximum overland travel speed under optimal conditions of about thirty miles an hour, but a dense temperate rainforest was decidedly suboptimal.
After too many days of travel it was finally getting close now, though. The Entity didn’t have hands or any physical part to its being at all but if it did then those hands would have been shaking and its palms sweating. There were too many unknowns here, too many variables. It had no idea who or what the landing ship belonged to, but it had come down near the destroyed Abrogator and the last known location of 665’s problematic tribe.
The scout drones were faster, but Hierarchy technology had never quite managed to produce miniaturized power sources that could meet their energy demands. They were battery-powered, and thus had a limited range. If it didn’t care about getting the drones back it could have already sent them, but needlessly wasting those drones on an over-reach scouting mission would interfere with future scouting, multiplying the unknowns.
Unknowns were lethal. Unknowns violated +SURVIVE+. Unknowns would be eradicated with extreme sanction.
It launched the scout drones.
Date Point 12y6m2w AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Allison Buehler
The annoying thing about bodyguarding Xiu was that it was so easy to believe she didn’t need it. Allison had seen her take down a guy much larger than her without much difficulty, knew of at least one nose that Xiu had broken and was acutely aware that they’d tracked her down as much on her reputation for single-handedly (and bare-handedly) taking out an entire Hunter broodship as anything else.
But all the kung fu in the world wasn’t going to work if Yan got it in his head to tear her apart, and all three of them knew it. Yan was no Hunter, he was a fellow deathworlder and leagues stronger. He’d mellowed out, but there was no suggestion that he’d got round to trusting them yet or even that he ever would. If he decided to kill Xiu, then he would. Not could; Would.
Xiu herself seemed much less concerned by this upset in the balance of power than Allison was on her behalf. She and Julian were both used to the idea that their diminutive Chinese girlfriend could leave them both winded and stunned on the mat at the same time, and for Yan to just swagger in and overturn that dynamic simply by being huge and strong felt vaguely insulting.
Not that it mattered: Allison had a Mossberg 590 and whether the target was a world-class martial artist or a stone age gorilla-critter from an alien deathworld, an average Joe with a shotgun was gonna fuck them over fifteen ways to Sunday. And Allison was no average Joe.
Fortunately, Yan seemed smart and knew the score. He mostly kept on the periphery but he always watched intently.
There hadn’t been so much as a sniffle among either the humans or the natives, fortunately, which had forced Allison to reluctantly concede that maybe the cross-species disease problem wasn’t quite as scary as she’d feared. They were still being vigilant, but they’d stepped down to green decon cycles with only three of the intense decontamination cartridges left spare.
Good thing, too. She knew Julian was sneaking food from Vemik when he thought she wasn’t looking, but she’d let it slide for the sake of peace. Somehow that hadn’t irked her as much as his increasingly “gone native” habits, but…well. The tan that had been robbed from him by months of living in a spaceship was reasserting itself, so she wasn’t gonna complain about how he was walking around shirtless a lot right now. Definitely not.
Besides, going native had gone over well with the natives. And Xiu had her elf thing going on, which had the tribe treating her almost with the same deference they showed the Singer. Both of them had got impressing the locals down pat. Allison meanwhile had settled for maintaining a more aloof attitude: she’d picked out her Oakleys on the grounds that the aliens probably had no idea how to handle bright orange mirrored wraparounds.
A black sleeveless top completed the whole Sarah Connor look and was damn welcome, because it was unbearably humid in the fog between the trees. Not hot, but any sweat she did produce stuck around forever because there was too much moisture in the air for it to go anywhere. She’d interrogated Xiu on the secret to staying cool and ethereal under such conditions and Xiu had just shrugged and said something about ‘thinking cool and dry thoughts.’
The natives seemed to have that problem licked--they mostly sweated through their hair crests as far as Allison could tell. Those fluffy, kitten-soft furs wrapped around a core of stiffer capillary hairs and drew the moisture and heat away from the skin in a second.
As she passed the Singer, who was taking an afternoon nap in a low branch, Allison took the opportunity to consider the young shaman’s crest in closer detail. It was noticeably redder than those of her female peers; almost as red as a mature male’s bright blaze hunter’s orange in fact, while most of the other women were more like a bright ginger or strawberry blonde. Julian had mused about hormones and sexual dimorphism long enough to make Allison yawn despite being genuinely interested.
It looked soft and strokable, too, but so far the natives were understandably a bit too standoffish with her for her to have felt it first-hand. The information on how soft those crests were came from Julian, who seemed to enjoy being wrangled by Vemik during their play-fights and had reported that the crest was as soft as dryer lint around those stiffer hairs.
She circled the clearing slowly and returned to where Xiu was meditating beneath a tree. Xiu had taken to doing that after her language sessions with Vemik to clear her head before she tackled the chore of recording as much Peoplespeak as she could for posterity before English could pollute it and destroy it via Vemik.
It was maybe part of the elf act, too. When Xiu got into character it took her a while to return to just being herself.
“You okay?” Allison checked with her, as she patrolled past. Xiu opened her eyes, smiled at her, and nodded.
“I like the way this forest smells,” she said.
Allison had to agree. “Natural. Alive.”
“Yup! And…quiet. It’s funny to think that if we look up we won’t see, like, an airliner contrail or something.” Xiu looked up through the canopy anyway, as if daring the universe to prove her wrong.
“Or a satellite,” Allison agreed. “Our surveysats are all way too small to see.”
“For now. When do they burn up?”
“About a week,” Allison informed her. “And we run out of food two days later. Unless you want to break open the bug crate.”
“Ew, no. Which is why Julian needs to hurry up and finish his--”
They both looked up as Julian crashed into the camp in the precise opposite of his usual stealthy style, with Vemik trying his arboreal best to keep up. Allison straightened, Yan stiffened, and Xiu stood up.
“Julian? What’s wrong, bǎobei?"
Julian sketched the absolute bare minimum level of respect to Yan that he could get away with and jogged across the clearing.
“That volcano’s active,” he reported, keeping his voice low and urgent. “Are the surveysats still up there?”
“Uh, yeah. Still got a week,” Allison reassured him.
“We need to find a place for them away from the caldera. Now.”
“Is…it really that bad?” Xiu asked. “I mean, people live near active volcanoes on Earth…”
“Yeah, but there’s nearly eight billion of us,” Julian waved a hand. “If ten thousand humans get killed in an eruption, that’s a good day to own a news channel. If ten thousand of these guys get killed then there goes the whole species.”
“Julian!” Xiu seemed a little taken aback, but Allison nodded.
“I mean, yeah. Hard-ass way to put it, but…”
“No, sorry…” Julian rubbed his face. “I’m just…If it was just the fucking Hierarchy then that’s a problem the fellas on Cimbrean can solve. Show up, blow shit up, take the death robots…these guys don’t have writing. A few thousand years from now, the sky-people in their flying hut who fought the demons are a quaint religion and I kinda doubt it’d matter much. But if Big Hotel wanna make these guys go away, all they have to do is make that thing pop its cork--” he jerked his thumb toward the volcano, “--and let mother nature do the rest. We have GOT to get them away from it, and that’s gonna matter."
“What do you mean, ‘matter?’” Allison asked.
“We can’t move them. We’re one tiny ship and just this one tribe is, what, over fifty people? They’ve gotta move themselves. And they’re not the only tribe, ’cuz Vemet and I’ve already met dozens out there while hunting, Vemet’s introduced me as the Sky-Hunter. They call you the Sky-Dancer, Xiu. Guess they saw you doing taiji or somethin’."
“…What do they call me?” Allison asked, intrigued.
“They don’t really know what to call you yet. But they’re starting to talk about us, and there’s probably discontent…we’ve already done damage, and now we’ve gotta do more or they’re all maybe going to be dead in a few years. But we can’t just conquer them and order them around, either."
Xiu nodded, seeing where he was going. “Somebody needs to persuade them to migrate, and it can’t be us. And the only language they’re going to listen to is if somebody knocks their heads together and makes them follow.”
“Somebody like Yan,” Allison glanced across at the chieftain.
Julian steeled himself and made a decision. In his best Peoplespeak, [“Yan! Can we talk?”]
Yan eyed him carefully, stood up with his water skin and lumbered over deliberately. It was hard to tell if he was intentionally swaggering or if that was just how he moved, but he curled up his tail, sat down and offered a neutral [“Yes?”]
[“Can I speak in] English?”
That seemed to pique Yan’s interest because he nodded, and to their surprise he replied in English too. Clearly the big chieftain had been listening more closely than he pretended. “Okay. Important?”
“…Yeah. Very."
“Vemik trust. He smart, I trust. Speak good words, he does.” Yan’s English was halting and slow, but excellent considering that he’d never used it in earshot of the three of them.
Julian tilted his head. “You keep your own counsel, don’t you?”
Yan didn’t reply.
[“Sorry. You do your own thinking, on your own. That’s good.”]
Yan snarled in that weirdly friendly way he reserved for Julian. “You tell story or not?”
Vemik settled in a branch above Yan--technically a subservient position in their society, because it placed him behind the Given Man and under his protection--and listened. The whole tribe was doing that, sensing that the sky-people had suddenly become deadly serious about something. Only the Singer settled at ground level alongside Yan, and the big man actually moved over to make room for her.
Julian turned to Xiu. “Fill in for me if we get stuck?” Xiu nodded and fetched her tablet, and they settled down to talk while Allison hung back.
Something was pricking at the back of her neck, and she wasn’t sure what. It wasn’t just the tension with Julian, Xiu and the Tribe, they were all engrossed as Julian launched into his halting best to try and explain exactly what a volcano was and why living near one was a really bad idea, supported now and again by Xiu’s ludicrously fluent grasp of the native language.
No, something else was wrong. Something that nobody else was paying attention to.
She prowled away from the impromptu powwow and tried to do what Julian had taught her how to do in Minnesota and really listen to the forest around her.
And she heard what was missing. The whole tribe jumped when she charged her shotgun.
Julian gave her a confused stare. “…Al?”
“Birdsong.” There wasn’t any. The animal background noise of the forest had gone completely hush.
Everyone went silent at that single word. Clearly the Tribe had learned English more widely and better than they had let on. After a tense several heartbeats of listening, the whole tribe began to make stealthy preparations. Up in the tree, Vemik readied his bow. Yan’s huge fingers clawed a fist-sized rock out of the soft earth for throwing, and Julian unfolded himself and stood, readying his gauss rifle.
In the silence, there was a faint sound, one that didn’t belong at all. A kind of…mechanical whine, like a turbine spinning up for just a few seconds.
Vemik almost fell out of his tree. [“I know that sound!”] He blurted, resorting to his native language. [“Death-bird!”]
The humans wasted a few seconds looking at each other bewildered before Xiu realized what he meant. “Hierarchy drone!”
Allison gritted her teeth. “Back to the ship. Now.”
Xiu took Julian’s reluctant hand to drag him ship-wards, then stopped in her tracks as a similar whine sounded from among the trees in that direction. Then another from the south.
[“They’re all around us!”] The tribe shot up the trees like fireworks, making shrill hooting alarm sounds. Yan remained on the ground, hefting his rock and baring his fangs.
Everything became angles in Allison’s head. Lines of fire, lines not to fire, places where allies were standing and how to move to safely shoot past them. With one arm she shepherded Xiu to whatever protection the dead bulk of the Abrogator could provide while Julian called for Vemet, leapt, and the native man hauled him easily up into the low branches of a Ketta tree.Julian was a decent climber, but Vemet was strong enough to practically throw him into the higher branches, where the pair of them settled and Julian scanned the gauss rifle back and forth, searching for targets among the trees.
They’d all taken tactical training together back in Omaha, with…mixed but largely positive results. Julian’s persistent problem was that at heart he was a varmint shooter: He took his time over every shot, made every round count, and wasn’t really mobile enough for tactical situations. By nature and practice he was much more of a sniper. Xiu meanwhile had started out handling guns like they might explode with every trigger pull and though she’d improved with practice and was mobile enough, her strong and obvious distaste for firearms shone through. They’d both scraped through the training, but…
But Allison had aced it.
Her hand was barely back on the shotgun when the first Hierarchy scout drone spun through the trees, flipping like a thrown playing card as it caught sight of her and took evasive action.
Not quick enough. It was smashed by hurtling twelve-gauge buckshot.
Yan howled and leapt like a salmon to clobber another drone as it swooped in past him on an attack run. The goliath blow knocked it twisting out of its path and it clattered harmlessly to the soil, still whining and trying to fly but disabled.
More of those whining sounds among the trees, three flashes of metal. Angles were wrong. Drop shoulder, bully sideways, turn, fire, spin into the cover of a tree to guard her flank. The two surviving drones wrenched through bewildering tight arcs to try and spoil her aim.
Feet under her, weight balanced, face ice-cold. Step. Advance. Fire. Missed. Julian finally took a shot and winged one, though, and the damaged drone glinted as it skipped behind a tree and vanished.
The undamaged one was circling like a wolf, using the Abrogator’s hull to cover itself. She couldn’t shoot it, it couldn’t shoot her. Harmless, just for a second or two.
Long enough for her to turn at the waist, step back and obliterate the sixth drone as it flashed out from between the trees. Then step, turn, step, kneel, breathe, wait--
And fire. Buckshot slapped the circling-wolf drone out of existence the instant it came into view.
Silence. A long, long tense one full of only the sound of the damaged drone retreating until even that had finally faded below the level of hearing, and the disabled one in the grass still trying to twitch back into the air.
Nobody dared move until the first chirp of some bird coming out of hiding dispelled the silence.
Allison let out a long breath, and the world became a place of people and things again, instead of angles and movement. She noticed in an aloof way as her hands reloaded the shotgun on their own, but tried not to really think about it--She was worried that if she noticed she had a body then it might start shaking and throwing up.
Julian, thank God, came bustling down the tree and rolled as he dropped the last few feet. He touched her on the shoulder and somehow said everything just by doing so, giving her the strength to shore up her composure and pretend to be unaffected as Vemet jumped down and landed behind him, and the two men both went on an immediate patrol of the area.
Yan…he had picked up the disabled drone in his mitts and walked over with it like it wasn’t any big deal. He grunted, and crushed it into a squashed sort of disc with visible effort, then slammed it on the ground with so much force it embedded itself in the dirt.
Then he looked up at Allison, and nodded respectfully before he turned to check on his tribe.
The Singer dropped down from the tree she had fled into during the attack and gave Allison a long and thoughtful stare, then looked back at Vemik. She thoughtfully scraped one of her stubby claw-nails across her teeth to excavate the ketta sap from under it before nodding as she seemed to reach a decision.
“I think we call you…” She said something in Peoplespeak. The word-bit for ‘sky’ was in there, but Allison didn’t know the other bit, which gave her something to focus on while she gave Xiu a hand up in crawling out from under the Abrogator.
“What did she call me?”
“She called you ‘Sky-Storm.’" Xiu’s elf act was gone, replaced by naked awe. “And…I mean…that was just…Holy shit, Al!"
“I feel like I’m gonna puke…” Allison confessed for her ears only. Around them, the tribe was slowly coming back down the trees in ones and twos.
Xiu took her hand. It helped.
When the patrol came back, Yan grunted some commands to the men, then he looked at Julian pointedly, returned to where they were sitting, and resumed his position calmly like he hadn’t just leaped clear over Allison’s head and hammered a goddamned drone out of the sky with a rock. Allison wondered if he was feeling as shaky as she was and covering it better.
He inspected his hands and feet quickly, then said politely, “You tell story more.”
Date Point 12y6m2w AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
The Entity
<Relief>
Humans. Humans who, quite clearly, had known what the Hierarchy was and had immediately opened fire. The Entity could not possibly have wished for a more positive find from its scouting expeditions.
It could have wished for a more positive outcome of course--the loss of five scout drones stung--but this particular unknown had resolved itself well.
The surviving drone was damaged but stable as it swept wide in the direction the two humans without the shotgun had tried to run. It didn’t take long to stumble across their ship, an unsubtle hammerhead of a thing in gleaming red and silver livery and adorned with the logo of the Byron Group. Unarmed, tiny…clearly a scout ship of some kind.
It allowed itself a rare spike of amusement when it saw the ship’s name painted above the airlock. ‘Misfit.’
As with all human systems, the ship was hardened and all but impenetrable to outside access. The rigorous parity-checking, firewalls and checksums made them all but impossible to infiltrate.
But they could be made to carry a message…
Date Point 12y6m2w AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Allison Buehler
It took several minutes before Julian finally sat down across from Yan again to continue explaining… well, everything. The villagers had scattered, and they took the time to ensure everybody was safe before the storytelling resumed, this time with a nervous eye towards the sky.
“…okay. So.” Julian cleared his throat. “The volcano. We good on that?”
“May go ‘ksssh!’” Yan spread his arms wide to imitate the concept. “Like [spitting-pond] in [high-forest-place] but big. Could kill all People. Bad. Must move…far away. All People move. All tribes. Yes?"
“Do you think the other tribes would move?” Julian asked.
Yan pondered that very carefully, and took a good, long swig of his water skin.
[“Jooyun Sky-Hunter, Shyow Sky-Dancer and Awisun Sky-Storm.] You, I believe. Others…not see you. Not know.” He said that last while aiming an especially respectful eye at Allison and her weapon.
Julian gave Yan a very intense stare. “Yan…how big of a leader are you?”
That was a ballsy thing to ask in front of his tribe like that. But Julian had a point; there wasn’t time to be diplomatic anymore. Yan seemed to understand and even respect Julian for it.
“Am oldest [Given-Man] now in all [The People.] Crest dark.” He gestured to the tip of his tail--the tuft there was as turning as dark as wine or spilled blood compared to the brilliant scarlet of the rest of his crest, a far cry from Vemik’s pale ginger and Vemet’s blaze orange. “Not many live so long. Am …[young-healthy-strong], live many [future-seasons] maybe. Am biggest, too.” He said that with his characteristically smug snarl.
Xiu had to translate that bit. Julian then asked, “Will they listen to you?”
Yan nodded after some thought, then added, “But would need…would break many [Given-Men] to make listen. And women. Children. Very sad.”
Well. That was as candid an assessment as they’d ever get. The men and women of the tribe nodded along too, grimly. They collectively seemed to sense they had a mission now and it seemed to Allison they were already steeling themselves for it.
It wasn’t often anyone got to see how wars started. Allison looked at Julian uncertainly, knowing--or maybe hoping--in her head that they were doing the right thing here, but there was a sick feeling settling in her stomach now that had absolutely nothing to do with adrenaline and fear.
For her part, Xiu was unreadable. Her hair had come loose during the attack, and from where she was sitting Allison couldn’t see enough face past it to read her expression even if she was showing one.
“…We need to go,” Julian said, having to force the words out in a grim croak until he cleared his throat. “This attack, our supplies are running short…but we will be back as fast as we can, and we’ll bring friends.”
“How long?”
“It may be a full season.”
Yan thought about that, then looked at Vemet and the Singer. “Will move by then. You find us?”
“Yes. You must move, and you must hide or be ready to hide. Big Enemy may wake up. We can make something to help. And I need your help to make it, Yan. Making this needs strong men."
Allison snorted internally but kept her calm. Boys. Julian was shamelessly playing to Yan’s literal strengths and Yan permitted him the flattery. [“The People,] strong!" He thumped his chest impressively. [“Sky-Thinker] beat you, I hear…” He said it with a surprisingly gentle, playful expression.
Julian chuckled softly and gave Vemik a fond look. “Yeah. He’s got game.” There was a trill of laughter from among the men of the tribe--even if they didn’t understand his words, they knew his meaning perfectly. “But, this is [big-craft-magic] we want to give you.” Julian sobered back up. “I want to teach you to make something. Something that will make it easier to lead the People.”
Yan sat forward. “What?”
Julian drew his knife and stroked the edge. “We call it…steel.”
++END CHAPTER 35++
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23 Deathworlders
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Chapter 45
Chapter 36: “Consequences” | Humanity, Fuck Yeah!
Date Point 12y6m2w AV
BGEV-11 Misfit, Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Julian Etsicitty
Xiu was curled up on the couch and not talking with either of them. She hadn’t taken the decision to arm the tribe with steel and send them to war at all well.
It would have been better if she’d cried or something. Or… shouted maybe. Kicked his ass. Something. The worst thing she could have done to him was this silent misery. It wasn’t as if Julian was feeling great about the decision after all.
None of them were. Allison was giving her shotgun the cleaning of its lifetime. That weapon deserved the best care in the world and right now Allison was taking out her own fears and doubts on every last little blemish that might have made it anything less than pristine.
But Misfit wasn’t a big ship. It had always been cramped even with just the three of them, and now there was just no escaping each others’ emotions. So Julian did the only thing he could do: he sat down on the couch and hugged with a desperate prayer to whatever loving god might listen that he hadn’t irreparably fucked things up, and damn near started crying when Xiu made a soft sound and leaned into his chest.
That same god doubled down when Allison picked that moment to return, looking pale and thoughtful but sharp again. She watched them for a long instant, then sat down on Julian’s lap and put her arms around them both and the three of them just sat and held each other for an intimate eternity before any of them found the energy to say anything.
Xiu’s head shifted slightly, she sniffed and raked the back of her hand across her nose.
“…We’re going to do something terrible, aren’t we?”
There was a mutual three-way nod.
“…Yeah.” Julian’s voice was little more than a deep, choked grumble. “Think we are.”
“Is it the right thing, though?" Allison asked.
They pulled back and looked at each other.
“…We’re doing it for the right reasons,” Julian ventured. “Aren’t we? To save them?”
“Like I said. If it’s adapt or die, I’d rather help ’em adapt.” Allison scrubbed at her eyes. “Kinda harder in practice, though.”
“I can’t stop thinking about what Yan said. About… children.” Xiu choked on the word.
“He was…honest. Very honest.” Allison, a champion of forthright honesty herself, didn’t seem pleased about it.
“Too honest.” Julian finished the thought.
“Bullshit.” Allison shook her head. “No such thing. We needed to know what the consequences will be. I don’t wanna… I don’t want us lying to ourselves about just what we’re gonna do to those people. We’re about to turn Yan into Genghis fucking Khan and we need to fucking own it."
Julian considered the expression he’d seen on Yan’s face as they had struck their bargain. There hadn’t been a gleam of conquest or megalomania there: to the contrary, Yan had looked old as he considered what he was learning. “I think Yan knows it, too. I don’t think he likes the idea much.”
“He’ll still do it, though.” Xiu straightened up a bit more. “…Because he has to. Just like we do.”
“Do we really?” Allison asked. “That volcano might not blow for… hundreds of years. Thousands maybe. It might never blow again. Might be all it ever does is fizz. Couldn’t we be overreacting?”
“We can’t gamble a whole species on that,” Julian said.
Xiu nodded, weakly but with that determined look of hers in her eye. “And they’ll need steel if they’re to have a chance of getting the other tribes to join them," she added. “And what if the Hierarchy comes back before we do? They’d need…” She trailed off, and left the thought unfinished. It wasn’t like basic steel knives would do a thing against an Abrogator anyway.
“No. But you can go to ground and that matters. Hell. You can’t even dig without metal!" Julian finished. “Not really.”
“When did you learn how to make steel, anyway?” Allison asked. “I mean, I’m not surprised, just curious.”
He shrugged. “Boy scouts.”
“Okay…so why steel? Why not bronze?”
“Because I lied to Yan, kinda. Iron is easy once you know how. I mean… way more complex than anything they’ve ever done before, but easy in the big picture. I’m not exactly an archaeologist, but…"
“We know, but go on…” Xiu prompted.
“I figure the only reason we did bronze first is because it’s more obvious when you find it. They’re something special. Like, iron’s everywhere," Julian explained, digging deep into the geological education he’d picked up a lifetime ago working as a park ranger, “But it ain’t obvious. Tin and Copper, the ores stand out. They’re shiny and look like metal. Iron ores don’t stand out precisely because they’re everywhere. They just look like… well, rocks. Hell, they basically are rocks."
“Makes sense,” Allison nodded.
“Right. Besides, you put copper or tin in a good campfire, they melt. But you don’t smelt iron ores without getting stupidly hot."
“And having everything just right, too,” Allison nodded. “They taught me a bit about smithing back at Omaha, remember? Just enough to help fix the ship.”
“…Right, yeah. So, you can help!”
“Oh hell no,” Allison shook her head vehemently. “Not without a power hammer, no way. I’m not strong enough.”
“Yeah, that’s the other side of it. Lot of hard work goes into smithing steel. We’re lucky we have Yan because we have to make wrought iron first and…fuck, that takes a hell of a lot of muscle power. Just making the tongs is gonna take it out of me and Yan’ll have to pound all the rest of it out himself. And then after all that you only have the start of steel. The rest is hard work and finesse. Good thing Vemik’s smart."
“When you put it like that, it’s no wonder humans developed bronze first,” Xiu said, quietly.
“Yup. And anyway, if they’re gonna move…they need a metal that they can get wherever they go. And once you can make basic iron, good steel’s not that far away. It’s just…details, really. Attention to detail. And that’s good for ’em, too.”
“Took our ancestors a long time to figure out those details,” Allison nodded. “But they did it. This is just the easy way.”
“Right. This? This is…God, what’s the word? Like, a cognitive head start? I dunno. If they can make steel again after we leave, that means they can transmit history accurately. That’s important, and it’s a good incentive for a lot of things all at once."
“Okay, fine. Steel is good. But what happens if they use this steel to put so many tribes to the sword that they go extinct anyway?” Allison asked. “I like these guys, but they ain’t exactly civilized. Let’s not pretend they are.”
“Well,” said Julian, “I suppose that depends on how good of an orator the big fella is.”
“I don’t think any orator’s that good.”
“We can only hope.”
“And trust him,” Xiu said. “I think… Yan knows what’s at stake.”
“Yeah. These people really aren’t stupid, are they?" Allison agreed.
“No, but they’re… they’re all a bit like Vemik.” Xiu said. “Even Yan and the Singer. Vemik reminds me of my brother a little.”
“How so?”
“He’s so smart that he forgets how to be sensible." Xiu sat back from the three-way hug and started to re-tie her ponytail. “This isn’t like the Gaoians or any of the others, they don’t…they’ve never opened Pandora’s Box. This is the first time they’ve ever played with this kind of… well, magic."
Julian fidgeted with some of the dirt under his fingernails. “And we’re not there to help them with that. Well…Fuck.”
“There’s gotta be a limit on how much help we can give them,” Allison said. “End of the day, if we teach ’em the secret of fire and they burn themselves down…”
“That’s cold, Al.”
“Please, if we get back here and all we find is bodies I’m gonna be a fucking wreck!" Allison shook her head vigorously. “But they’re not children. I think about the worst thing we could do is treat ’em like children. They’re fucking deathworlders, just like us! They live tough lives, they have these rites of adulthood and… all that stuff. They clearly know all about responsibility. You saw Yan’s expression, he knows the stakes here… this one’s a test they have to do for themselves."
“So…what do we do, then?” Xiu asked. She finished tying her hair back again and drew her feet up to sit cross-legged on Julian’s lap, with his arms around her waist.
“We treat ’em like adults. And… we pray for them.”
Date Point 12y6m2w AV
Miami, Florida, USA, Earth
Professor Daniel Hurt
“Our next guest tonight is an evolutionary psychologist and historian, the author of ‘The Road To Reason,’ New York Times bestselling author Daniel Hurt, Daniel Hurt everybody!"
There was always going to be this kind of show on at this kind of time of night on this kind of a channel. The name, host and music changed, but the intersection of politics and media needed a talk show hosted by a stand-up comedian, in the same way as an axle needed a differential to turn the energy of one into the work of the other.
This one, with a kind of creative lack of imagination, was called ‘That Show With Steven Lawrence.’
But, whatever. The appearance money was good, so Dan adjusted his tie, made sure his jacket was sitting right and strolled out onto the stage with practiced nonchalance.
“Welcome have a seat! It’s been…what, almost a year?”
“Ten months,” Dan made sure his pants weren’t creased as he sat, and acknowledged a lone whoop in the audience with a wave.
“And you’ve been busy, too! Making friends, earning the love of your legion of adoring fans…” there was a ripple of laughter at the sarcasm.
“And I wrote a book,” Dan had rehearsed the way these conversations went.
“Oh yeah, and you wrote a book!” More whoops from the audience. Somebody out there was clearly a bigger than average fan. The host, Steve Lawrence turned to the audience and raised his hands like the showman he was. “Y’know, just a little bestseller…”
“And I only received thirty death threats this time," Dan rested his hands lightly on his knee. “So, things are improving there! Thank God for tenure, huh?”
“You seem to enjoy poking people in the eye, don’t you?”
“Because we need it, Steve. People don’t think about anything unless you kick them right in the head. Me too, all of us! So what if I upset people?"
“Well, at least it’s entertaining to watch, right?” Lawrence asked rhetorically, setting up another football for him to kick.
“It cuts through the crap, too!” Dan nodded. “The last decade has been just poisoned with tribalism and feels-before-reals politics, and the only way to break through that is with mockery! Nothing else works, and we know this because Science."
Lawrence laughed. “That should be the title of your next book! ‘Because Science!’
Dan smiled for both his benefit and the camera’s and pressed on with his point. “Which science? Any science! Psychology, history, biology, take your pick. Humans are incredibly good at feeling, but you just can’t base rational decisions on your feelings alone, that just doesn’t work."
“You said in your book that for daily purposes, intuitive thinking does the job just fine…” Lawrence pointed out.
“Yes! See, the way we make decisions is really weird," Dan sat forward eagerly, all pretense of composure forgotten. He was the first to acknowledge that when he got into his stride there was no stopping him, and the way people thought about everything was easily the most fascinating subject in his life.
“It happens before you know it, and usually when you’re not even thinking about whatever, right? And that’s okay! It helps you get through everyday nonsense, just all the things in your life that you don’t really need to pay attention to you can deal with like pop, pop, pop!" He waved his hands around his head for emphasis. “It lets you save your focus for the things that need it, and it means you, uh…absorb all the smarts from the people you know. But what it doesn’t let you do is analyze something rationally. That is work. That is hard work, and people don’t like to do it!"
“So what are we mere mortals to do?”
“Laugh! Laugh at ourselves, laugh at each other, especially laugh at the people who don’t want to be laughed at, and double-especially at the people we’re told we can’t laugh at!" Dan reined himself in a bit and sat back again.
“Know thyself,” he continued, in a slightly quieter tone of voice. “That’s all. It’s way easier to live with each other if we think about why we think and emote and tribe up like we do. It makes it easier to make friends with the other guy, right? And that, right there, is the only thing that’ll keep us off each others’ throats and prevent another, uh…Presidential experiment."
As expected, the usual round of exuberant cheers and full-throated jeering came immediately.
“Never were a fan of that guy, huh?”
“Hell no! But, well. Even I can’t really step completely out of my own tribe. None of us can. I try not to be too judgemental because I think it’s for history to really judge the outcome of those years. We’re all too close to it to know. I admit, I’m a fan of Sartori…”
“Even though he’s a Republican?” Steve Lawrence’s question sounded guileless, but of course he was just following the cards.
“See, that’s tribal thinking. And the one and only way to stop that is to forge a common identity. Honestly, try it out. Find that neighbor you really hate because, I dunno, his dog craps on your lawn or he’s a Patriots fan or whatever, and find out what you have in common. And here’s the magic bit--you do have something in common. You always have something in common! So be deliberately friendly and polite no matter how much you hate his guts because a couple of weeks of hanging out later? You will be friends."
He paused and reflected. “Well, if you’re a man. Women find it more difficult.”
Lawrence shifted in his seat as a few people in the audience made disapproving noises. “Isn’t that sexist?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Dan had to raise his voice slightly as the disapproving noises escalated. “Steve, men and women have different bodies. There’s nothing sexist about acknowledging that, right? Well there’s nothing sexist about acknowledging that we have different brains. There have been studies performed on one-day-old infants who haven’t had time to internalize any kind of gender-based nurture-over-nature thing which show a clear difference between male and female in how they respond to different stimuli. We’ve known since the Classical civilizations, and even before then, that men and women really don’t think or behave the same way… And sure, that’s not a nice truth, but it’s still true."
He sat back. “If I designed the world? Men would share the best elements of female psychology, and vice versa. But I didn’t: Evolution did."
Lawrence nodded. “And evolution doesn’t care.”
“Nope. Neither does Biology. Or Chemistry, or Physics, because that’s all everything is in the end. We have to deal with reality as it is if we want to shape it towards how we might want it to be, and I want to live in a society without prejudice. That means knowing what real prejudice actually looks like.'"
“Well, we’re getting plenty of Tweets already!” Lawrence segued, hitting the last of the planned interview. This was where things got difficult as while they could script for the type of messages they expected to get, the public had a knack for throwing some surprising curveballs.
“Tell ’em to delete their account.” Dan suggested. There was a dutiful chuckle from the audience, and he sat up straight. “Alright, let’s hear it…”
“So, this one comes from Zoe Foster, who I guess saw you on ESNN after the protests at NEC… She says ‘Hate speech is hate speech, Nazis don’t get a seat at the table. If you advocate for genocide you don’t get a say.’
Dan shrugged the statement off. That one was just an appetizer. “Well, she’s wrong. The most effective antidote to bigotry is to permit it,” he answered breezily. “The facts have weight, Steve. You only have to worry about what the other guy is saying if you’re wrong…"
They navigated five more minutes of topical questions, a couple of in-jokes and three outright attacks on Dan’s character and from there Dan parked himself at the panel table and waited while the rest of the night’s guests came in.
It was a productive conversation in the end. There were some civil differences of opinion, some impassioned interruptions and talking over one another because that was really the only way to get anything said at that table, and…as always, the whole show was over before Dan had even really noticed.
There was the usual ‘aftermath’ segment for the Internet, a few outtakes and reshoots, and Dan finally got to drop the act backstage when they settled down on the couch in the green room and hung out with a bottle of sparkling wine and some snacks.
“Tiring work,” Lawrence commented, patting him on the shoulder as he passed around the drinks. At fifty-two, Dan was the oldest one in the room and he was definitely feeling it. Hot lights and keeping up the public persona had a way of draining him.
“Yyyup.” Dan was generally a man of few and carefully considered words off- stage. He accepted the champagne flute with a smile and joined in the five-way toast to a successful show.
Diana Wimmer, the political editor at Horseshoe Media, made a special point of ringing her glass against his. Out at the panel table, the two of them had been at odds over his comment about women and friendship, but in private they were actually friendly acquaintances and regular correspondents. He respected and admired her enormously.
“You have a lot lined up for this week…” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Ten book signings in six days,” Dan nodded.
“You sound bored.”
“Weary. Never bored.”
Diana nodded agreement with that one, and sat back on the couch. “I doubt you’re considering a change in career anytime soon, though.”
That got a laugh. She was right--Dan loved his job.
“Not,” he said, “unless something even more epic comes along…”
Date Point 12y6m2w1d AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Yan Given-Man
The sky-people had strange ways.
Yan shouldn’t have been surprised. Anybody who flew between skies in a hut made of ‘steel’ had to be strange, without question. They seemed friendly, and they were cunning in ways that Yan didn’t understand, but…
But they liked water. That was just…
That was…
It was very strange. Water itched and made people cold, it could hide yshek or the sweating sickness.
The sky-hut had a name. That was strange too. They spoke about it as if it was a living thing, a person. A woman. They called it “her” and “she” and yet they made it clear it was no kind of a beast. It was simply a tool with much, much sky-thinking behind it.
To Yan, who had spent his life making and discarding tools as they were needed, the idea of loving a tool was…
But then Jooyun had showed him why they loved their tools. The sky-people’s tools weren’t knocked off a flint core when needed, they were made well and carefully and kept for when they were needed. Each one was like a Knife of Manhood to them and each one, according to Awisun, could be the difference between life and death.
“How?” Yan had asked, curiously. Vemik was rubbing off on him.
“There’s no ‘air’ above the sky," Xiu had explained.
“Air.” A new word.
Jooyun raised a hand and blew across his own fingers. His breath had the strong and sharp taste of ‘garlic’ that day. “That. The wind. That’s air. Imagine a place where there was no wind, where you could not breathe. That’s what it’s like above the sky."
Awisun hadn’t learned the People’s words so well. “We… one time, our ‘ship,’ our skies-hut, it broke. All of the air went out. We, uh…" she thought hard. “We maybe-died.”
Yan frowned at her, alarmed. “You maybe-died? You don’t know if you died?”
“No, we didn’t die,” Xiu corrected. “We nearly died. We were very badly hurt, but we lived."
“I see.” Yan reminded himself again that the sky-people were still just People. Shyow had terrible scars on her arm, and Jooyun had lost his foot in a fight. A fight with sky-weapons, no less! Having seen Awisun’s ‘shotgun’ in action, and the woman herself glide through a deadly battle like a dancer, it was easy to keep thinking of them as a kind of god. But gods would heal their scars, or regrow their lost foot. Gods wouldn’t have foul-tasting breath.
“So…these tools are like a spear. You need them to stay safe.”
Jooyun nodded. “Yes. And…well, they’re really hard to make. So we look after them.”
Yan glanced at the site where the women were working on the ‘furnace.’ “…How hard?”
“Well…tomorrow, I’ll show you. It’d be good if everyone ate well and got lots of sleep.”
“…Yes.” Yan glanced up the hill, to where the ‘ship’ now rested. They had moved it closer to the village, and the sight of something so big and obviously heavy drifting above the trees like mist…
Vemik had pestered the sky-people into letting him travel inside it, and had said the view out the frozen-warm-ice ‘window’ was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen in his life. Jooyun had invited Yan to ride along as well but he had politely declined the offer; he liked the sky-people in the careful way he liked any friendly strangers, especially strange strangers…but the tribe always came first. He needed to stay a bit aloof, at least when he wasn’t in control of the meeting. Too bad, really. It sounded like fun.
The Sky-People had been no less strange after it had come down again. They had put it down among the pools of warm water north of the village, and Jooyun had spent several minutes picking among them for some reason.
When he had turned to Shyow and Awisun and declared “This one!” the two sky- women had seemed as pleased as if he’d lain a yshek at their feet for a courtship-hunt. Yan had no idea what was so exciting about a pool of hot water of all things.
“We’re going to get some rest ourselves,” Jooyun had announced, and the sky- people had vanished uphill again. Something about the way they walked…
Yan was, in his own way, just as curious as Vemik about things, even if he was better at hiding it. Which was why he went on a patrol after sunset. He caught Vemik at the edge of the village about to head off toward the ‘ship’ and the pools.
Yan gave him a knowing look. “Sky-thinker, you should be asleep.”
Vemik startled guiltily and immediately objected as only a young man caught doing something he shouldn’t could. “So should you! Jooyun says we’ll need your strength!”
Yan grinned mischievously in return. “Sky-thinker. Sleep. Now."
Vemik sagged. “…Yes, Yan.” He slinked back into the village, grumbling unhappily.
Yan made sure that the young thinker was back in his hut before he nonchalantly slipped behind one of the small, young Ketta that grew up in the high-forest-place and circled around downwind of the pools, where the air tasted of especially bad farts.
Both moons were full that night, the air was still, and he heard sky-people voices easily enough. He stuck to the deep shadows under the trees and stepped only where he knew his feet and knuckles would make no sound. Hunting on a bright, still night wasn’t easy, but it could be done with practice.
Besides, he didn’t need to get within spear distance. He just wanted to see.
He followed the rhythmic sloshing sound and soft vocalisations as close as he dared, and…
Well. Awisun was certainly having fun, oh yes. So was Jooyun. They really were People, through and through. Strange, pale people but nothing more than that. And if that was their idea of a restful night’s sleep…
Smirking, he crept away and left them to enjoy themselves.
They seemed surprisingly fresh and alert in the morning, though Yan didn’t even have time to poke fun at Jooyun for it, because the steel-magic started at dawn.
Over the last hand of days, the whole village had been tasked to gather many different rocks and several different clays, and had gone rushing off on Vemet’s orders--backed by Yan’s leadership--to go find them. According to Jooyun they were lucky and everything they needed to make ‘Damascus steel’ was there, hiding in plain sight all around the village and the camp.
So, they gathered. They found a good workspace, one not too far from the stream but downriver from the village, and had stacked up the gathered rocks carefully.
Yan, meanwhile, had taken for himself the task of finding an ‘anvil’ like Jooyun had described. He walked far up the stream and eventually found a little fall where the gods had polished flat a black, glossy stone. It was almost too big for him to get his arms around and so heavy that he could hardly lift it, but it was exactly like Jooyun had said.
He spent the morning working it out of the muddy gravel, then the rest of the day wrestling it back to the village, cursing and aching all along the way. It was worth it, though--When he finally got it back, Jooyun had stood there with his mouth open in an astonished, lop-sided gape. [“Christ! The fuck you tryin’ to prove!?”]
Yan didn’t understand more than two of those words but he guessed that the comment was an approving one, so he grinned and did a maybe stupid thing by hoisting the ‘anvil’ above his head a few times with a cocky, pained grunt like it was a prize bull Werne. In a way it was.
They wedged it into place to make a flat surface to work on, and then Yan called it a day while everyone else bustled endlessly and did many things to prepare. He ate like he was famished and he drank two full skins of water. All his muscles hurt and the tribe left him to rest, slapping him on his shoulders in congratulations. He wasn’t complaining; three of the tribe’s prettiest women visited Yan’s hut that night and rubbed his aching body…
He didn’t get enough sleep and the next day was worse, because the first thing he discovered was that there had been a mistake. The women had finished building the ‘furnace,’ which was something like a tall, narrow, complicated pot with many holes and strange shapes that had to be done just so.
The shape was exactly like Jooyun had drawn on ‘paper’ with his ‘pencils,’ but when Jooyun had come down from the ship that morning he’d seemed surprised to find that it was as tall as him. Apparently, they’d made it too big.
He’d scratched his head at it for a while before shrugging. [“Well… okay,”] he declared. [“I guess we’re doing a really big melt, then.”]
Somehow that sounded like a good thing to Yan. But it made a lot more work.
The ‘furnace’ wasn’t the only thing they had to make. The men had to make ‘bellows’ which needed big Werne hides that were smoked, tanned, and then ‘soaped’ to keep them supple. They had to make that too, along with other things that Vemik could no doubt recite but which passed in a blur for Yan; lots of charcoal, ‘flux’ from ‘limestone,’ ‘gloves’ made of leather, ‘aprons’ made to protect skin from the promised fire. Split sheets of quartz to look through and protect the eyes from the heat of the fire. Whatever they were preparing for, it was clearly a mighty craft and one that needed giving- and taking-magic at the limit of what the tribe could do. And all of it was rushed; the Sky-People had to leave.
There was so much to do. Jooyun wasn’t lying, they really did need Yan’s strength and the demands on it were endless. It was back-tiring work and he wasn’t alone; the other men had to practice on the ‘bellows’ to Jooyun’s satisfaction if they weren’t tasked by Vemet or the Singer. They built a fire inside the furnace to bake it hard and dry. Then they scrubbed it free of any ash. Then they baked the gathered rocks, then let them cool, then smashed them small, and finally they stacked it all into the ‘furnace’ in exactly the right order.
“Remember all of this exactly," Jooyun had said. “And practice all of it while we’re gone or you may lose the magic.”
That evening the Singer sat down with Jooyun and, over the course of a long conversation, made a very intricate biting on a thin piece of tree bark so the tribe would never forget what to do. He seemed to know he might be giving offense by guiding her in her craft, but like so much that had happened there were bigger problems at hand. For Sky-People, biting-sign wasn’t a giving- magic or a taking-magic, it was just another tool.
Of course, that attitude inspired Vemik as well. He tried his hand at a biting and some of the women immediately objected, but both the Singer and the Sky- Hunter intervened.
[“The men must remember too,”] Sky-Hunter intoned. [“Everything must be done carefully to get ‘steel.’ ‘Iron’ is easy but it’s not good for knives."]
That more or less settled the issue and everyone grumbled and got over it. The next day the Singer sang and danced for good fortune, and everyone took an easy morning, and then…
And then they made fire. A fire such as Yan had never imagined. They made it slowly, so slowly that it took two whole days just to get it hot enough. It was a fire so hot that anything coming even close could burst into flame. So hot Yan couldn’t even look at it except through the sheet of quartz. And they had to pump those ‘bellows’ all day and all night without stop until finally, finally after a long and exhausting night, Jooyun poked the clay plug at the bottom with a very long stick…
And out came fire, flowing like water and spitting like wet Therka-wood thrown into a campfire. Something like that. It was so much more than anything Yan had ever known.
For once, Yan indulged in a little Sky-Thinking, wondering how in the names of all the gods the Sky-People had first learned how to do this. This was a craft of wonders.
[“This is one of the hardest metals to make,”] Jooyun had said, [“And one of the best. If you can make this you can make almost any other.”]
Yan had asked about why they didn’t start with an easier thing, but Jooyun had said something about ‘ores’ and ‘smelting’ and honestly, that seemed like something for Vemik to understand.
Yan had other things to worry about. By the next morning the water-fire had cooled to the point where it could be picked up, like water freezing into ice. Yan hefted the big new blackish rock from its pit--it was so heavy!--and set it down on their rock-slab ‘table.’ Jooyun beat on it with a heavy rock to break off the ‘slag’ and there it was. Metal. ‘Iron’ as Jooyun had said. Everyone stared at its dark, shiny surface for a long while, reverently. They had made this.
Jooyun spoke and broke the spell. [“Well, that’s ‘iron.’ Next, we make our tools.”]
A second ‘furnace’ which didn’t get as hot as the other had been built right next to the slab-rock. It was open on the side and things could be taken out of it when needed. Used less charcoal, too. The metal was loaded onto the top of glowing-red charcoal and the bellows were worked again until the lump was glowing dull orange. Jooyun used long, fire-blackened sticks to quickly pull the lump onto the slab. The sticks burst into flame but they lasted just long enough to do the job.
He then picked up the big hammering-rock and slammed it down into the glowing hot ‘iron.’ To Yan’s great surprise, it dented almost like firm clay, but Jooyun didn’t stop at hitting it once: He kept beating on the metal without stop until it was thinner and longer while Yan and Vemik watched, fascinated. Yan had to admire the sky-man for his tenacity. Jooyun was weaker than any one of the People, even the women, but he just kept going like…like the monster in children’s stories. As if there was nothing that could stop him. As if he didn’t know how to stop.
He sweated all over, too. They already knew that about the sky-people, even the cool and calm Shyow had an all-over sheen on muggy days, but pretty soon Jooyun was covered in a beading shine that soaked his strange hair and ran down his limbs.
Any man of the People who got that sweaty would be on the edge of falling down, but Jooyun’s worst discomfort seemed to come from the raw leather ‘apron’ they had made, rather than any real tiredness. The ground around his feet drank up the little dark spots that rained from him, his breath settled into a steady rhythm, and his arm fell in step with it, rising and falling and every time it fell the impact of rock on ‘metal’ sent a sharp sound stabbing through Yan’s ears.
The Sky-Hunter stopped only once to politely request some water. Yemik gave him his skin and watched, awestruck, as Jooyun downed the entire thing in a single long but quick series of gulps and then picked up the rock again and kept on pounding as though he hadn’t paused.
By the time Jooyun was happy the lump had changed its character. It was somehow even hotter and glowed as bright as sunset, hotter and brighter than Yan could look at. Seeming pleased with himself, Jooyun paused and caught his breath. ["…Okay."] He panted, and swiped a handful of water off his forehead before flicking the drops away. [“Now we gotta make the most important tool. You’ll want to watch me carefully."]
He made tools. Lots of tools. They started off simple--a sharp spike, a round peg--but each new one he made was then used to make a new tool, which in turn made another tool. By sunset, Jooyun had made two hands of different tools, each with a special job and each with special names. ‘Punch,’ ‘drift,’ ‘pin’ and others.
The most important, he explained, were the ‘tongs’ and those were the first completely new thing Yan saw him make. They had a ‘hinge’ in the middle and made it easy to pick up things that were very hot and very heavy. They snapped together like a Tatrak’s claws, and Jooyun worked them a few times with a grin, obviously pleased with himself. [“Got it done in one day! We should be good to start tomorrow, if you want.”]
Yan couldn’t contain himself. “Start?!” The idea that every back-breaking moment of the last two days and all that relentless exertion had only just got them to the start was…
Jooyun rolled his shoulders, rubbing at his well-used muscles. He seemed amused in an exhausted way. “I told you, good tools are hard to make. Next we beat the ‘carbon’ out of that metal and make ‘wrought iron,’ and then we need to ‘refine’ it to ‘steel’ for the knives, and then--”
“He’s already made wonders, Yan,” Vemik pointed out in response to Yan’s incredulous look and reverentially took the ‘tongs’ from Jooyun. “I wonder if…”
Before anyone could stop him, Vemik bounced over to the pile of rocks they’d crushed to make steel, picked one up with the ‘tongs,’ squeezed, and grinned when the rock exploded in its jaws in a puff of white dust and sharp splinters.
Jooyun’s smile got wider. “Your first ‘machine,’ Vemik!"
Yan tasted the word. “Ma-chine. Means what?"
“Means… a thing for doing things you can’t. Or for making things you can do, easier. Anyway, simple machines are for later. Tomorrow, I think…yeah. Tomorrow we make knives."
Date Point 12y6m3w AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
The Singer
The Singer knew that it was best to sleep when the baby slept, but right now getting the baby to sleep in the first place was hard work. The constant sound and smoke of the ‘steel’-magic made her grumpy, so she would suckle only half-heartedly and make grumpy noises for a long while before she could be persuaded to suckle again, and only fell asleep reluctantly.
Once asleep though, she slept just fine through the loud noise and bustle of the men, which was an opportunity for the Singer to leave her with one of the older women who had more experience with babies, and get some much-needed sleep in the low branches of the largest Ketta near the high-forest-place village.
She slept only fitfully. The sound of Jooyun striking the ‘metal’ over and over again kept her on edge.
She dreamed of blue fire and a knife made of the sky, and woke to find that Awisun and Shyow had chosen to take a nap too, leaning against each other at the base of her tree. Everybody was tired right now, even the sky-people.
She considered the two women for a long time before deciding that her sharp, Vemik-like curiosity was too much to endure and dropped from the branch to land a few steps away from them.
Shyow, apparently, was a light sleeper. She woke up almost before the Singer’s feet touched the earth, and gave her a warm though exhausted smile. “Is everything alright?”
The Singer wrung her tail nervously in her hands without really noticing. She liked and respected the sky-people, but something about them made her afraid and nervous.
“I was dreaming about… Things.”
“I dream too,” Shyow nodded, then glanced fondly at Awisun who was still snoring faintly. “All the time. Always strange dreams, too. Never anything… safe.”
Her use of the People’s words was easy and confident, and the words didn’t even seem to fit strangely in her mouth the way some Engwish words tried to slip sideways between the Singer’s teeth
“That’s bad magic…”
“Mm. The sky-thinkers back home say it’s because I was hurt badly once. One of the Big Enemies used a powerful weapon on me, and it left a mark…” she trailed her fingers down the horrific scars on her arm. The Singer had to wonder what kind of medicine had kept her alive. A man with wounds like that would have seen the arm go black and stinking before the rot killed him.
“You don’t speak about your home much…” the Singer ventured. She finally noticed that she was playing with the end of her tail and tucked it aside as she sat down. “This… place-under-another-sky.”
They both jumped when Awisun spoke. Neither of them had noticed her wake.
Awisun’s attitude always intimidated the Singer a little. Cautious. Always watchful. Coiled like a man’s arm before he threw his spear, that was Awisun. It had taken work to see the softer, caring person underneath, the one who was only so tense because she was afraid for the People… but that didn’t change the fact that she had released a torrent of taking-magic on the death-birds. It was hard not to be scared of a woman like that.
“We call it ‘The Earth.’" she said.
“Thyurth?”
[“The. Earth.”] Shyow spoke carefully and clearly. “‘Earth’ means… well, the ground under our feet. The soil that plants grow in. This." Xiu reached down and scraped up a handful of dirt. “But our place-under-another-sky is called the Earth."
The Singer considered that at length, then nodded. “A good name. Powerful magic in it.”
“It’s… a strange place in some ways,” Shyow mused, gazing thoughtfully off toward where the men were doing inscrutable things with fire and stone. “I think we… beat it."
[“Julian wouldn’t agree,”] Awisun remarked, then snorted and said something strange in a singsong way. [“Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”]
Shyow gave her a look, the kind of fond impatient one that the Singer aimed at Vemik herself quite often. Awisun shrugged. [“He wouldn’t,”] she repeated.
Shyow glanced over at the forge. [“Well, yeah…but it’s not like here. If a woman dies while having a baby, it’s… And if a child dies, I mean, that’s super rare now on Earth."]
[“Not in most countries,”] Awisun said.
[“I know, but you remember what we felt in San Francisco don’t you? That whole… I don’t know… that whole soft feeling."]
[“You’re the one who said that wasn’t a nice thing to think.”]
[“Yeah, it’s not. But you were still right…"]
Their Engwish was getting too dense for the Singer to follow, and she said so. “You’ve left me behind…”
“Sorry, sorry…” Shyow apologized, and sighed. “The Earth is…A lot like here. But…this place is like a part of the forest where no village has stood. On Earth, almost all places have villages."
“Big villages," Awisun added. “Made of stone and steel, where so many people live that they don’t all know each other.”
“Why leave?” The Singer asked. “It sounds…why would you come here?”
“Because, ummm…” Shyow trailed off, but Awisun stepped into the gap.
[“Tell her about Mount Everest.”]
[“Right! Yes.”] Shyow nodded then looked thoughtful for a moment before speaking. “There’s a big mountain on Earth," she said. “So tall that you’re almost above the sky at the top. A few people die every year trying to climb it, even though others have done it before.”
“Then… why climb it?” the Singer asked, genuinely confused.
Awisun shrugged and used the People’s words for once. “Because it’s there.” Her faint smile looked almost like an apology.
“That’s…” The Singer couldn’t think of a word. There was probably one in Engwish, but if she’d tried to make the thought in People-Words she would have run out of breath first. It sounded wrong, like the kind of idea a man might have after taking a hard blow to the head.
“It’s a ‘challenge,’ you see." Awisun added.
“Challenge means what?”
“Something difficult that you do anyway because it’s difficult," Shyow explained.
“…Like the trial our men go through to become men…" the Singer saw. “Then… you are taking something like a trial of manhood all the time? Why? Life is difficult enough!”
[“Not on Earth it isn’t,”] Allison said. [“Not for a lot of us. Xiu’s right, we beat the Earth."]
“You can get so good at sky-thinking that life gets easy?”
Shyow nodded. “It gets too easy. And if things are too easy, you get weak and soft."
“You make sky-thinking sound like a trap.”
Shyow nodded again, but more solemnly this time. “It can be.”
The Singer found that she’d subconsciously started playing with the end of her own tail for comfort again, and let go of it. “…Can I ask you something?” she asked, deciding that she didn’t want to hear more about softness and ‘challenge’ for now. Those were big thoughts for later.
Both of them gestured for her to ask.
“You…you’ve shared taking-magic with the men, this steel of yours. Do you have any giving-magic for the women? It would help Yan persuade the women of the other tribes to join us…”
Awisun and Shyow both looked deeply uncomfortable at the idea.
“Giving you even that was, um,…difficult," Shyow said, slowly. “And very dangerous.”
“If you give us nothing but taking-magic, the balance will be gone!” the Singer wrung her tail again until it almost hurt. “The men will have power that the women can’t answer, that’s… you can’t…”
“Is it just a taking-magic?" Shyow asked. “I know the men are doing all the work now, but the women were doing a lot earlier…”
“It’s… I don’t know,” the Singer confessed. “But it feels like a taking- magic." She glanced back at the ‘forge’ again and watched Jooyun hammer relentlessly at the metal while both Yan and Vemik tended to the fire and kept out of his way. The magic felt very…male. There was nothing feminine about it.
That by itself was maybe fine. Maybe. But seeing Yan listening like an eager child at an elder hunter’s feet while Jooyun explained something about the work was…
She was glad that the sky-women had told her to be afraid. She knew now just how honest they were being.
“…Yes,” she decided. “It’s a taking-magic. A powerful one. And I trust my uncle and I love Vemik, but they’re just men, and too much taking-magic makes men forget themselves. I need something to help them stay balanced."
“I don’t think we can give you that…” Shyow said at last. “I think…I think that’s your ‘challenge,’ Singer. We can’t do it for you."
“…I guessed you would say that,” the Singer sighed. “But…”
She wanted to argue, or cry, something, but instead she sighed again and gave up. The Sky-People spoke with such strength about how terrible the danger was. Part of her wanted to not believe them at all, but it was clear that they knew every word was true.
She caught herself playing with her tail again and finally gave up and let herself do it for a while, if it made her feel better. “…I wish the Old Singer was still here,” she confessed. “I know she would have seen what to do.”
“You’re still young, aren’t you?” Shyow asked.
“I only took my trial of manhood and had my tattoos only a hand of seasons ago. I’ve had only one child. The Old Singer hadn’t finished teaching me, I…I don’t--”
To her surprise, Awisun--the Sky-Storm, a woman with more taking-magic than Yan,--scooted forward and gave her exactly the kind of comforting hug that the Old Singer had used to give in times like these.
[“It’s okay,”] she said. [“We don’t know what we’re doing either.”]
Her words shouldn’t have been comforting at all.
But they were.
Date Point 12y6m3w1d AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Yan Given-Man
The work, which had seemed so tiring and so unending before, now actually began.
Yan learned more words under Sky-Hunter’s tutelage. ‘Refining,’ ‘forging,’ ‘quenching,’ reheating, ‘tempering,’ folding the hot metal. ‘Laminating’ by beating a chunk with the hammering-rock until it was thin, then folding it over and starting again, all while holding the fire-hot metal steady with one hand using the ‘tongs.’ It took days of work that somehow taxed even Yan’s prodigious strength and certainly tested his endurance.
All of that only resulted in something knife-shaped. Jooyun called them ‘blanks.’
More words. ‘Grinding,’ ‘bluing’ to ‘retemper’ the metal, ‘honing’ on a ‘whetstone,’ carefully reheating and hammering to ‘furrow’ the knife and shape its ‘profile.’ Slowly, the blades grew shinier, keener, stronger.
The work took its toll on everybody. Vemik would grind away and Yan worked himself exhausted beating on the metal while Jooyun kept the furnace fed and supervised their work, but the rest of the Tribe was just as busy. Doing this one thing was a trial for all of them. Vemet was so busy keeping the rest of the men working together that he lost weight and worried himself sleepless.
Thank the gods for the Singer and the women. The Singer even went on a hunt, an unthinkable prospect in more familiar times but she alone of all the women had done it before. Only she had the taking-magic as well as the giving-magic.
She brought back a good kill, too, and seemed… happier, somehow. As though something that had been troubling her wasn’t quite so heavy for now.
It was all worth it, though. All of it. Yan learned the answers to questions that even Vemik had never thought to ask, and at the end of it all he was left holding something…
Beautiful. Truly, perfectly beautiful. So much so that he spent half a morning’s good light just admiring his handiwork. The blade shone like water and had ripples and waves that seemed to flow as one tilted it this way or that. The edge was so fine that when he held it in the best possible light and looked down the blade it was as if the metal blended into nothing.
They even somehow managed to make Jooyun’s own blade seem somehow… dull.
Jooyun was just as pleased. “You’ll want to take very good care of those, the way I told you,” he suggested. “In some ways they’re maybe better than mine.”
He was examining the blades with a different kind of look on his face. Not awe, or wonder, but something else. Something that began with pride. He looked up and waved at his women, gesturing for them to come and see.
Awisun made that funny shrill noise she sometimes made by pursing her lips when she saw them.
[“Damn! Shit, if the People ever need some dollars they could clean up selling these. Real collector’s pieces."]
Jooyun raised one of his eyebrows and wiped some soot off his face, but said nothing. Shyow’s face, however, went even paler than usual. [ “We are NOT teaching them the concept of money!”] she said. Yan didn’t understand the important words there, but her alarm was obvious.
“Mun-ee…” Vemik mused. [“What does that mean?”]
“Nuh-uh, friend of mine,” Jooyun shook his head firmly, though there was that faint amused smile around his mouth. The sky-people said many things with their faces. “That’s dangerous magic and you really don’t need it yet."
How could something be both amusing and dangerous at the same time? Yan wrestled with the question in his head for a heartbeat and then decided not to worry too much. The Sky-People were strange, there was no sense in trying to figure out everything about them.
[“Well, it’s about time you finished, anyway,”] Awisun said. [“Because we’re gonna have to break into the bugs and peanut butter if we stay any longer.”]
[“Besides, you stink,”] Shyow added. Yan knew that word--it meant something like ‘tastes bad’ but with their face-holes instead of their tongues.
“…That means you’re leaving,” Vemik realized. All the triumph and pride he had in what they had just done vanished: he gave the sky-people a pleading stare. “Aren’t you?”
Jooyun knelt down in front of him and put a hand on his shoulder. “We have to. Our people don’t know you’re here. We have to tell them, or else not even steel and uniting the tribes will be enough.”
“But… you will come back?" Vemik asked. He sounded more like a boy than a man to Yan’s ears, but then again Yan himself was fighting to keep his strength. Somehow, even though they were strange, the sky-people’s presence was… comforting. They seemed to know the shape of the days to come, and without them to help him see the way…
“We won’t lie to you, Vemik. We can’t promise that,” Shyow said. “But yes, we will if we can. We will probably have to fight with words and thoughts when we get home, and fight hard.”
Yan grunted. He’d expected that things wouldn’t be simple. He summoned the best of the Engwish he had learned and spoke carefully and slower. [“Then…] the Sky-People [fight good. We fight too."] He sensed Shyow’s nervousness and gave her his friendliest snarl. [“With words, if we can.”]
Jooyun stood up. “We will, Yan. I promise.”
Yan nodded, and returned to the People’s words. They fit his mouth better. “I know you worry. This is powerful magic you’ve given us, I can see it too. We’ll…try to use it well.”
He’d made many promises in his life, and had meant every single one of them. Promises were sacred, after all. They weren’t made lightly. This one, though, somehow went beyond a promise and beyond sacred. He wasn’t making a promise at all, really: He was making a prediction.
There was some awkward standing-around for a few seconds before Awisun finally cleared her throat.
[“Guys…I don’t wanna go either. But the sooner we do, the sooner we come back.”]
Jooyun and Shyow both seemed to come out of a trance of kinds. They nodded unhappily, looked around, and then back up the slope toward their ship.
“You’ll come to see us leave?” Shyow asked.
Yan nodded. “Yes.”
The whole village did. Mostly it was out of curiosity--the Sky-People were trusted and liked thanks to Yan’s acceptance of them but they were still strangers, still strange. People like that needed watching. Caution demanded it.
Besides, a chance to watch their steel hut fly again--!
Yan was even more in awe of it now that he had the smallest inkling of just how much work must have gone into making it. To make that much steel alone was beyond what his tribe could ever do, and he knew in his breath that the steel was probably just the smallest and easiest part of making a hut fly.
Except that this time, it didn’t fly at all. The sky-people said their goodbyes solemnly, vanished inside, and there was a long silence. The moment when the ‘ship’ whined deep like a wounded Yshek made everybody jump and step away nervously. The whining built up to a rumbling growl, and then with a thunder and a short-lived gale, rather than leaping into the sky the impossible thing flashed as black as the moonless sky and simply vanished as if it had never been.
If not for the depressions in the earth where its feet had sat, the whole tribe might have felt as though they were waking from a strange kind of dream. They stood there for a long moment, weighing the gravity of what they had been given.
Yan finally broke the silence by grunting and turning back towards the forge.
“Come on,” he said. “We still have work to do.”
Date Point 12y6m3w AV
Mrwrki Station, Erebor System, Deep Space
Kirk
“Okay. Coltainer version oh-point-nine-seven-five. And if we’re lu…”
“Don’t say it, you’ll jinx it!”
Kirk shot a sideways glance at the man who’d urgently interrupted the test run. It had always interested him how Human superstitions managed to influence everybody in their society, even their most devoted rationalists, futurists and engineers. Crossed fingers, little rituals, never saying the word “luck.”
Sergeant Lee nodded apologetically, though. As though the objection was a perfectly logical one. “Right. Sorry. Beginning test.”
Lewis’ original vision of the device had literally been a colony in a container, hence ‘coltainer.’ The modern incarnation exceeded that simplistic brief in every way. It was a scout, a probe, a scientific instrument, a mapping tool, and a kind of hyper-macroscopic interstellar vaccine.
Its ability to identify viable colonization sites from orbit and deploy a series of automated assembly devices that would literally ‘print’ a basic complex out of local materials was almost an afterthought. It was certainly…crude. Humans had never designed a system like that which could work all by itself with no intelligent operator’s control. The massive shortcomings in its design and capabilities were compensated for by the certain knowledge that any temperate world was so large as to guarantee that somewhere on the planet would have exactly the right conditions and resources.
Kirk would have preferred something more sophisticated, something that took full advantage of the best the Dominion species could produce, but the arguments against were just too good. This needed to be a Human project as much as it could, for everybody’s sake. Nobody else had the imagination to exhaustively think about all the horrible ways in which something like the coltainer could go wrong. Everybody else’s technology was too badly compromised by Hierarchy influence.
So, so what if humans needed their rituals? So what if they filled their work with elaborate attempts to imbue the finished product with good fortune? Kirk was used to it, even if it did make him think that they must constantly be expecting the worst possible outcome. That paranoia where they expected the worst every time and then prayed for the best actually resulted in an efficient, mostly error-free development process.
Which went some way toward explaining why Lewis’ ludicrously overambitious coltainer idea had actually borne a kind of fruit within a mere two years.
It was strange to reflect that in all that time, only three people on the station had never taken any “shore leave.” Kirk and Vedreg were both exiles, trapped in the safety of the Erebor system by the threat of Hierarchy assassins, and Lewis…
Lewis seemed to have no interest in seeing Earth ever again. It was a sticking point in his relationship with Sergeant Campbell. Under her tutelage he’d developed something that resembled an actual deathworlder physique but he still detested exercise and was perfectly adamant that nobody but Lucy Campbell could have got him into the gym.
For her part, she seemed to have a knack for playing him like an instrument. The best way to bring Lewis around on a subject was via his girlfriend.
Usually, though, Lewis was the one doing the bringing-around. He was easily the most intelligent being on the station and seemed to have the coltainer blueprint memorized right down to the individual diode.
But going back to Earth even for a visit was a sticking point with him, usually. He’d always been adamant that there was nothing for him on humanity’s homeworld.
That was, until the news filtered through that Misfit had returned from its exploration mission. His sudden new and unprecedented interest in visiting the Earth had not impressed Campbell, who had hitherto been forced to take her shore leave without him and was understandably unimpressed that three estranged friends could lure him where his girlfriend couldn’t.
The argument had kept people awake.
“I told you, first moment I hear Julian and the girls are back, that’s when I head over there, didn’t I?" he whispered. “I’m sure I told her before too. She said she was fine with it.”
“Lewis, is now really the time?”
“Yeah but, dude, Lucy’s all mad at me and--”
“Lewis, your literal life’s work is on the verge of completion. Can it not wait?”
Lewis shot a disinterested glance at the stream of data flowing back from the probe. “It’ll work. Angry girlfriend, more important.”
“And why come to me?” Kirk sighed. “I have repeatedly said that human romance is a subject I do not touch.”
“Dude. Makes you the most qualified man in this can.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“Dude. Means you don’t crap it up by trying to give me an opinion and shit. I can just unload on you. Bore the ass offa you maybe, but…” Lewis shot a cheeky grin upwards at him, and Kirk rolled his eyes.
“So you do not actually want an opinion?" He asked.
“…I mean, it’d be fuckin’ interesting to hear you finally share one, but mostly I just need somebody to listen while I get my head-filing done.” Lewis kicked his toe idly into the deck. “‘Sides, I know what you’re thinkin’.”
“Do you.”
“You’re thinkin’ she’s completely right and I’ve treated her like ass over this.”
“Am I.”
“Nobody’s fooled, dude.”
“Aren’t they.”
“Dude.”
That particular word could mean literally anything, Kirk had learned. He was a dude, Lucy was a dude, the whole team were dudes, as was the station. The coltainer was a dude as was any particular volumetric display or screen Lewis happened to be viewing. An unexpected gust from an air vent had once been “dude.” Then there was the way it could mean practically anything, beyond just referring to somebody or something. A whole conversation seemed to be possible just from nuances of stress and expression while saying nothing but that word.
This particular nuance meant “come on, quit yankin’ me around” so Kirk relented a bit.
“You want my opinion? The literal salvation of your species is in final testing stages, but you are worried about an argument with your romantic partner. I think your priorities are skewed,” he said.
“Dude. The fuck is the point of having a future if you aren’t gonna get laid?"
Kirk snorted and shook his mane, not taking his eyes off the volumetric readout of the test’s progress.
“I know that snort. That’s your ‘not-my-problem’ snort."
“Is it.”
“Dude.”
Kirk sighed and unwound. He swung his head around at the end of his long neck and spared Lewis some more attention. “Lewis, it is entirely probable that I will never ‘get laid’ in my life. It is less of a concern for my species than for yours, we don’t work the same way," he said. “I do not share my thoughts on these things because I am not qualified, not out of stubbornness."
“Bullshit. You’re a thinkin’ sapient and you’re good with knowin’ people and what they want. That’s, like… ninety percent of it.”
“Well, you have already said what you think, so what do you need my opinion for?"
“Dude.”
“That was your ‘I-don’t-have-a-good-reply’ dude."
Lewis chuckled. “Was it?”
Kirk crackled a laugh too, and finally turned his full attention to Lewis for a few seconds. “You said it yourself. She is right and you treated her like ass. You already know this. You just want to hear somebody say it.”
“…Yeah.”
Sergeant Lee called over his shoulder. “Hey, Beverote! If you’re done conspiring over there, we’ve got the results in from NAVTAP.”
“It worked, right?” Lewis called.
“Perfectly.”
“LOCS?”
“Definitely ready for testing on an actual temperate world.”
Lewis turned back to Kirk. “Think that’s your cue, dude.”
Kirk nodded, and called up his own contribution to the project - a map of every known deathworld in a kiloparsec radius of the Erebor system.
It wasn’t a complete map, not by a broad margin. On that kind of scale, the ultra-high-definition Kwmbwrw designed volumetric display was showing clusters of stars as points of light, rather than individual systems, and temperate worlds were few and far between. In a galaxy of hundreds of billions of stars, even the most optimistic estimate for temperate, life-bearing worlds with nitrogen-oxygen atmospheres and a liquid water cycle was in the low millions at most. The Dominion’s cartographers reckoned that a quarter of them at most had actually been charted.
Still. Hundreds of thousands of suitable worlds was by no standard a small number, and Kirk had spent months poring over known candidates in their vicinity for the day--which had finally arrived--when a Coltainer would need testing on a candidate planet.
“This one,” he said, selecting the icon that surrounded a cluster, and zooming down until he could select the star and then the planet. “It’s a class ten, far from any major spacelanes, not claimed by any species, not known to have a native population… it doesn’t even have a proper name, just coordinates.”
“Sounds good. You gonna name it, dude?”
“I thought ‘Gambit’ seemed appropriate…"
“I dunno. Naming it after an X-Men character?” Lewis shook his head.
“I would be hard pressed to identify an English noun, verb or adjective that has not been the name of at least one character somewhere in your fiction, Lewis,” Kirk grumbled, but he had anticipated this. “Kirktopia, then.”
“Dude.”
Kirk snorted a laugh and ventured a serious proposal. “New Enewetak.”
Lewis frowned at him, but Sergeant Lee nodded enthusiastically. “Good name," he declared.
“This is goin’ over my head here…” Lewis complained.
“Enewetak Atoll. Where they tested Ivy Mike?” Lee prompted. Lewis gave him a blank shake of the head. “The hydrogen bomb?”
“Oh! Shit, well, yeah. That works.”
“Then we have our name,” Kirk decided.
“Good. The next testing cycle’s in one month, if Nadeau gets the go-ahead from AEC. You gonna take Campbell and hit up Earth for a bit?” Lee asked. “’Cuz, friendly hint. The answer is yes.”
“Yeah. Absolutely,” Lewis agreed.
“And not just to catch up with your friends, man."
“Dude, I hear ya.”
“Cool.”
They sat and watched the probe run through its refinery test run. That process, Kirk knew, had been difficult to achieve. Smelting asteroids down and distilling out all of the elements they carried had required not only the ability for the probe to generate an intricate alchemical laboratory out of nothing but forcefields, but also use those forcefields to alternately heat and cool the ore as it passed through the process.
It was surprisingly efficient, thanks to the fact that forcefields could be made to both emit and absorb heat, so most of the energy that went into the process was recycled, but thermodynamics had some stern views on the subject of free lunches. Even with every energy-saving trick they’d been able to conceive of, the refinery process still demanded that the probe relocate to an inner-system orbit and gorge itself on solar radiation.
It was probably a beautiful process to watch in person, though. Looping flows of molten ore and cooling ingots of raw material would be describing tight orbits around the probe while the waste products were vented as a tiny incandescent nebula that cooled to invisibility within seconds. Unfortunately, all they had to see the process by was a stream of diagnostic reports and the station’s remote sensors, and those had to be careful not to be dazzled by the star.
It took surprisingly little time, and the process wasn’t even half complete before the probe’s nanofactory began to spit out the components necessary to build its own doppelganger.
Lee shifted in his seat, and Kirk tried to gauge if he was feeling proud or uncomfortable. Quite possibly both. “Well… Congratulations guys. We did it,“he said at last. “Looks like we’ve built a working Von Neumann probe.”
“You think we’ll be remembered well for it?” Lewis asked.
Lee rubbed his jaw as he watched the probe cozy up to its half-assembled progeny like a mother whale nursing her calf.
“…I fucking hope so,” he said.
Date Point 12y7m AV
Byron Group Headquarters, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Xiu Chang
“You had clear and specific instructions!"
Special Agent Darcy really didn’t strike Xiu as a woman prone to anger, and there was a… restrained quality to her anger even now. As if she was more disappointed than angry.
Not that they didn’t deserve it, maybe, but Xiu was feeling sick and weak for lack of sleep and she knew that the other two were just as bad. Returning Misfit to Omaha via Cimbrean, the customs inspection, clearing things with the military, and all the rest of it…
The only half-decent sleep she’d achieved had been before the final jump to Sol and the re-entry down over the Pacific and Continental USA, and that had been a mere four hours of dreaming that she was lying there awake. It hadn’t been restful at all.
Darcy had been waiting for them. Byron Group had apparently called her up the second they took the ship’s multiple hardened drives away for transport not only to the Group’s holdings on Cimbrean, but also back through the relay for the attention of Allied Extrasolar Command, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the Global Representative Assembly.
Misfit’s systems weren’t even cooled down yet, the ship was still safely discharging all its stored power back into the municipal power grid ahead of a full systems maintenance and replacement cycle, and Darcy was simmering at them from across a table, apparently on the cool verge of boiling over.
She didn’t look like she’d had much sleep either.
“At the first sign, I said! The first sign of Hierarchy activity, your job was to get the hell back in touch and tell Kevin about it and wait for instructions!"
Allison, of course, was fighting back. She would have been even if she hadn’t been irritable after three days of non-stop work. “They were literally under attack! We had drones all over us while we were there!" she shot. “We couldn’t just--”
“Miss Buehler, you had weeks." Darcy snarled. “Misfit’s jump drive could have had you back at Cimbrean in a moment, and back on that planet again in two hours, so do not dare to bullshit me."
She glared into Allison’s eyes with such fierce force that Xiu had a sudden ridiculous mental image of lightning bolts crackling between them, and she had to suppress the inappropriate urge to giggle. Allison backed down.
“We won’t. It was a judgement call.”
“A judgement call that you had no right to make and which went completely against the instructions you were given!"
“We are not military assets,” Julian informed her. Fatigue was deepening his voice to a glacial growl. “We agreed to cooperate with you, but we’re not under your employ, and you have no right to order us, instruct us, threaten us, or cajole us. We answer to Byron and his orders explicitly required us to explore."
Darcy rested her knuckles on the table and leaned forward. “I can make Byron’s life hell if I want to," she warned.
“Darcy.”
Kevin Jenkins was the only one in the room who looked well-rested but he had so far been leaning silently in the corner with his arms folded, listening. Now he kicked away from the wall and swayed upright.
“You’re pissed. I get it. I’m kinda pissed about it myself, and so’s the boss. But making Byron’s life hell ain’t gonna help,” he said. “He will pull out if you act a horse’s ass, and then you lose the only experienced exploration team the entire human race has put together so far. You have no right to threaten anybody here, and you know it."
Darcy spared a glare for him. “Et tu, Brute?”
“You’re damn fuckin’ straight,” Jenkins drawled. “You’re outta line. Now, we’ll talk this out but Etsicitty’s right; the Byron Group is cooperating with you, not obeying you. We don’t take our marchin’ orders from you, ‘cuz this ain’t a fuckin’ dictatorship."
“We were faced with the death of a people.” Xiu said, quietly. They all seemed to remember she was there and went still to listen. “Leaving would have made it worse. Staying would have made it worse. Anything at all we could have done at any point had a downside. Giving them steel could kill them all! But what should we have done?" She looked Darcy in the eye. “They’re on the edge. Any little tiny thing could kill them off, Hierarchy or not. The only moral choice, as we saw it, was to give them the tools to save themselves."
Darcy’s expression was so cold it could have condensed the air, but she didn’t venture a reply as she turned it on the three of them each in turn. None of them so much as flinched.
In the end she glanced at Jenkins again, then picked up her briefcase. “…Kevin, I’ll talk with you later,” she said, and let herself out.
When she had left, Kevin let out a big breath and shook his head sadly. “I believe y’all may have just cost that lady her job,” he said, slowly.
“I think she just cost herself her job, threatening Byron like that." Allison folded her arms. “Aren’t spooks meant to keep their cool?”
“She ain’t a spook, she’s an analyst, but…” Kevin shrugged. “Reading between the lines, she’s staked her reputation on risky propositions more’n once. Guess it’s finally come to bite her in the ass.”
“Risky propositions?” Julian asked. “You backed us too."
“Yeah, and about that.” Kevin grabbed a chair, turned it so that it was facing away from the table and straddled it backwards, resting his arms on its back. “God dammit guys, I know you know you’ve rolled a fuckin’ heavy dice here."
Julian nodded solemnly. “Yeah. We know. And it sucks.”’
“You really, really believe that you couldn’t have spared two hours to come back here and squeeze off a burst transmission? Couldn’t have asked for backup, for any kind of oversight?"
Allison had her legs crossed, and she knocked irritably on her boot in response to that. “At the time we were trying not to get our heads literally ripped off by a talking cartoon gorilla with a foot-tall, candy-red, head-to- tail Mohawk. And a spear. And inch-long fangs. Sound like fun?" she asked.
Kevin had clearly learned a few things about patience, because he let the jab’s tone slide and focused on the content instead.
“For a whole three months? Surely these gorilla-guys sleep sometime?”
Julian sighed. “Okay. Look. Let’s walk through it, okay? Meet Yan. He’s scary as fuck, and he’s distrustful, and he’s got a tribe to protect. We’ve got a clear and present threat we need to communicate to them. We can’t assume we’ll be able to leave and re-establish any kind of…fuck, anything. The entire thing was a goddamned freak accident from the word go. We had to calm the situation down before we could so much as walk away and that took hours. You think it wouldn’t have hurt that rapport if we’d just got back in the ship and gone?"
“Julian. I ain’t talkin’ about much here. I’m talkin’ about you couldn’t have fired off that jump drive, got in touch, and gone straight back in the middle of the night sometime?” Kevin pressed. “That still woulda gone against what you agreed to do, but it woulda covered your asses, y’know?"
“We only had one jump beacon left,” Allison pointed out. “Because we left the others at explored worlds as per our orders, Kevin. We wouldn’t have been able to come back without stranding ourselves. We knew coming back would mean refit and resupply, and downtime, and… well, this woulda happened. ’Cept now, you’d be angry at us for not doing what we did do, so how ’bout we cut the goddamn bullshit here?"
Kevin rubbed a hand down his face. “Guys…There is every fuckin’ chance that you’re gonna go down in history as the ultimate cultural destroyers here. The history books might remember you three as pure fuckin’ evil, okay? I am on your side here!"
“Or they could remember us the other way ’round. We’re fucked either way.”
“And do you really think Moses wants to play with a hot potato like that? Shit, it’s gonna take every trick in my book for me to stop him from firing your asses! Play it wrong and he might fire me too!"
“Y’know what?” Julian snarled, “What the fuck did he think was gonna happen when he commissioned a goddamned exploration team? This was always gonna happen, and if he’s too fuckin’ full of himself to see that then what the fuck are we even doing? News flash of the fuckin’ century: first contact always sucks. My grandpa’s people know that firsthand. Don’t you dare think for one goddamned second I ain’t been thinkin’ on that!"
Xiu touched him on the arm, and that little gesture kept Julian seated. The hostility crackling over the table stuttered and dissipated.
Kevin was the first to settle down again. “…I’m on your side,” he repeated, resting his elbows on the table with a defeated set to his shoulders. “Really guys, I am. But we ain’t talkin’ about facts and hard choices and difficult truths here, we’re talking about public opinion, and there ain’t nothin’ more fickle."
Julian gave him the most disgusted look Xiu had ever seen him wear. “Fuck public opinion. I don’t care what people think when the stakes are the survival of a sapient species."
“You really think we’re gonna save them without public opinion on our side?"
“If they’re so terrified of offending, or trampling, or what_ever_ the fuck you’re worried about…then it wouldn’t matter, ’cuz we wouldn’t have the will to act in the first place.”
Kevin shook his head. “Will to act is a resource. You can farm it. We’re gonna have to farm it. ’Cuz you guys are forgetting that hardly anybody outside this room even knows about the Hierarchy! How’re we gonna convince folks that these guys need our help if we can’t even say what they’re in danger from?"
“Are you--?” Allison’s tone was incredulous. “Stop. Listen. They are going to die if we do not intervene. Full. Stop. End of fucking discussion. Everything else is goddamned secondary!"
“And that don’t matter a bent nickel to folks like Byron!”
Julian slouched back in his seat with an expression like chained murder and folded his arms. “Then he better find his fuckin’ humanity or fire us,” he declared, slowly and evenly. There were frozen spikes of contempt hanging from every syllable, which somehow made it worse than if he’d snapped or shouted. “’Cuz I think we’ve said all we can say.”
“Or we can make it in his best interest." Kevin sat back too, though his body language was more open, more bargaining. “I don’t like it. I hate it. I hate that this is even a conversation we’re having. If we lived in a world with any fuckin’ ethics to it then we’d be pilin’ stuff onto the ship right now to go help these people, but that just ain’t how folks really work. People will go to war over their neighbor’s tree droppin’ leaves on their lawn, while kids starve to death in Africa, okay? That is what we’re fuckin’ up against here, that whole stupid parochial bullshit mindset except on the political billionaire business scale. And if we’re gonna get them to do the right thing then we have to show ’em it’s in their own best interests. That’s how the whole system works!"
“Well,” growled Julian, “Sounds like you have your hands full, huh? Meanwhile we’re gonna fuck off to Minnesota and enjoy life while we still can, since it’s perfectly fuckin’ clear we ain’t saving shit. Right?" He glanced at Allison, then at Xiu who found herself nodding out of reflex.
Kevin winced as though Julian had punched him in the gut. “…I’ll come see you,” he said. “Soon as I got a plan.”
Julian couldn’t even work up the wherewithal to agree politely. He and Allison both knocked their chairs over and left them on the floor when they stood up, and it fell to Xiu to be the diplomat.
“…Thank you, Kevin…” she offered, picking up the chairs. “I know you’ll do what you can.”
“Bein’ the conscience around here is kinda my job,” Kevin grumbled. “I’ll… just… look after those two for me?”
“Always,” Xiu promised. She gave him the strongest smile she could in the circumstances, then slipped through the closing door.
The other two hadn’t gone far. Allison was leaning against the wall with her arms folded and was staring gloomily at her boots, while Julian was jabbing fiercely at his phone. “Three tickets?” he asked, as Xiu joined them. “Or are you gonna go visit your folks first?”
Xiu made eye contact with Allison and saw the unspoken plea there. She shook her head. “Three tickets. I think… my parents can wait.”
Julian paused, looked up, and some of his glacial hatred melted away. Every angry line of him became just a little softer. “…Thanks.”
Xiu put a hand on his back as she stepped up to him. “I’m angry too,” she said, carefully.
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Allison remarked. “How are you so calm?"
“…We won’t get anything done by, um… by flailing around,” Xiu told her. “I learned that the hard way. You have to, um, direct it. Make it work for you. Otherwise you just tire yourself out and…” She trailed off, feeling entirely too upset and exhausted for coherent sentences right now.
Fortunately, both of them spoke fluent Xiu. Allison and Julian stared at her, then at each other, then both sighed the exact same frustrated sigh, and gathered her up in a three-way reassuring hug.
Moments like those reminded Xiu of why she loved them both so much. They were anchors of morality in an inherently amoral world, and they understood her probably even better than she understood herself. It put a pleasant kind of ache in her chest, which threatened to become tears if nothing happened to interrupt them.
Something did. Julian’s phone pinged, and he extracted himself to inspect it. “Welp. Tickets are confirmed. We gotta leave in two hours, so…”
“Better get our stuff from the ship,” Allison nodded, sensing as she somehow always did when she needed to be sensitive and letting her hand run down Xiu’s arms so their fingers intertwined. “And we’d better say sorry to Clara. We promised her that barbecue…”
“D’you think…” Xiu began. “What happens if--?”
“Right now, I just wanna get back to Minnesota, get home, and get really fuckin’ drunk," Allison grumbled. “We’ll worry about flying again and Byron and all the rest of it after the hangover.”
“Amen,” Julian grunted with feeling.
“But--”
“Bǎobei… It’s out of our hands now. For now. Maybe. I hope. I don’t know." Julian sagged. The anger was draining out of him fast, now that there was nobody around for him to aim it at. It was still there, coiled and quiet and terrifying, but at least he’d holstered it. “Let’s just… go home.”
“…Alright.”
Date Point 12y7m AV
Byron Group Headquarters, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Moses Byron
“Kevin. How are they?”
One of Byron’s little pleasures in life was when he got a chance to exceed Kevin’s expectations. The man was a sharp judge of character, but it was always nice to remind him that he wasn’t infallible. The question seemed to throw him.
“They’re… tired. Upset. Angry.”
“And your CIA puppetmaster?”
Kevin settled in the seat opposite Byron’s desk and adjusted his cuff. “Crossed a line: She threatened you personally. I shut her down.”
Byron scowled. “She did, huh?”
“Yeah. Said she could make your life hell if she wants. That ain’t gonna fly well with her superiors… ”
Byron gave him a careful stare. “You sound like you’ve got no trouble stabbing her in the back, Kevin…”
“Boss, I work for you. I work with them," Kevin retorted. “Darcy’s good people, but if she’s gonna muscle on a private citizen like that, I start having a problem with her.”
Byron sat back and folded his hands lightly on his stomach. “That’s the behavior of good people in your book, huh?”
“You don’t know what kind of pressure Darcy’s under. I only suspect how much pressure she’s under." Kevin shrugged. “Even the Company’s only human, boss. She’s good people, like I said. Good people screw it up sometimes.”
“I won’t stand for being threatened, Kevin. I pay my taxes.”
“I won’t stand for you being threatened either. I just try and remember the reasons why, keep some perspective. You know?”
“Mm.” Byron nodded, then stood up. “Mocktail?”
“Sure, why not?”
Mixing up his non-alcoholic cocktails was one of Byron’s pleasures. He had no objection to a drink in principle, but he’d seen too many colleagues and acquaintances medicate themselves into an early grave to try and stay on top of their job pressures over the years. It always started with nicotine and alcohol. For most, it had ended there, too. One way or another.
For a few, the slope to cocaine had been all too slippery. Moses had stayed out of it and become a teetotaller not out of any great moral objection, but out of the certainty that it could only end badly for him personally. So, he’d learned a few interesting ways to combine fruit juices, sodas and grenadine, and joined the church of the Shirley Temple.
It was a useful way to gather his thoughts and claim some powerful energy in the conversation. It made the other guy wait on him, and that was necessary for Kevin. It wasn’t clear at all to Byron whether Kevin even knew just how much natural force of personality he had, but he had a natural talent for the difficult trick of persuading people to shut up and listen when he started speaking, even if they didn’t agree with what he was saying.
Byron would have waded through the bones of thousands for a gift like that.
“Right,” he said, turning around and handing over Kevin’s drink. “We’re gonna back our kids. I want this thing spun to our best advantage, got it?”
He enjoyed the rare sensation of leaving Kevin dumbfounded for a second.
“…I honestly kinda expected you to be pissed over this,” Kevin admitted, after a second.
“I’m a smart man, Kevin.” Byron sat back and sipped his drink. “I can put two and two together. San Diego got bombed, you landed in my boardroom after that affair with the jump drive, I’ve got the CIA poking around my stuff constantly, and now our exploration team comes back with… this…"
He indicated the tablet he’d been reading about the People on. “I’m only here because my great-grandma was smart enough to get the hell out of Stuttgart back in nineteen-thirty-three. I know what it looks like when a class of people are being systematically murdered, Kevin, and you can probably guess how I feel about it. Somebody or something out there wants deathworlders dead, and as a deathworlder myself I take exception."
“Amen to that."
Byron grinned. “Besides, saving a species of stone-age hunter gatherers is a Moon Laser I can get behind. So, we’re backing our kids. We just need somebody who can engineer it.”
“…I ever tell you how much I love workin’ for you, Moses?”
“Your job is to be the opposite of a brown-noser, Kevin," Byron chuckled.
“My job is to tell you the truth. Sometimes, the truth is nice.”
Byron chuckled again, drained his mocktail in one go, and set the crystal tumbler smartly down on his desktop. “Alright. I know you have ideas for this already. Let’s hear ’em."
Kevin nodded, drained his own drink, and sat forward. “The trio’re gonna have to do the heavy lifting…” he began.
Date Point 12y7m AV
SOR HQ, HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Major Owen Powell
“At ease, lads.”
Two boots moved a neat, parade-ground perfect double handful of inches to the left. Like they were fresh from Basic, it was bloody unreal. Technical Sergeants Ares and Burgess might have been authorized for civilian wear, might have spent their days permanently be-stubbled and scruffy… But it was quite clear that not a man in the SOR took being called to Powell’s office lightly. They invariably showed up looking, and acting, completely razor-sharp.
It was a sign of respect, he knew, but it had long since gone beyond wearying and into borderline troubling. The Lads, especially these two, clearly had no idea how to unwind--or rather, how to unwind gently--and if there was an element of ‘physician, heal thyself’ in that thought, then… hell with it.
“Alright, fook at ease,” he grumbled and sat back. “Bloody relax already. I just thought I’d remind you both that you’ll be past sixty days of use-or-lose leave by the end of this year and I thought I might nudge you to fookin’ well use it.”
The pair looked at each other warily for a second, but relaxed. John spoke first, “Begging your pardon, sir, but my understanding was we could sell it back?”
Powell not only admired their dedication to the mission, he could relate perfectly. He was all too eager to skip out on his own leave allowance and stick by the Cherries himself… But Costello was coming along nicely, the training was going well, the official strategic evaluation was…not positive, but it made it clear that now was the time for people to get their R&R in.
He’d picked the Beef Brothers first because he needed them to switch off, at least for a little while. They were young, driven, painfully earnest and were unquestionably missing out on some of the indefinable yet important little experiences of life. Their single-minded focus on the Mission meant that much of their young adult years had been…skipped, as it were. Or at least, experienced in a hyper-focused environment with like-minded battle brothers.
That wouldn’t do. Powell needed them fit, happy, and as well-adjusted and well-rounded as possible, and that went doubly in light of some of the urgent noises the base psychologist, Lieutenant Mears, had been making.
“Bluntly, lads? It’d be a giant mistake if you did. Think of this as another kind of training and conditioning if you want to, I don’t care, but I want the both of you to get your arses off Cimbrean for a bit and rest. It’s not an order, but for God’s sake heed it anyway. Right?"
Again, that wary glance to each other. “That’ll leave just Butler, sir, and--” Ares began. He trailed off when Powell nodded.
“Look, Ares. I know that Butler’s green, and I know we’ve only got three Protectors in the first place, not counting Thurrsto. You will obviously need to plan this carefully, I get that. But I want a schedule by the end of the week. Understood?”
The two looked at each other again, and finally caved. They’d put up less of a fight than he’d feared in the end.
“Yes sir,” Adam told him. “We’re going to need to spin down on the Crude, and the calories, and the training, and--”
“Aye. How long?”
Ares looked at Burgess, who frowned as he calculated. “Maybe a month? We don’t know really. We’ve, uh, never done it all the way. Not to last for two straight months, anyway.”
Powell nodded and scratched his chin. “Hmm. Any risks to your training or development?”
“There… shouldn’t be, sir,” Burgess decided.
“We’ll watch it carefully, of course…” Ares added.
“Good enough. See to it, lads. And bloody cheer up! Have some fun! Don’t be old men before your time.”
The two nodded.
“I note that Technical Sergeant Kovač is in a similar situation,” Powell added. “Might want to remind her before I drag her in here as well, aye?”
For the first time in the conversation he saw Ares brighten up, and knew that he’d scored a win. The two set off to plan with something that finally resembled enthusiasm for the idea, and Powell returned to his own planning; he too had a week of leave to use up and the timing was just right…
He turned to his computer and composed a message to Rylee.
Date Point: 12y7m1d AV
North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Julian Etsicitty
“You know what I really, really want right now? Like, way more than this beer?
Xiu lowered her own beer bottle and glanced sideways across the fire at Allison, who was lying at the log staring up at unblemished blue sky between the swaying trees. “Hmm? What?”
True to their word, Byron Group had taken good care of the house that Julian had inherited from his grandfather. They’d hired the services of a specialist homesitter from downstate who’d visited once a week to keep the place clean, maintained and aired out, and the protracted court battle over the inheritance had resoundingly gone the corporation’s way and resulted in a landmark ruling in a higher court of appeal that was going to have several long-term positive repercussions for American Indian property rights.
Julian hadn’t noticed. The three of them had staggered into the house in the dead of night, local time, after five days of sporadic and unsatisfactory rest. They’d thrown themselves onto the big bed in the master bedroom in a big warm pile and slept for twelve hours.
Then there had been a modest breakfast with the house’s limited long-life supplies, airing out their own clothing, and just… re-familiarizing themselves with Earth.
It felt strange to be wearing cotton again.
Allison, as promised, had grabbed the truck after breakfast and headed into town, returning a couple hours later with enough beer to drown a herd of cattle.
Julian had mounted a one-man expedition up into the woods to check on all his wildlife management measures, which were still working fine, and had come back to find Xiu on Skype apologising profusely to her parents and promising that her visit to Vancouver was imminent. She’d apparently been on that call for hours, and only Allison’s return finally brought it to an end.
The non-alcoholic groceries were almost an afterthought, even if they were a pretty comprehensive inventory of everything they needed. Allison had thrown in some luxuries that had been in short supply on the ship such as candy and cheese, and she was now lying on the log staring up at the sky while Julian lit the fire, draining beer bottles like she was making up for lost time.
“I want… A fucking joint. I haven’t had one in years," she sighed. “I mean, it’s legal in forty-seven states now! Hell, give it a few more years and they might even start selling it in Wal-Mart! You know, next to the cigarettes you can smoke and the mind-altering drugs you can take," she waggled the bottle for emphasis. “But one positive urine test, and that’s it: We never get to take Misfit back out there." She indicated the sky with the bottle. “Stupid.”
“Byron Group’s behind the times there,” Julian agreed. “I dunno. I never tried it.”
“Me either,” Xiu admitted. Somehow, Julian wasn’t surprised.
“It’d sure as fuck help me relax right now…” Allison sighed again, and drained the remaining half of her beer in one long aesthetic moment that made the muscles of her throat move in waves before she reached out and gently dropped the empty bottle into the plastic tub they were using for throwaways, where it joined the five others she’d already finished.
Julian was only just starting in on his fifth. Xiu was still nursing her second, but then again she was a lightweight.
She said what they were all worried about, though. “Do you think… do you think we will get to take Misfit out there again?"
Allison sighed a third time, punctuating it with a complicated mix of shrug and head-shake as she twisted open another beer. “…God, I hope so.”
“If we don’t, I’m buying the weed myself,” Julian growled, with feeling. He lit a single match, placed it carefully in the right spot among the logs he’d assembled in the middle of their ring of breezeblocks, and sat back to let the fire come to life.
“Nah. You’re too straight-laced, dummy,” Allison told him. “Both of you,” she added to Xiu.
“Eh,” Julian shrugged in a complicated way, “I dunno. I just never was interested. And we’re not allowed more than one beer a night on Misfit, either, so they ain’t exactly being inconsistent.”
“Dude. We weren’t even carrying a beer a night…"
Julian grinned, and downed the last of his bottle. He was definitely beginning to feel its effects, and they were thoroughly welcome. “Need a bigger ship.”
“Don’t you dare say that. Misfit’s perfect!"
“Well,” Julian stumbled off towards the woods for a comfort break, “I suppose we’ll just hafta deal, then. Be right back.”
“Julian!” Xiu complained. “The house is right there! You know, with plumbing?"
He laughed, “I don’t wanna miss the pot!”
“Ugh. You went so native over there on…" Allison paused. “What the hell do we even call that planet, anyway?”
Julian had by then found a tree and decided he wasn’t gonna talk while relieving himself.
Xiu stepped into the gap. “Akyawentuo,” she said firmly. It meant [all-things- under-sky-place] in the People’s language.
Allison tilted her head. She’d never quite mastered Peoplespeak so much. “Shouldn’t that be, uh…like, way longer? That sounds like parts of a bunch of words.”
“Yesh,” Xiu frowned at the slightly slurred way her word came out, and started enunciating a little more carefully. “But it’s a fusional language, so you can just sort of…smash it together and leave bits off.”
“Babe. Language jargon.”
“‘Just sort of smash it together and leave bits off’ is not language jargon!" Xiu protested. “Besides. The People will know what it means when we tell them, and that’s the important part.”
“Yes it is!” Julian stumbled back with his fly only partly zipped up and the button undone, and flomped back down on the ground where he’d been sitting. He’d missed jeans. He checked on the fire, which was coming along perfectly, and cracked open beer number six. “I like it! Sounds good, and I bet Vemik’d like it too.”
Allison nodded slowly, and then to Julian’s profound surprise and Xiu’s too she sat up and angrily scrubbed a tear off her face. “God fucking dammit. We shouldn’t have left. We should have…"
“We had to,” Xiu interrupted delicately.
“I know we had to, but we shouldn’t’ve!"
Julian, acutely aware that he could have stayed there for a lifetime if need be, tactfully refrained from saying anything. Allison meanwhile drew her knees up and stared into the growing flames.
“…How many have I had?”
“That’s your sixth.”
“…Shit. I lost my tolerance.”
Xiu almost choked.
Julian grinned up at her from his slouched position. “Girl that’ll drink a big man under the table? Hot.”
“Several big men. Several times." Allison grinned at the memory. “I told you, those biker fucks in Massachusetts just saw a skinny blonde.”
Julian chuckled at the story. “My liver wasn’t made for booze. Oh well.” He pawed at Allison to encourage her to lie next to him and she acquiesced with a giggle, rolling off the log to land beside him with a thump and a splash of wild wasted beer.
“Gah!” Julian giggled too, which was a little out of character for him. “A party foul! You gotta pay for that!"
“Hey, I bought the beer…" Allison objected.
“Nope. Party foul.” Julian grinned, and had a mischievous moment of mutual understanding eye contact with Xiu, who gleefully chimed in.
“I’m referee!” she announced, beaming.
“Allison’s been a bad girl. What should we do to her?”
“Well, she got your jeans wet. You’re gonna have to take them off… It seems to me the fair thing is if she takes hers off too.”
“Ugh, fine!" Allison’s mock-disgruntled tone didn’t fool either of them for a second.
Julian grinned at her. “I like this referee. She’s fair, honest. Everything right with America!”
That one was one of Xiu’s easier buttons. “Canadian!”
“Eh, they’re cool too.”
“I’m gonna get mud on my butt!” Allison objected, half-heartedly.
"Shagua, I’ve seen you covered in oil all the way up to your neck," Xiu interjected.
“And you took pictures!”
Julian grinned at the memory. “Yeah, she did. Anyway--” He rolled on top of Allison and bit gently at the side of her neck, “I think this’ll be a good punishment…”
Allison squirmed and pressed her hands to his chest with a sudden urgency. “…Get off…”
“Nah.” He growled the word into the dimple at the base of her throat.
“No, Julian, I need to pee, get off!” She insisted.
He stared stupidly into her eyes for a second, then his brain finally caught up with his ears. “…Oh. Durn.” He chuckled ruefully and rolled off.
“Lucky me, I don’t have to worry about missing!" Allison rolled over backwards and sprang upright, before meandering in a straight-ish line toward the house.
“That’s a quitter’s attitude!” he yelled behind her as she walked off.
She turned, and walked backwards a few steps as she replied. “Didn’t we just go through this?”
“Yeah, but I’m a boy. I’m allowed.” He grinned into his beer trollishly.
“…Xiu, shut him up for me, babe?”
“Yes ma’am!”
There was a blur and Julian found himself flat on his back with Xiu sitting triumphantly on his chest. He did little to fight back and grinned up at her harder, folding his hands behind his head.
Xiu pouted a bit. “It’s no fun when you don’t fight back!”
“But I like it!”
“…Fine. You leave me no choice!”
Julian knew his most ticklish spots--his ribs, his armpits, behind his ears and the insides of his elbows. Unfortunately, so did Xiu. Worse, she had an evil streak and much faster hands than he did, and every desperate attempt he made to swat those hands away just resulted in her picking a new target. The only resort was to half-curl himself up in a ball and writhe until he could stand it no longer and instead grappled her end-over-end away from the fire, where he finally pinned her after three twisting turns.
And… oh. Yeah. Right.
He’d wrestled too many sweaty alien gorilla-men recently, and the moment it struck him that what he’d instead managed to trap was his girlfriend…
…His gorgeous, lithe, acrobatic Chinese girlfriend…
…Who chose that exact moment to innocently and unthinkingly bite her lower lip while that warm brown gaze danced excitedly across his face and the breath caught in her throat…
His mental gears clashed for a few seconds. Then he kissed her.
The beer fuzzed things a bit so he didn’t exactly recall what happened next, but in very short order both he and Xiu were shirtless, her hands were pinned, and he was working his mouth diligently on her throat, then his hands slid down her body and--
“I said shut him up!" Allison flopped down next to them. “You were supposed to wait until I came back to make him moan!”
“Mmm…” Xiu made a kind of creaking pleasure noise in the back of her throat. “Not sorry.”
“How un-Canadian of you!”
Xiu snorted, then looked her up and down “…Didn’t I order you to take your pants off?”
“Oh! Yes ma’am!”
Julian re-gathered his wits and went back on the attack. “No talk.”
“Caveman,” Allison grinned at him, peeling her jeans off those long, long legs of hers…
“Mm-hmm,” Julian agreed, undoing Xiu’s jeans as well. Allison snorted, and gave him a hand by wriggling down alongside and under Xiu, who shut her eyes and licked her lips. They hadn’t had room to just… explore like this on the ship, and while months of being cooped up together had resulted in plenty of intimacy… It hadn’t been the same. They’d been sleeping in shifts, trying not to wake the sleeping one, building their love lives around the constant job of keeping a ship running.
Julian had generally let the girls have their way with him. It was a role he usually liked to play anyway, he enjoyed it when they objectified him and it kept things harmless and light in the confined environs of the ship. Now, things were different: He was carrying a crackling charge of pent-up frustration and hostility aimed at the whole world, and sometimes a guy just needed to find a healthier outlet for that kind of intense energy.
Xiu didn’t complain. She really didn’t complain. She left stinging bloody fingernail marks in his shoulders and damn near fainted, but neither of those were a complaint.
It was short and intense for all three of them. Allison, who had managed to insert herself under Xiu and hold her from behind throughout looked almost as stunned as if she’d taken a more direct role.
She was the only one with enough energy to speak, though. “Jesus, Julian!" She swept his hair out of his face and planted a kiss among the perspiration on his forehead. “You’d better have saved some of that for me!”
Julian made an inarticulate noise that was supposed to be a general agreement, and rolled sideways to collapse on his back on the grass.
“…Gimme a minute,” he panted. “Christ.”
“Just one?”
“…Might be a few more than that.”
“I bet…” Allison grinned, then checked on Xiu in her arms. “You okay, bǎobei?"
Xiu managed a dazed, half-lidded smile, and wriggled comfortably into her chest as though Allison was a full-length warm pillow. “Wǒ hěn hǎo…Wǒ cao…”
“Damn, you fucked the English out of her!”
Xiu giggled at that, and seemed to recover some of her focus. “…Yuh-huh. Wow. Sorry. Um… yeah. More than okay. Wow.”
Julian laughed, and pushed himself up on his elbows because it was that or fall asleep. Right now, just resting and letting all his troubles be a long way away was almost more tempting than he could stand, and he resisted it.
“Going somewhere, babe?” Allison asked him.
“…No. Not right now,” Julian decided. He settled back, scooted up against the pair of them, and this time he didn’t resist. Sleep came easily, and instantly.
Date Point: 12y7m1d AV
Allied Extrasolar Command, Scotch Creek, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
General Martin Tremblay
“So it works.”
“Yup. As of this morning we officially have a functioning Von Neumann Colonization Probe. Everything works to spec.”
Tremblay was a fan of the relaxed and informal meeting, especially among his oldest colleagues. The Human Race owed a lot to Claude Nadeau.
Still. He’d been expecting more enthusiasm. “You don’t sound all that happy, considering you and your team pulled off a tall order in just two years…” he suggested.
Nadeau sighed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“It’s all human hardware… built in a Kwmbwrw nanofac, running a Domain galactic map, and using Corti planetary survey software to build a colony on uncharted deathworlds that it then protects with a Guvnurag forcefield,” he griped. “Hell, the engines are a modified Gaoian design based on the Racing Thunder and I really don’t wanna think about how much of the stuff we packed into it is reverse-engineered Hierarchy tech from the Egypt Device."
“You know, even Bartlett calls it the UFO.”
Nadeau shrugged. “I’d rather remember where it came from and who built it.”
Tremblay nodded. Nadeau’s foibles were mild compared to some of the other personnel who worked or had worked with SCERF. Being a stickler for official nomenclature was no big deal really.
“If you have any concerns, say so. I don’t want to greenlight the launch until you’re perfectly happy,” he said instead.
“More like the release than the launch, sir,” Nadeau sighed. “I’m just glad we built in a twelve-generation limiter on these things. Beverote was against it.”
“Mm, I read his recommendation. Something about inoculating the galaxy against potential intergalactic Von Neumann machines?”
“A case of the cure being potentially as bad as the disease,” Nadeau replied. “I mean… it’s potentially a valid concern, now that we know VNMs are even possible, but we need much longer than two years of development before I’d be happy to release a… a galactic vaccine program."
“Then the limiter stays,” Tremblay decided. “But for colonization as part of the war strategy?”
“We’ve done everything we can to make the most harmless VNM possible,” Nadeau reported. “I’m happy that the need outweighs the risk. Twelve generations is still more than four thousand probes but that’s at least a number we could conceivably handle if they started to go rogue.”
“And it’s a small enough number that the odds of one of the probes, uh… mutating?” Tremblay frowned. “That doesn’t feel like the right word, when you’re talking about machines…”
“Experiencing an RCE, sir. Random Copying Error.”
“RCE, Mutating, effectively the same thing. Point is that inside only twelve generations, it shouldn’t happen.”
“Not with all the checks we put in place, no.”
“Good.”
Tremblay picked up his coffee mug and took a thoughtful sip. “There was something else. Beverote’s friends, the Misfit crew. They had a Big Hotel encounter out in the field."
Nadeau blew air across his own coffee and listened warily. “They’re okay?”
“Green as you could ask for. But they caught a xenocide campaign in progress. Pre-contact species. Hell, pre-agricultural. Flint spearheads and tribal hunter-gathering, that kinda thing. And the poor bastards have got Abrogators marching across the continent burning them out."
“Shit.”
“Yeah. But here’s the bit that stays as dark as dark gets, okay? Their ship carried a message back. STOLEN GHOST is back in touch.”
“…I’m not sure I see how I have need-to-know on that, sir…” Nadeau said, slowly.
“The message was inserted into Misfit’s communication systems, carried back through screening and sent to a CIA analyst’s inbox all while going completely undetected. It slipped through every security measure we have in ways I’m told are impossible, which is…"
“Troubling.”
“Yeah. Anyway, impossible or not, I’ve got two specialists so far who’d bet their grandmother’s ashes that it happened anyway, and it involves a digital sapient accidentally created by the Hierarchy. Which is also impossible.” Tremblay sipped his coffee. “Impossible things seem to happen twice a week these days.”
Admiral Knight was obviously rubbing off on him. For his part, Nadeau gave the news some troubled thought, sipping his own drink.
“…the CIA must have flipped,” he decided eventually.
“Yeah, and I don’t blame them,” Tremblay agreed. “Byron Group have already agreed to pull the whole system out of the ship and send it to us. I want you to get that hardware the hell off Earth and back to Erebor, and I want to know exactly how it was done and how we can stop it from happening again. Bring in whoever you need."
“Isolate the hardware, analyze it, duplicate the effect, prevent repeats. Got it.” Nadeau nodded. “Can do.”
“Good. So. Now that the VNMs are ready, what are we going to do with those resources instead?”
Nadeau smiled, put down his coffee and sat forward. “I have a few ideas…” he said.
Date Point: 12y7m1w AV
Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
♪♫"-I got a Pro-Keds box full of layman’s terms, it goes hey: Peace. Pray for the plagued. Major relief and capacious rains, but just ’cuz I don’t want to war with you it don’t mean go warm up the barbecue. I’m like-"♪♫
Long drives--say, the nine hour journey from Omaha to Minnesota--were Kevin’s chance to get his mental filing sorted out. There was a lot more of it nowadays than there had once been. Straight roads, intricate music that he wasn’t really listening to, and a head full of government secrets and corporate power.
There was a rhythm to the drive, too, and he found that things started to come together after he left I-29 at Fargo.
It wasn’t just the Misfits and the People. Byron was spitting out moon laser ideas by the hour nowadays as new revelations from the survey flight’s data came through. Extraterrestrial oil drilling? Easy, and Lucent had all the right kinds of geology, in the right kinds of places. The biggest obstacle was the law. The few precedents anybody had were all rooted in Cimbrean, or in the original colonization of the American continents way back in the day.
Lucent, at least, didn’t have the confounding presence of natives to worry about. Unless the giant slime-spitting termites were sapient, which the biologists had so far refused to rule out.
Then there was his role in the Group’s more Earthly concerns. The Group’s solid foundation of high-tech manufacturing, providing advanced forcefield- based technology to industry sectors all over America and the rest of the world, involved the employment of tens of thousands of people. Unionized people. Kevin was all in favour of unions but he hadn’t appreciated that one day he’d be sitting opposite their representatives at a boardroom table, watching and weighing in while they haggled with the executives over the details of the company’s already-generous paid vacations and health insurance package.
Nine hours by himself with nothing but his thoughts was a genuine relief, even if he was technically on the clock. Hell. Nine hours of getting paid to just sit, think and drive. He’d sure as hell had worse jobs.
He was just north of Roy Lake when his phone went, automatically silencing the music. He glanced at the car’s dash screen, saw the caller ID, and pulled over while answering.
“…Darcy? This a personal call?”
There was a sigh from the other end of the line. “Yeah. I owe you an apology, and Byron too. Won’t salvage the train wreck I made of my career by threatening him, but…”
Kevin finished pulling over, put on the parking brake and pushed his seat back to stretch his legs out. “No, you owe them an apology. But, honest advice? Don’t. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man hate like Julian can, God damn!"
“Yeah, well. Irrelevant now, I guess. I still work for the Company, but if I work at it until I’m seventy I might just repair my credibility. I’m a desk analyst now."
“…I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. My fault.” Darcy chuckled, which was a sound Kevin wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her make before. “Honestly? It’s almost a relief.”
“Less responsibility?”
“Less…” There was a long and thoughtful pause punctuated only by Darcy’s long exhalation before she gave up. “I’m proud of what I already achieved. But you can’t keep doing what I was doing forever, it’s more than anybody can take. I was always gonna burn out and make a mistake in the end. As mistakes go… I coulda made a lot worse.”
“Seems like a shitty way to run a thing like that.”
“I’m not in a pretty business, Kevin. I’ve warned some good people away from this career for that exact reason. Some real talent.”
“You’re not gonna quit entirely?” Kevin asked.
“Nah, I’m an addict. This job will kill me eventually…”
Kevin nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. Some part of his soul believed that nods carried just fine through a phone call, even hands-free. “But leaving would kill you sooner.”
“That’s about the shape of it.”
“Well. Don’t be a stranger, hear?”
“I might have to be. So if I do have to sever contact, just… take care of yourself, okay? And look after those three misfits of yours, too.”
The request sounded surprisingly heartfelt.
“…You too.”
“Goodbye, Kevin. Thanks for all the coffee.”
The call ended and the music came back up. Kevin stared at his steering wheel thoughtfully until the song ended, then yanked the seat forward again and put the car back in drive. He didn’t bother turning the radio back up and drove in silence the last half hour.
Allison Buehler was up a ladder cleaning out the gutters when his car pulled into the yard in front of the trio’s house. She always seemed to find the dirtiest jobs to do, and this one had left her blackish-brown and mossy to the armpits.
“Kevin!” She picked her way down the ladder as he got out of the car. “You work fast, we weren’t…Have you been crying?"
“No,” Kevin grunted truthfully. He’d been close, but… “Ain’t nothin’. Just…” he cleared his throat. “The other two?”
Allison grabbed the hose and rinsed off her arms. “Julian’s checking on the beavers up in the back woods, Xiu’s probably on Skype with her family right now.”
“Place all okay?”
“Yeah. Caretaker kept it good for us…We thought we might redecorate while we’re here.”
“A lick of paint wouldn’t go wrong,” Kevin agreed. The house had good sturdy wood siding, but it had gone a long time since it last saw a paintbrush. Some of those irregular curled patches of color looked like they might come loose in a stiff breeze. Mister Williams had asked him to talk about a few security additions too, but right now didn’t really seem like the time.
“I’m guessing you’re here ’cause you’ve got a plan?”
“…I… Sorta. Maybe. I was right, Byron ain’t happy at all. He’s real worried about his public image, and he’s got it in his head that trying to develop or protect this planet of yours is gonna turn him into the modern East India Company or some shit.”
“So…does he expect the world is gonna, what? Get swept under the rug?”
“There is a half-decent man under there," Kevin promised. “You just gotta know how to push his buttons.
Allison didn’t have the patience. “Look, none of us are Byron-whisperers, that’s on you. All we care about is stopping a genocide.”
“Right. And that’s the angle,” Kevin smiled. “But not for Byron. That angle works better on people way more important than Byron is."
“Like who?”
Kevin grinned. “You ever heard of General Martin Tremblay?” he asked.
Date Point: 12y7m1w AV
High Mountain Fortress, The Northern Plains, Planet Gao
Champion Genshi
Something had stood at the site of High Mountain Fortress for so long that even the oldest of the Stoneback oral tradition didn’t hint at an actual first, so far as Genshi knew. And he knew enough of that history that the Stonebacks would have been deeply upset.
He valued Daar’s friendship too much to betray that and so kept those thoughts to himself. There was no possibility of lying to a fully-trained Stoneback Brother except by omission, their noses were too good.
The modern Fortress itself was a mere thousand or so Gaoian years old, having been built from the rubble of its predecessor by Great Father Fyu. Which in turn had probably been built from the rubble of its predecessor. The stones were ten times as ancient as the walls, and a few of them here and there bore the marks and scars of battles that had never touched this fortress. Or a shred of archaeological mortar, a stain of primordial paint… little details that hinted at history so deep as to chill the spine.
It was almost traditional for powerful Clan figures to meet there, especially when there were important topics to discuss.
Genshi had entertained the thought that maybe the Fortress and its surrounding area could have been the equivalent of the Human city of Akkad. The Fortress may even have been the very first of the Gao’s civilization, but if it was, that knowledge was lost in the whiteout of badly-curated time.
Of course, Clan Highmountain were rather better at guarding their secrets than Clan Stoneback. Possibly--probably--they curated the time very well indeed and kept most of it a secret. Possibly that was a deliberate arrangement between the two ancient Clans. They had, after all, once been one and the same.
Neither, Genshi knew, suspected that his own clan was an indirect offshoot of that same tree.
The modern fortress was a museum and a library, where the latest in holographic technology brushed strangely against the tapestries and banners of the ancient clan hall. It was a university, a conclave, a theatre of ideas and, in keeping with some of the oldest and least civilized of Gaoian traditions, it was an arena. A lot of blood had been mopped from those stones over the centuries.
Soon, there might be more. Not today… but soon. Maybe.
A lot depended on Daar.
“They’re at war. And it ain’t just any war, this is one fer survival. The claws are out.”
Daar was a fascinating study in deceptive contrast. Most people were distracted by his brash personality and his immense…everything. Few noticed his mind and it was amongst the keenest Genshi had ever known, if a blunt instrument could be keen.
In any other company, Daar would have been the smartest person in the room. This room, however, was populated exclusively by his peers.
Peers like Grandfather Talo, a Highmountain so venerable that he was almost white from nose to tail and who had worn his fur long and shaggy as protection against the chill air for most of his life. His sight was going, which meant that the Highmountains would soon need a new Grandfather, but there was nothing wrong with Talo’s fierce brain.
Or his voice, which had that penetrating quality that a level, soft voice only gained with experience. “They can’t possibly expect to win. The basic rule of logistics is against them, if nothing else.”
“I dunno,” offered Daar with uncharacteristic deference. “They’ve got some pretty sneaky capability. Their ‘HEAT’ is like if First Fang and Whitecrest were the same fighting Claw. Better, though.”
Father Kureya was being groomed as Talo’s replacement. He was a different creature to Talo--browner of fur, and more animated in his energy. He prowled around the hall poking at his tablet while he listened, and shifted his weight from paw to paw as he spoke as though every follicle on his body itched if he wasn’t moving.
“They could win every battle they fight and still lose the war. You know that.”
Daar didn’t spare his annoyance with Kureya, and he paused in his own incessant prowling of the room to flash the barest hint of his teeth before resuming his patrol. It was striking how the two were so at odds in opinion and attitude yet shared the same intrinsically kinetic demeanor.
It was also striking how well they got along in any other context. Daar liked pretty much everybody on principle but the list of Gaoians he respected was much shorter and consisted solely of the people who would hold their ground against him.
“Of course I know that," he barked, “I knew that before you were a Father. But logistics ain’t the only thing that matters in a war. The battlefield matters too.”
“The Hunters have ably shown that they can control the battlefield,” Kureya retorted.
“Can,” Daar growled. “That ain’t the same as ‘do’ or ‘will.’ And in any case, what else are the humans gonna do? There was a million fucking ships on that battlefield. Asymmetric warfare is their only option and they know it."
“Exactly,” Kureya replied, “my point. Historically, asymmetric warfare is a means of staying alive long enough to bring aboard an ally. It doesn’t win a war by itself.”
Daar bared his fangs in a not entirely angry manner. “Funny you should say that…”
Talo spoke up again. “Champion Genshi. You’re being characteristically silent…”
“Watching Daar and Kureya spar is always entertaining,” Genshi commented, and immediately got a howl of mirth from Grandfather Garl.
“Young Daar’s been sparring with everyone since his ears were still floppy!”
Daar immediately cringed but gamely defended himself. “And I was winning, too! Got my first big scar when I was five!”
Kureya chittered as did everyone else in the room, and some of the… intensity drained away. Garl was as coarse as coarse got but he could fill any room with pure raucous charm.
“I was still trying to reach the highest bookshelf in the creche, I think…”
“You’ll never get a good scar from a papercut, Kureya,” Daar said, and draped himself affectionately around the much smaller male’s shoulders. Kureya grimaced as he gamely tried to hold up the weight. “Besides,” he added. “The humans have more’n just Hunters to fight.”
So. Daar knew, or at least suspected. Genshi shifted his weight and gave the Stoneback champion a thoughtful, ears-forward stare. He knew that Daar wasn’t briefed on the fancifully-named DEEP RELIC secret yet, but…
“…True, I suppose…” he mused aloud, while calculating furiously. Technically, he had the authority to brief and indoctrinate others on the human document, but the request specifically not to brief Daar wasn’t one to be ignored lightly. It could put a fatal crack in a burgeoning relationship built on mutual trust. “The Hunters didn’t blow up that city of theirs, did they? And the humans don’t have antimatter weapons yet.”
Daar earned a prize. He stopped wrestling Kureya and carefully approached Genshi on fourpaw, sniffing suspiciously in his direction. For the third time in as many moments the energy in the room changed; when somebody as big and as dangerously physical as Daar got tense, everybody else did too.
“…I wonder how much you know that you aren’t letting on, Champion Genshi?” he half-asked, half-accused.
“I’m sworn to secrecy on a great many things, Champion Daar.”
“Hrrm.” Daar flashed an annoyed look but let it go, and everyone subtly relaxed.
“I was thinking about that myself,” Kureya remarked, respectfully putting a little distance between himself and Daar. “Do you know how much antimatter we have?”
Genshi did. It was another secret. “Do tell?” he asked instead.
“As far as I know, the combined reserves of all the Clans would release only half the energy of the weapon that destroyed San Diego,” Kureya said, and Genshi internally applauded him. The estimate was perfectly in line with Whitecrest’s own. “We have several hundred fusion weapons that large, but not enough antimatter.”
“Why use antimatter at all, then?” Garl queried. “If it’s so expensive to make and we have that many fusion weapons…?”
“A mystery,” Talo agreed. “I have a hypothesis, but…”
“Because they can," growled Daar. “Whoever it was, that much antimatter is just a stupid display of raw power. And it’s even more stupider, ‘cuz ain’t nobody got that much antimatter to spare. Not even the Gao, ’cuz yer forgettin’ that almost all that antimatter you talked up is all tied up in power cells and industry and stuff. Really we’ve got maybe a hundredth of a San Diego to waste."
“…I think I disagree with that hypothesis, Champion Daar,” Talo mused. “A display of raw power only works when being… well, displayed. Whoever was responsible for that human city’s destruction has never claimed credit, and therefore the raw power on display has gone to waste.”
“Makes sense,” Garl rumbled, scratching at one of his ears. “No point flexin’ yer claws at somebody unless he sees you do it.”
Daar considered. “Well…that depends on your goal, I guess. I mean, this is basically a terrorist attack done on huge scale, right? Maybe the goal was just to terrorize.”
“And yet no party has come forward to claim it.”
“Right,” Daar maintained. “Which means the goal was just to terrorize. But then…why?"
Genshi raised a claw. “I’m with Talo on this. An unclaimed terrorist attack is a job half done, especially if it is not repeated. If a city is destroyed and no credit is taken, to me that implies that somebody felt the city needed to be destroyed, but wished not to be identified."
Daar nodded, “Sure, that’s valid. But terrorists ain’t always gotta have credit. Sometimes all you wanna do is paralyze an enemy and these kinda mysteries can be the worst for that. Besides, that don’t change that it’s what they did, so we ain’t got a lot to go on. All we got is they spent an impossible amount of antimatter and wiped out a city, and I think so far only the humans have any idea what it’s all about." He grumbled, “And they ain’t telling, either.”
Genshi tilted his ears quizzically. “How long would it take us to manufacture that much?”
Daar paused dead in his pacing. “…not quick. Years?”
“To make as much as destroyed San Diego would take us seven years," Kureya reported. “And we monitor antimatter quite closely. Nobody has that kind of capacity unaccounted-for.”
“We do not have perfect understanding of every species’ industrial capability,” Genshi pointed out. “All we know therefore is that the antimatter wasn’t made by Gaoians.”
“Okay,” Daar insisted, “So what’s the advantage? It’s clean but it’s expensive, it’s obvious, there’s not many species that have the ability in the first place--it’s a major export of Ironclaw. It can be tricky to handle…I mean, as a weapon? It ain’t that great.”
Talo stood up quite abruptly with a groan and an audible arthritic popping. He strolled around the room, stretching himself out. “I can think of one strategic advantage to antimatter that might make it worthwhile as a weapon."
“And that is?” Kureya inquired.
“…Champon Genshi.” Talo ran his claws through the fur around his jaw and whiskers. “What is the operational lifetime of a fusion warhead?”
“…Most of the military clans retire theirs after twenty years,” Genshi admitted. “Usually, they are recycled into new warheads.”
“Why are they retired and recycled?”
“Reliability. Maintenance. Radioactive decay. Nothing survives neglect…”
Talo duck-nodded thoughtfully. “Kureya. Volume of a twelve-mass pellet of, oh… anti-iron?”
“About… this big.” Kureya held his paws surprisingly close together.
“So, if I were to, say, set such a pellet adrift in interstellar space, how long would it take to degrade from contact with the interstellar medium?”
Kureya considered the problem. “…Centuries to erode any significant proportion of its mass,” he reported. “Geological epochs to erode the whole pellet.”
Talo duck-nodded again. “So for all intents and purposes, you have a bomb which requires effectively zero maintenance. At least, not within plausible time spans.”
“Why not just shove a fusion bomb into a stasis box?” Daar asked.
“Because the stasis box would need maintaining.”
“So maintain it,” Garl growled. Daar duck-nodded emphatically.
“A good point,” Kureya pointed out. “What kind of enemy would have the infrastructure to make an antimatter pellet, but not to maintain an arsenal of bombs?”
Daar shook his head fiercely. “But they still had ’ta jump it!" he pointed out. “That antimatter still needs a jump array to get from wherever it was to San Diego, an’ that array is gonna need maintaining.”
“A jump array doesn’t require constant power like a stasis box would,” Genshi pointed out. “Slower maintenance cycle again.”
“Yeah, but we’ve gone from geological epochs back down to decades. So again, why not just fusion warheads?” Daar insisted. “It don’t make sense."
“So to summarize,” Talo concluded, “the humans are fighting an enemy with breathtaking resources that uses those resources in strange and apparently wasteful ways for no clear or obvious end.”
“We can’t account for alien psychology,” Genshi suggested.
“Alien psychology is one thing, but ain’t nobody puts two plus two together and gets seven,” Daar grumbled.
Genshi saw his moment. “Nobody that we know of,” he inserted.
Talo scratched thoughtful at an ear and frowned.
“You’re proposing the existence of… some kind of third party?” He asked. “An agent not known to us?"
Genshi wobbled his head. “Daar’s right. Any faction with the resources and competence to generate antimatter in those quantities would be smart enough not to waste it. Nobody we know of would view it as economical to spend antimatter that way… and yet somebody plainly did."
“Well…see, that’s more troublin’ than basically anything else.” Daar resumed his frenetic pacing. “It means we’re playin’ in a big game of Ta Shen here and there’s somebody at the table we hadn’t even noticed. That’s a deep hole to be in, intel-wise." He eyed Genshi again. “Well, fer Stoneback, anyway…and we still don’t know why but I think that don’t matter no more."
“How so?” growled Garl.
“Well, look at all the random Naxas shit we’ve been rolling in lately! There’s all sorts of weird things going on all sudden-like. The ‘Gurvy-rag’ or however you say it--"
“Guvnurag.”
“Yeah, them. Why did their homeworld get attacked? I mean, I’d normally say it was just Hunters being Hunters but how in the name of Keeda’s balls did they get a million ships?"
“Perhaps we didn’t notice?”
Daar wobbled his head vigorously. “Nah, that don’t fit their previous tactics. And antimatter don’t either. They’d rather eat the city if they could, and if they were involved they’d have used that jump to get ships in. So it wasn’t the Hunters, but…a million ships. Tell me that ain’t a little help from someone just stupid powerful."
“We’ve never known how powerful the Hunters truly are,” Kureya reminded him. “Their territory is big enough to contain at least ten temperate worlds, statistically, and the galactic community has historically treated them as a force of nature.
“A million divided by ten is still a hundred-thousand. That’s a lot of ships around a pawful of worlds."
“By and large, temperate worlds don’t build spaceships. They feed crews.” Kureya’s ears were grim. “A single world turned over to whatever the…” He licked his teeth nervously, “…whatever the Hunter equivalent of agriculture is would easily feed the crews of a million ships. The ships themselves, we suspect, would be built at orbitals.”
Daar growled, “That makes me hate ’em even more.” His pace grew more agitated. “But yeah. That’s still not their style, which means they got help suddenly. And recently, I bet. I think that still leaves us with a big player we don’t know about and for some reason they’re going after the humans. Which…I dunno, that makes me nervous.”
“It should,” Garl grunted. “Anything goes after the humans, comes after us before long.”
“If there’s anything I learned is we’re…” Daar paused and flicked his ears reluctantly.
“Go on.”
“…I think Garl’s right. I think that, whatever this Big Keeda thing is? The only reason they’re going after the humans, it’s either ’cuz they’re a threat or they just hate something about ’em. And we’ve got a lot in common with the humans. A lot more than I realized, really.”
“Sister Shoo taught us as much,” Genshi pointed out. “The females wouldn’t have named her a Sister unless she fit. They never did it for… for any other species. The very idea is just… I mean, who would fit?"
“Nobody,” said Daar definitively. “I think there’s prol’ly a lotta wisdom there to think about.”
The room reflected on that with appreciative duck-nodding.
“Well said,” intoned Talo. “All of that leaves us much to contemplate. What shall our next step be?”
Daar was the first to respond after a glance at Garl. “I wanna get my Fangs fully staffed and maybe reactivate all the rest.”
“Daar, the budget--”
“Fuck the budget. You ain’t gonna tell me we don’t need ’em after all this!"
“The Females will not be pleased,” Kureya pointed out.
“Yeah, they won’t. I’ll hafta deal with that too.”
“A military buildup will be noticed, Daar.” Genshi calculated. “Not even we could spin up without being noticed.”
“Don’t matter, we gotta do it. And…I’ll see if I can get an appointment with the Mother-Supreme and talk it out. I think we can argue a good case.”
Garl shook out the thick fur around his neck and chittered in contrabass. “Leave that to me. I’ll take any excuse to visit Yulna.”
“…You have your nose on someone, don’t’cha? You’re so obvious Garl. Teach me!"
“Pure balls, young’n.” Garl’s teeth gleamed. “It works.”
Good humor was probably the best way to end the meeting, and Genshi seized on it. “Garl’s social life aside, we’re all in agreement that we should begin a build-up? If so, I think we adjourn and reconvene when we know more. Objections?”
“None whatsoever.” Talo stood up from his cushion with a series of audible arthritic pops. “Though… Champion Genshi, a young rite-Brother of ours managed to uncover something you may find personally intriguing. Shall we talk and walk?”
“….By all means, Grandfather.”
Date Point: 12y7m1w AV
HMS Viscount, New Enewetak system, deep space
Lt. Col. Claude Nadeau
“Six more?”
The bridge of a V-class destroyer was a dense, crowded thing that in some ways had more in common with the flight deck of an airliner or the cockpit of a plane than a bridge as Nadeau had always envisioned them. His mind’s eye had always been informed by Star Trek, and had placed the captain in the exact middle of an open, airy space full of consoles and needless expanses of floor where he could prowl as though on a Shakespearian stage, addressing a giant floor-to-ceiling screen.
The captain did have a chair: It was a bucket seat with a five-point safety harness for use during hard maneuvers, and it was bolted firmly to the aft bulkhead. And the bridge did have a screen, in the form of a 21-inch monitor tucked away on a bracket high in one corner and largely ignored. There were no windows, no sweeping view of the stars: the bridge was an armored bunker deep in the ship’s structure, and the helmsmen occupied a cavity in the forward wall which surrounded them in readouts and displays. They flew exclusively by instrument: There would have been no point in having windows on a ship designed for engagement ranges measured in terms of the speed of light.
The only concession to leg room was a narrow, shoulder-wide strip of open deck just behind the helmsmen. The rest of the space was taken up by somebody’s station. It wasn’t actually cramped or uncomfortable, but it was no USS Enterprise.
There was enough room for a visitor to stand and watch over it all, though, and to chat with the Viscount’s captain, Nigel Arlott.
“Authorized last week. They posted the names this morning: Vanguard, Vanquisher, Venture, Valkyrie, Valorous and Vancouver."
“Twelve destroyers. I’d say that’s a big fleet, but after seeing what hit the Guvnurag…”
“It’s not even a big fleet by human standards,” Arlott disagreed. “There were… eighty or so destroyers at the battle of Jutland, I think.” He shrugged, and put on a dark little smile. “The technological advantage counts for a lot. If we fell backwards in time right now then Viscount could sink every ship in both fleets all by herself, and we have the same kind of an edge over the Hunters… for now."
“You think it’ll come down to tonnage, in the end?” Nadeau asked. Arlott shook his head.
“No. They leech off our ideas, but we’re always a step ahead. They’ll narrow the gap, but never beat us.”
“Tonnage counts for a lot.”
Arlott nodded, grimly. “We were there. We saw. That’s why our governments are sinking so much into this coltainer project. We need to correct the manufacturing shortfall and fast."
“Hang the economic consequences. Live first, pay later, eh?” Nadeau agreed.
“Precisely.” Arlott checked his instruments. “How long is this survey going to take, anyway? Not that I’m impatient, but…”
Nadeau nodded. The Coltainer they were escorting had hauled itself into a polar orbit over New Enewetak and was methodically sweeping the whole planet’s surface, looking for potential test sites.
Those sites needed to meet several criteria. The whole idea after all was that the colonists should be able to self-sustain without the constant delivery of basic necessities from Earth or anywhere else. They needed to be able to farm their own food, clean their own water and mine their own raw materials. The survey was exhaustive.
Fortunately, the actual colony assembly process should be relatively straightforward. Viable colony sites had everything needed to make concrete right there, or at least close and accessible enough for the coltainer’s automated quarrying and delivery systems to retrieve, and the coltainer could use several different concretes if needed.
Lewis had been full of grand schemes to have the machines excavate bunkers and basements and maybe even a subway station with an in-situ TBM ready and waiting for future expansion. Reality had got in the way, and the actual construction process was much less interesting. The actual colony blueprint was little more than a fully-equipped dormitory with a walk-in freezer attached to a small but sturdy warehouse.
It was fully plumbed, well lit, well drained, fully wired up with forcefield solar power. There was air conditioning and rooms appropriate for medical or scientific use. There was an office for colony management and a machine shop with its own small nanofactory and plenty of room for the colonists to install more conventional CAD/CAM tools… and all of it was assembled automatically by robots with no human supervision. In theory.
It would be a landmark moment in cutting-edge automation if it worked, but Lewis hadn’t been happy. He’d wanted so much more. Nadeau meanwhile would be giggling with joy if the system built so much as a single straight wall in the right place on its first outing, let alone a whole compound.
But, it had to find a suitable site first.
“We’ll be here for several days,” he predicted. “And we’ll probably keep coming back.”
Arlott didn’t look happy. “This isn’t a research ship. I know we’re acting in support of an important operation, but…”
“Just be glad we didn’t bring the SOR along for this,” Nadeau joked. “Not only would they take up all the space and eat all the food, but what’s worse is they’d probably have some useful insights.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting them,” Arlott replied.
“You’re lucky. They’re…overwhelming. Sergeant Vandenberg could do a couple of hundred squats with us sitting on his shoulders while giving a lecture on variable-gravity metallurgical processes. And he’s neither the strongest man in the SOR, nor the most intelligent.”
“…I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Don’t get me wrong, they’re great guys. Friendly and charming, but…humbling.” Nadeau sniffed. “But we live in humbling times, I guess. I mean, you’re a starship captain.”
Arlott chuckled. “And just ten years ago, I was watching Jackson test the warp engine you designed."
Nadeau shook his head and waved a hand to fend off the compliment. “It was just a reverse-engineered Hunter design,” he said. “Besides, Ted Bartlett cracked spacetime distortion. I was the forcefield guy.”
“And I’m just a ship captain. The ship just sails on different tides.” Arlott considered the coltainer probe again. “Someday, people are going to live on that planet. Someday soon, I hope. And their definition of ‘normal’ is going to humble somebody else. And maybe in three hundred years’ time, it’ll be humbling and strange to meet somebody who actually lives on Earth."
“Maybe.” Nadeau agreed.
He was spared from having to think of what to say next by the Coltainer probe, which chose that moment to send them an update.
He reviewed it on his tablet. “It’s found… seventy-four potential sites, and is relocating for the high-detail survey,” he announced.
“Well. To Hell with that," Arlott decided. “I have paperwork to do. As nice as this conversation is…”
“Yeah, I should get back to work too. We need to review these survey results.”
“Have…fun?” Arlott joked. Nadeau grinned.
“Actually…yeah. I think I will,” he said.
The probe was, after all, already exceeding his expectations.
Date Point: 12y7m1w AV
High Mountain Fortress, Gao
Champion Genshi
“…And this is a recent find?”
The archives beneath High Mountain Fortress were very different to the fortress itself. They had been excavated during Gao’s information age, and designed with future upgrades in mind, meaning that there wasn’t an inch of the stacks that couldn’t be disassembled and replaced easily and quickly.
That was just the information layer, of course. The physical vaults and archives plunged deep into ancient, stable bedrock, and there was a constant stream of artifacts in and out: Archaeological curios destined for Highmountain museums all over Gao, and new items inbound for storage and historically important documents for archiving in the Clan’s great library.
Over the centuries, sometimes, the filing had been occasionally less than perfect. Sometimes, an enterprising young Highmountain might go digging in the archives for an obscure fossil, and turn up something…different.
Something like an ancient Gaoian skull.
“Technically, no. It’s been in the archives for generations. Anyway, look: The attached notes made special mention of the signs of osteoporosis around the left sphenoid ridge. You’ll see the significance of course.”
Genshi had no idea what a sphenoid ridge even was, and said so with his usual tact. “Please, grandfather. Assume that I have neglected my studies in the field of… well, skulls.”
Talo chittered, and ran a claw along the feature in question, not actually touching it. “Here,” he said, and then tapped the side of his own head for emphasis.
“…That’s where a translator implant would go!” Genshi realized, and reevaluated the skull.
“Indeed. And the alleged osteoporosis, on close inspection, is more consistent with nanofilament infiltration.”
Genshi set the skull down carefully in its box. “…Who was he?”
“She. Unfortunately we don’t know, but we do know that she was a silverfur like yourself, and most likely hailed from the ancient city-state of Yem Sha. She was slightly older than I am now when she died."
“A good long life, then!” Genshi said admiringly.
“Oh yes. Especially considering she was a contemporary of Tiritya and Fyu. Probably even a peer or companion…but she didn’t die of old age, sadly. There are…you see the tool marks?”
Genshi shook his head again, and bent down to study the long-deceased Mother’s bone again.
“The Wi Kaoians fought a bloody war,” Talo sighed sadly. “You remember your history? The … condition… in which Tiritya and her Sisters were returned to this fortress after their failed infiltration of the city?”
“I remember.” It was a grim and uncivilized epoch in Gaoian history. “Skinning a female? Barbaric."
“If it makes you feel better,” Talo said, “This one was was dead before they began. Tiritya herself was not so fortunate…but I am digressing."
“Into horrific territory,” Genshi commented.
“Yes,” Talo agreed. “But of course, this raises the question…”
“Just what the hell was a cybernetic doing in the head of one of Tiritya’s sisterhood?" Genshi finished.
“Quietly self-destructing on the event of her death, it seems.” Talo drummed his claws thoughtfully on the edge of the steel table. “It’s a strange feeling, watching a war on the horizon that I probably won’t live to see the beginning of. Indeed, I hope I don’t.”
“We could do with your experience…” Genshi told him.
“Maybe.” Talo allowed. “But if the war starts, in whatever form it takes, while I’m still around then we shall be woefully unprepared. Except that now it seems we may have been obliviously fighting it for at least a thousand years.”
“What happened to the young Brother who found this?”
“Ah. A small deception on my part. I never actually said whether the find was a recent one, did I?” Talo ducked his head apologetically. “You are, I’m afraid, speaking with him.”
“…And you have kept this secret?”
“It would be…Young Genshi, you and I are at opposite ends of the information spectrum,” Talo said, slowly. “To conceal information and keep secrets goes against everything my Clan stands for…” he glanced at the skull again. “In most cases. But knowledge is a responsibility.”
“This is possibly one of the most profound findings in our history, surely you agree!"
“Exactly.” Talo duck-nodded. “Not, therefore, the sort of thing a self- respecting academic waves around without due consideration. And when I began to consider the ramifications of alien meddling during the most important chapter of our history…"
Genshi held his peace with great effort.
Talo did not take his eyes off the skull. “So. We have a faction in the game that could do this undetected while we were still fighting with spears and crossbows… and I doubt we can meaningfully combat them. Not yet. But unless I miss my guess, you’re hard at work on that problem, yes?"
“Do you really expect me to answer that question, Grandfather?”
Talo shook his head solemnly, though he seemed pleased. “No.”
He stepped around the table and picked up the ancient Mother’s skull to contemplate it. “Encroaching death has its way of adjusting your priorities. Not so long ago, I would have chipped away for a scrap of knowledge from you, or some assurance. Now…I have learned to trust. Gao will have to do without me from now on. It’s…liberating, really.”
“You will be missed,” Genshi offered. “You’re held in high esteem by my Clan.”
Talo’s ears flattened slightly at the compliment, just for a moment as though he’d been patted on the head. It was an almost cublike gesture of genuine pleasure. “And I hold your Clan in high esteem. Especially its Champion. Leaving the future to young males of your caliber makes this all a little easier. I’m… scared, but I’m not afraid. I know that even if our species is doomed, we’ll claw out a few eyes on the way. The galaxy will remember Gao, one way or another."
He put the skull down again and shook himself. “The past must trust the future. Don’t forget that on the day when it’s your turn to move into the past, young Genshi. You will have to, eventually. It’s worth planning well ahead."
Genshi gave him a long, thoughtful stare, then turned and stooped into a low Gaoian bow. “Thank you for your kind advice, honored Grandfather,” he said, formally. He decided not to mention that he had already been making such plans. Talo didn’t need to know. Nobody did.
Only the Champion should know when a Clan was about to die.
Date Point: 12y7m1w AV
Etsicitty Property, North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
“You mean to tell us you’re good friends with the supreme allied commander of extrasolar defence?" Julian asked.
“Shit, I helped him through his divorce.” Kevin smiled fondly at the memory. “You think I got the Byron Group job on charm and sophistication alone?”
“Oh sure I did," Allison snarked, “Talk to you for five minutes and your natural player just oozes out all over the place."
“Oozes. Thanks, I’ll remember that.” Kevin snorted. “Point is…Tremblay’s a good man. Not a half-decent man, not a merely good man, he’s a good man. Kinda guy who gives you real faith in humanity. Now, his job is to look out for the safety and security of Earth, Cimbrean, all the human colonies…"
“Why’s he gonna care, then?” Julian asked. “Resources sent over to help out the People aren’t going to be defending humanity, are they?”
“Mm…” Kevin wobbled his head. “They’ll sure as shit be defending our humanity, but you might be right. Except it’s probably not a bad investment anyway. Those guys could be valuable down the road, y’know? Then there’s all the Hierarchy tech on that planet just waiting for Bear Bartlett to rip into it, and… shit, maybe we could put a base out there? Hell, even a whole colony? So it’s not like there’s zero strategic value there."
“Isn’t there anybody out there who’ll do it just because it’s the right thing to do?" Xiu asked.
“No,” Kevin said bluntly. “And that’s honestly the way it should be. Guys like that, they’ll pick up a new super important Cause every week and never get anything done. Guys like Tremblay, they’re obligated to look after their duty first so when something comes along that needs their attention, they have the resources to handle it."
“I don’t wanna have this argument again,” Julian groaned.
“Well I’m sorry, bro, but Earth doesn’t work the way your relationship does. You three look out for each other. Back here on the Planet Dirt, the pictures are bigger and the stakes are higher. Self-interest ain’t just a lifestyle choice, it’s the only way things can work.”
“You ain’t gotta be a dick about it, Kevin. We do get it."
“Then quit complainin’ and use it! Guys, you are fuckin’ celebrities right now. Walked on Mars! Toured alien worlds! Made first contact! And look, these guys have the same fucking enemies we do. Ain’t that a hell of a coincidence?"
He leaned forward and put his hands flat on the table in front of him. “I don’t think you three realize just how much power you have right now, but that power won’t last long. And you can use it without pissing anyone off, either. That is a rare gift. All you need to do is talk. Show a pic of Yan and Vemik! It isn’t classified…and show the Abrogator thing. That isn’t classified either as long as you don’t get into details."
“…Is that wise?” Xiu asked.
“Define ‘wise,’" Kevin shrugged. “’Cuz the answer to that one comes down to whether you think the consequences are worth it.”
“Vemik’s pictures might be a good idea,” mused Julian. “He got a hold of my camera one day and took hundreds of ’em. Some are pretty good, too. And he figured out the video button."
Allison chimed in. “The video he took of Yan was really good. Yan tackled him and he dropped the camera, and it caught like ten minutes of them wrasslin’ in the dirt before they hugged it out. Maybe edit out the bad, uh, ‘viewing angles’ but…”
Julian snorted. “Yeah. Their loincloths don’t really do much for modesty, do they?”
Kevin grimaced. “…Really didn’t need that image.”
“Eh, it’s humid as hell in their jungle, I don’t blame ’em. Anyway, Vemik likes to play keepaway so I waited until Yan had worked ’em over real good before I took the camera back," Julian remembered fondly. “Me and Yan figured out that tag-teaming worked best on the bouncy little fucker. Vemik didn’t like that at all, said I was cheating. Yan just noogied me and laughed."
Kevin quirked an eyebrow. “No shit, the big fucker’s playful?”
“Like a kitten!” Xiu enthused. “Um…when he wants to be.”
“Well, there ya go! The People make their own PR! And here you three are sulkin’ in an old house in the country, pissin’ and moanin’ about how shit everybody else is instead of gettin’ off your asses and using it! For fuck’s sake guys, you put yourselves through a couple years of hell for personal reasons, but when the chips are down and a whole species is at stake suddenly you expect somebody else to carry the ball? You’re better than that! All of you!"
The three of them went very still.
“…Consider that the punch on the nose from me to you,” Kevin finished, looking at Xiu specifically. “Sometimes, we all need a punch on the nose.”
Xiu gave him a long, steady stare and then sighed and gave her own hands an ashamed look. “…Yeah.”
“So… what? Book deal? Press release?” Allison took Xiu’s hand. “I mean, you’re right, but we don’t really know how this stuff works."
“You let me worry about that,” Kevin promised. “Upshot to being a senior Byron Group executive. You wouldn’t believe some of the strings I can pull…”
“You’ve already got a plan,” Julian guessed.
Kevin put on his best winning smile. “Yeah. Reckon I do.” He stood up. “Come on. We’re goin’ down to the city.”
They blinked at him before Julian asked the question. “Uh, we are? What for?”
“I’m findin’ you three some good tailoring on my dime,” Kevin said. “After all. You’re gonna need to look good for the cameras…”
Date Point: 12y7m2w AV
Adam’s Apartment, Demeter Way, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Martina Kovač
One advantage to dating Adam--he did all the cooking. And most of the eating. And he cleaned up as he went, too, so really the only thing Marty had to do was set the table and watch. There were worse ways to have dinner.
“So, your dad got him a plea bargain?”
“Somethin’ like that. I mean, it’s the prosecutor who offered the plea bargain but… y’know, he plays golf with the governor. And Dad’s been workin’ with Sir Jeremy Sandy since day one and the only reason he doesn’t play golf with the governor too is because his handicap’s so bad."
Marty nodded. “Right. Guess it’s hard to play golf in a wheelchair.”
“No, I mean it’s, like, thirty or something.” Adam grinned at her and returned to his cooking, and Marty grudgingly awarded him several points while plotting her revenge. She was too used to Adam playing the amiably straightforward doofus: there were moments when he’d pull something a tiny bit subtler like that and make her feel like a dumbass for not catching it, because she’d have seen it coming from anybody else.
She respected him, of course she did. He just didn’t throw curveballs very often, so the rare ones he did throw invariably tripped her up.
And then he got all smug about it, and he was unfairly sexy when he was smug.
A comical image sprang to mind. “Have you ever tried golf?"
Adam burst out laughing. “Oh man! Would I have to wear the polo shirt and a flat cap?”
“Yup.” Marty grinned at him over her lemonade.
“I’ll stick to Gravball.”
“Yeah? I dunno, it’s got everything you could want. Fine motor control, hitting something really hard…”
“No way do they make clubs that could take the HEAT."
“Murray golfs.”
“Of course he fuckin’ does, he’s Scottish!” Adam snorted. “And he’s tiny,” he added, affectionately.
“Only by HEAT standards.” Marty sipped her drink and put it down. “Anyway. Nofl. Didn’t think your dad was the kind to go easy on a smuggler.”
The topology of Adam’s back shifted intricately as he shrugged. “He didn’t. Nofl has a lot of community service to do, and we’re gonna benefit from it. You’ve heard some of the things he’s promised?"
“Yeah. full regeneration of an amputated limb, nerve regrowth. I wrote a report with my own opinions for Powell.” Marty shrugged. “I dunno. I get the impression Nofl’s passion for science outweighs his caution or sense of ethics. I don’t care if we have the latent DNA for tissue regeneration still present in our genome or not, hell I don’t care if we could splice it in. That’s dangerous territory."
Adam nodded slowly, but didn’t comment.
“…Your dad’s eager to get full use of his leg back, I get that-” Marty began.
“He ain’t reckless, Marty.”
“No,” she soothed. “But come on, tell me how you’d cope with spending half your time in a chair and the other half on crutches? ’Cause I don’t need to be your girlfriend to know you’d go crazy.”
“Dad’s calmer than me, though. He always has his shit together.”
“Sure, but he’s still only human. He’s got hope.”
Adam loaded the chicken into the oven, wiped down the counter and then turned to lean against the wall, facing her. He only rarely looked so troubled.
“It just hits close to home, you know? I mean…” he twisted, and lifted the leg of his basketball shorts to reveal a bright blue Crue-D patch on his inner thigh. The minimum-dose maintenance patch that every single HEAT man wore constantly to stop their own excessive and growing strength from giving them chronic trouble. “This is Nofl’s work too. And then the little maricon turns out to be an irresponsible jackass smuggler."
Marty let the homophobic slur slide, this time. Adam was clearly badly troubled, and there wasn’t actually a bigoted bone in his body: He’d have been appalled if somebody had suggested there was. “So you’re worried about yourself, not your dad?”
“No! …Yes. Uh, both. And the Lads. And you, I mean, you’ve used Crude…”
Marty nodded. The HEAT program needed the Lads to be able to trust Crue-D. Taking the medicine was a life-altering experience anyway with permanent ramifications. It was a huge step--if there was any doubt at all about Cruezzir and its derivatives…
“Well, has it done anything bad to you?”
“…um…okay. Yes and no, I think. Lemme…” He started pacing like he did whenever he was trying to string thoughts together; thinking and motion were to Adam as peas and carrots were to dinner. “I mean, a while ago? Dad noticed I’m way more aggressive than I used to be."
Marty sipped her lemonade again. “Are you?”
“I dunno. I mean, I got into fights in school… But, I trust Dad, you know? If he says it…”
“Okay…” Marty conceded. “But you can’t have been a teddy bear. I mean, from what I hear you could out deadlift anyone in Folctha before you even left. Legsy said you were the most determined man he’d ever met. Hell, even ’Base says you were scary as hell all the way from Basic. And you got through selection and all that…”
Adam sighed and leaned on the counter island, resting his knuckles on the polished granite. “…I dunno, Marty. I’ve been talkin’ a lot with Lieutenant Mears about this. About the Hate, and the… I mean, I’ve got good reasons for feelin’ the things I do. But I don’t know if I have good reasons for feelin’ them as much as I do, you know? I mean, it’s been eight years since San Diego. Seven months on from that I was just startin’ to put it behind me and then we lost Sara. But nowadays… some days those wounds still feel raw like they happened yesterday. Shit, there are days I wanna tear Ava’s head off, or hunt down that little bitch Sean and fuckin’ crush him."
He launched himself away from the counter, and paced aimlessly around the apartment. “Or there’s times I look at you and my whole body hurts from how much I love you, or, or times when I’ll be sparring with John and he’s, y’know, he’s my fuckin’ brother but, like, I could break him easy and the thought just feels so good…but then I blink and just, I feel bad and I wanna fuckin’ cuddle for even thinkin’ that. And I thought all that was just me, right? Like, that’s who I am…"
He sighed. “And then the little gray shit who invented Crue turns out to be completely fuckin’ irresponsible. I’m…”
“Scared,” Marty finished for him.
“…Yeah. I’m afraid of myself. I think…I think we all are.”
“I can see why, but…” Marty swirled her lemonade thoughtfully.. “…Is that the Crude? Or is it the power you earned? How many people besides you could pick up a truck and toss it?"
“No,” he shook his head emphatically. “It’s the Crude, I know it. Those feelings are raw baby. I feel stuff like it’s new and intense all the time, that can’t be just ’cuz I’m strong."
“True,” Marty agreed. “But I don’t think it’s anything wrong with the Crude, or some accident because Nofl cut corners."
“Then what?”
She used her glass to wave at the all of him. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“…Huh?”
“Seriously. Go look, right now.”
Adam blinked at her, then shrugged and headed for the wide, full-length mirror in the corner next to his sewing work bench. The apartment had a lot of mirrors, actually, from the big one that filled half a wall in the bathroom to the small face mirror on the closet door, but he needed them because he was forced by circumstance to do his own tailoring. So, the biggest and best mirror stood between his sewing machine and the mannequin that Rebar and Sikes had made for him, the modular one built to a HEAT operator’s scale. They all benefited from Adam’s needlework, after all.
He was wearing his favorite jersey that day--the Cimbrean Speedsters sports team jersey complete with a ridiculous sports car that had left skidmarks wrapping around to the back. There was no such team, in fact--Adam did a lot of community work as part of the Folctha government’s fitness promotions, and made a point of not taking sides in any sport. The only teams he allowed himself to support were the San Diego Chargers (now a well-respected NFL legacy that had never officially been closed down as a kind of living memorial) and the completely fictional Speedsters. One of the colony’s soccer moms had made that jersey for him and had somehow managed to get his dimensions right.
He carefully took it off to study himself in closer detail, turning to and fro to make sure she wasn’t pointing out some injury or another. Once he figured out that nothing was wrong he settled and stood there to frown uncomprehendingly at himself. The nanotech ‘E-Tattoo’ that covered his prodigious slab of a chest was set to his favorite pattern: marching Green Feet that wandered aimlessly across his chest in time with his pulse. At his heart, Adam had joined the Pararescue Jumpers first, and remained committed to their mission.
“Okay…?” he asked, after the Feet had done half a lap of his left pectoral.
“What do you see?” Marty prompted.
“…Me?”
“How old do you look?”
“I, uh…”
She laughed softly and interrupted his confusion by sliding up behind him and running her hands around his waist and up his chest, resting them lightly over his heart. She noticed with secret delight that those Feet sped up a little, and she could feel his life thumping steadily away warmly under her hand..
“Ignore all the muscles and the body fuzz, and the jawline and the stubble. Look past that and look at your face, look at your eyes. Do you see it?"
His heart beat slightly faster. “…I’m young.”
“You look almost like you’re fresh out of high school,” she said. “You haven’t aged a day and your bloodwork backs that up. John’s the same way, all the older guys are getting younger and healing up…hell, even Firth is inching perilously close to handsome."
Adam snorted, and covered both her hands with one of his. “Pretty Firth? That’ll be the goddamn apocalypse…”
“Well, it’s true. You’re all on the fountain of youth…tell me that isn’t gonna affect your mind.”
His reflection gave her an anguished look. “Yeah. Exactly. This is scary stuff we’re playing with, and Nofl…"
“…Is a Corti. I know. I don’t think he’s malicious or anything, but they didn’t get that reputation for playing fast and loose with the scientific method by accident…” She kissed his shoulder. “But if you don’t trust Nofl, babe, trust me."
“…I scare you too to, though. Don’t I?”
“Yeah,” Marty acknowledged. “But…I like it. You’re exciting when you’re scary. And I know that because you’re scary, the safest place in the world is when you’re holding me."
“…You don’t want me walking comfortably, do you?”
She winked at him, and the Green Feet paused in their wandering for just a moment. “Never.”
He tried and failed to be discreet about adjusting himself through his shorts with his free hand. “…Goddamn I love you.”
“I love you too.” She rested her head against his spine and breathed a happy sigh. “And… thank you.”
“For what?”
“For talking about this stuff with me. It means a lot that you don’t try and pretend nothing’s wrong. That’s…thank you.”
He turned around and drew her close to his chest. “…I learned that lesson the hard way.”
“I know.”
Adam’s whole body heaved slowly with an enormous sigh, he gave her a comparatively gentle squeeze that was still overpowering by anybody else’s standards, kissed her hair and then let her go.
“We ain’t gonna trust Nofl after this,” he said, quietly. “I know he’s supposed to be workin’ for us, but…”
“He’ll be working with me,” Marty said. “Like I said: Don’t trust him, trust me. I’ll keep him in line."
Adam chuckled, and returned to the kitchen. “Reckon you will…” he said. “After our vacation though, right?"
“Yup. He has community service to finish first. Where are we going, anyway?”
“I had a few ideas…”
Date Point: 12y7m2w AV
Starship Negotiable Curiosity, Orbiting Planet Aru, Elder Space
Bedu
The Negotiable Curiosity wasn’t the same ship any more. Vakno had categorically refused to leave Perfection without bringing most of her…equipment….with her.
Bedu was no idiot; most of the gear Vakno had removed from her bunker and installed in his ship had nothing to do with science, it was communications and datamining equipment. She’d paid for the shipyard time to have the Negotiable Curiosity expanded, extended and rebalanced. The ship was if anything a huge improvement on what it had been, and Bedu was practical enough to appreciate that, but it still felt inappropriate. The ship was his house after all, and Vakno had extensively remodelled it, effectively turning it into her new flying office and Bedu into her personal pilot.
Most of the remaining equipment was outside of his knowledge, but he knew what some of it did. Negotiable Curiosity had an extensive and hypersensitive sensor suite that could trace the lingering spacetime distortions of a ship at FTL for years after the fact, and Vakno had expanded on that functionality. Information was her business--he should have guessed that she would be an expert at gathering it in all its forms.
“There are power signatures here and there on the planet, you’re correct,” she reported. “They seem to be focused in hospitals.”
“The population in general?” Bedu asked. Vakno glanced up at a peripheral display.
“Declining rapidly. A few million remain.”
“The OmoAru used to be a spacefaring power just as widespread as we are now. This decline cannot be natural, can it?"
“No, I don’t believe it can,” Vakno agreed. “And I find it worrying that I have become more interested in the mystery since de-implanting myself. Something like this should be of universal concern.”
“Yes. I have…hypotheses on that subject.” Bedu called up his notes. Doing so without implants was vastly less convenient, but if even one of his hypotheses were accurate then he had done himself an enormous service by removing them. “It’s telling that every single expedition to investigate the phenomenon has devolved into grave-robbing.”
“If the implants can somehow control what a user is permitted to think…” Vakno mused, without finishing the thought aloud.
“Theoretically trivial,” Bedu opined. “Simple stimulus-reward, stimulus- punishment system. Mechanically much more complicated in practice, of course. Constant monitoring of both neuroelectrical and neurochemical patterns, species-adjusted… Any control software capable of interpreting those data and determining intent would be effectively sapient.”
Vakno blinked at him. “True. That would meet a reasonable definition for metacognition.”
“Exactly.”
“What exactly are you thinking?”
Bedu turned in his seat to pull up a file, which he transferred to the big volumetric display in the middle of Vakno’s lab. “Possibilities. First and least likely: Problem is systemic to implant use, some undiagnosed fault or flaw in their operation. Maybe a functional addiction, subtly discourages thinking about implants in negative ways. Flaws: the behaviour is not species- specific, wouldn’t discourage thinking about species decline in general until the researcher had reasonable grounds to believe implants were involved.”
Vakno nodded. “Not a strong hypothesis.”
“No” Bedu agreed. “Mentioned it first because other possibilities are more disturbing, and seem less plausible at first. Are you familiar with the work of…” He paused, scowled and flapped a hand irritably. “What was her name? The AI researcher? Green banner from Grand Central University, graduated in my year. The digital nihilism theorist?”
Vakno glowered at him. “I can scarcely remember your name without my implants. Don’t ask me about obscure contemporaries of yours. What did she do?"
“She proved that an electronic substrate cannot indefinitely support a genuinely sapient intelligence,” Bedu recalled. “Funny, I can remember her proof but not her name. I’m quite sure we exchanged DNA.”
“Ugh. Green-banners, breeding." Vakno sniffed. Bedu recalled too late that her own banner was silver.
“It’s an authorized breeding caste,” he asserted with composure. It was easy to remain composed when Vakno got too self-important. She might have developed a contact network worth estimated trillions of Directorate Currency Units, but her actual contributions to science were effectively nil. That prodigious and valuable intellect was largely going to waste.
“I don’t care what the office of species development says,” she snapped, oblivious to his thoughts. “It’s time we restricted DNA exchanges to blue banners or higher.”
Bedu blinked at her, then returned to his work. “I will just focus on the objective,” he declared.
“You do that.”
They worked in silence for a while, though Bedu was counting silently in his head. He was grudgingly impressed that Vakno held out as far as two hundred and sixty-four before her resolve cracked.
“You were saying?” she asked.
“Hmm? Oh. the AI researcher?”
“Yes.”
“She scanned her brain, thoroughly, and simulated her personality. Over a thousand simulations, and every single one attempted suicide before long.”
Even by Corti standards, that experiment had been discomforting. It wasn’t until Bedu had encountered the human phrase ‘heebie-jeebies’ that he’d been able to put a name to the emotion he’d suppressed upon hearing of it.
Vakno of course didn’t seem to care. “And this is relevant how?”
“I was just wondering if there might not be some…counterpart phenomenon. I wonder if the presence of extensive cybernetics might have a deleterious effect on the consciousness of a sapient being.”
“Mechanism?”
“This isn’t even a hypothesis yet.”
“Ridiculous,” Vakno scoffed. “Why should there be a fundamental incompatibility between organic neurons and the implants specifically designed to interface with them?"
“An incomplete understanding of the principles of neurology?” Bedu suggested. “Some emergent property of the neural nets? Or an evolutionary change! Cumulative across many generations.”
“Driven by what selection pressure?” Vakno finally turned away from her instruments and gave him more than a fraction of her attention. “Bedu, you can generate ideas all you want but please do subject them to an internal review before you voice them."
“Do you not have any yourself?”
“Not yet.” Vakno sniffed. “Some of us practice science with finesse and focus. We don’t…brute-force our way to a result through ill-considered abduction schemes or archaeological vandalism."
“I have yet to witness any of this science of yours.”
“Then perhaps you should cease your distractions and let me work.” Vakno returned to her instruments. “Land the ship. I will share my hypothesis once I have one that is worth discussing.”
Bedu resisted the urge to grumble at being ordered about on his ship, and elected to obey the command. Vakno was a silver-banner after all, a member of a higher rung on the Corti societal ladder. While neither of them were exactly in the Directorate’s good graces, neither of them were exiles either. She did, technically, hold the authority in their relationship.
He comforted himself with the thought that she was at least present and working at the problem. That meant she valued his insight more than she allowed herself to say. If she didn’t see any substance in the data he had presented then she would never have paid to modify his ship, nor flown on it all the way out to this last remote and fading ember of the OmoAru Republic.
Still. He missed his crew. They had been infuriating, but they had respected and engaged with him. Vakno did neither.
He just wished that he could tell her how he had acquired his information…
Date Point: 12y7m2w3d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Admiral Sir Patrick Knight
“The bloody PM’s coming here?”
“He did just win the election, Powell." Knight set three cups of tea down on his desk. Earl Grey for himself, a mug of Tetley so strong that the spoon could stand up in it for Powell, and another Earl Grey for Costello. The young Canadian had always had slightly more sophistication than his superior, there.
“Aye, by promising to cut military spending,” Powell grumbled
“Yes,” Knight sat down, and allowed himself a small triumphant smile. “I wrote a small letter to the king. And now the Right Honourable Stephen Davies PM is paying us an official visit. Less than two weeks after the election, no less.”
Powell chuckled and sat back. “Bloody hellfire. There’s times I forget you have more power in your pen than I have in a barracks full of HEAT operators.”
“His Majesty served alongside my father, briefly,” Knight explained. “Apparently I had the pleasure of meeting him, though I was far too young to remember it.”
“And that was enough to get him to send the prime minister our way for an education?” Costello asked.
“I think he’s rather more concerned with the fate of his grandchildren,” Knight explained. “Keep this under your hat gentlemen, but a certain Sub- Lieutenant Wales has applied to serve aboard the forthcoming HMS Vancouver."
“She has, huh?” Costello angled his head slightly. “You know, that did always impress me about the royal family. Keeping the old traditions alive."
Powell, a lifelong Republican, just grunted some grudging respect.
“Oh yes. In an earlier age of course they all had swords and plate and horses.” Knight sipped his tea. “Nowadays they have an FTL destroyer or a helicopter gunship. Anyway don’t worry too much about the Prime Minister, Powell. There are powers much older and more influential than him at work, here."
“So, what’s our role?” Powell asked, picking up his boot-brown insult to the word ‘tea.’
“You’re being promoted, old thing. Congratulations.”
“…Already?”
“You’ve been a major for six years, Powell.”
“I have?” Powell sat and calculated furiously. “…Christ, I have.”
“Mm. Really, I would have elevated you sooner, but that NOVA HOUND report didn’t help matters. Don’t worry, you’re just the first in a wave of forthcoming promotions. Room opening up at the top, you see.”
It took Powell a moment to get the hint. “Aw, no, sir-"
“Less of that, man.” Knight chided him gently. “Tremblay’s sixty-two years old, I’m only nine months behind him. The job isn’t done, but neither of us can stay much longer. Time doesn’t work that way. So, Caruthers will be taking over my office and I shall be retiring to a nice estate I’ve picked out up near Sellers Lake, where my granddaughter will have three ponies and I will grow roses, or some other bloody awful twee thing like that.” He sighed. “Time. The enemy you can’t beat. But at least I can knock some sense into the PM before I go.”
He turned to Costello. “Of course, you’ll need to step up as HEAT’s commanding officer.”
Costello nodded. “Yes sir,” he replied. “Though, I’m, uh, concerned. The Lads haven’t seen much action lately, and none with Butler or Parata on the team.”
“There’s always a mission, sooner or later,” Powell said.
“In the meantime, you might think up a nice team challenge for them. Something that the PM can benefit from seeing. Or, better yet, we might do that for you…” Knight did a rare thing and flashed his most dreaded, gentlemanly smile.
Costello was up to it, though. “Well, how about Daar?” he suggested. “He keeps bragging about that First Fang of his…”
“To be fair it’s mostly the Whitecrests that brag up First Fang. Still,” Powell considered, “I’d like to see what they can do, m’self.”
“Why not replay that Guvnurag scenario in the simulator, and have First Fang take a crack at it? It would be a good comparison.”
The Guvnurag scenario was one of their newer training runs. Inspired by the overwhelming show of Hunter force at the Guvnurag homeworld, the idea was to train HEAT operators for the extraction of high-value targets during what Master Sergeant Vandenberg had eloquently summed up as ‘the biggest case of a dynamic FUBAR in all galactic history.’
A lot of their scenarios had been like that since Capitol Station--all training scenarios involving Hunters now assumed that the enemy could and would bring catastrophic mass to bear. The HEAT, it turned out, was training hard to bring all the aggressive impact of raiders to bear in salvaging whatever valuable resources could be snatched out from under the Hunters’ collective noses.
Which was a potential good match; if intelligence was to be believed, absolute unmitigated savagery was First Fang’s stock in trade.
The lingering question was whether they could bring as much savagery. Knight personally doubted it. He didn’t doubt a Gaoian’s spirit, not for a second, but not even the success of the Whitecrests quite counterbalanced the fact that their Clans and other institutions had been under Hierarchy influence for some time by now.
Besides, it was impossible to be familiar with Master Sergeant Firth’s work and not have an extremely high standard for the word ‘savage.’
“Good thinking, that man,” he acknowledged Costello’s idea with a nod. “I think putting the fear of God into our elected leader might be just the ticket.”
Costello smiled handsomely and drank some of his tea. “I think we can deliver there.”
“Good. Now, seeing as Folctha is about to host its first ever official state visit and we are the focus, I think we need to talk about getting the place absolutely ship-shape…"
Date Point: 12y7m3w AV
Manhattan, New York City, USA, Earth
Professor Daniel Hurt
Dan lived by the basic rule that tipping well never harmed a man’s reputation. So, the hotel’s bellhop in his traditional ritzy red uniform retreated from the room babbling promises about what to do if he, Daniel, needed anything else, and…
And Dan finally got some peace.
Book signing tours were like that. Hotel, bookshop, airport, plane, airport, bookshop, hotel. Tiring, but that was what the publishers paid him for. Staying in the good suites at the major international hotels was a perk that helped soften the wearying days.
He kicked off his shoes, laid his socks aside to be laundered, took off his tie and jacket, and sat on the edge of the bed enjoying the sensation of deep carpet under his toes for a few minutes in silence, then checked out the TV.
‘That Show With Steven Lawrence’ was starting in ten minutes. He didn’t just enjoy going on it, he was a fan and it was a welcome way to unwind on a Friday after a hard week, so he changed down into his loungewear, brushed his teeth and grabbed a whisky from the minibar while the commercials were on. He’d already ordered dinner via room service, and the promised New York strip steak with roasted vegetables arrived just as Lawrence was delivering his comedic summary of the week’s events.
He sat down to eat just as Lawrence was wrapping up and bringing on the guests.
“Well, we’ve got a hell of a show for you tonight, but I have to begin with an apology. You see, last week, I promised we’d have Mohammed Najjar, Polly Steinman, Nick Gruenbeck and Martin Østervang on and… you know me, I don’t like to go back on my promises, but I’m afraid we had to this time…”
He waved down the disappointed noises from the audience and carried on.
“…But on this occasion, something happened that we just couldn’t pass up because three, uh, simply incredible young people put the word out there that they have something important to say and were looking for a platform. Well, you know us--” A ripple of laughter. The words themselves hadn’t been funny, but the tone of voice alone had turned it into a joke. “So, instead of our scheduled guests for today, I’d like to instead welcome to the stage a trio of abductees, explorers, astronauts and pioneers, the first humans to walk on the surface of Mars--”
He had to almost shout over the enthusiastic screaming, and Dan immediately went from half-watching the show to giving it his full and undivided attention.
“Please welcome to the stage, Allison Buehler--!”
Buehler had a determination in her step that Dan judged was probably not all that artificial. She looked to him like the sort of woman who confronted her nerves and anxieties head-on, an impression only amplified by her choice of a sharp-cut, slightly conservative, graphite gray dress that accentuated her long limbs and intense demeanor.
That wasn’t a fashion commentary. Dan had learned early on that you could learn many things from the way a person dressed. Buehler struck him as his kind of forthright, no-bullshit type of woman.
“--Julian Etsicitty--!” Julian was more sanguine. He’d been coaxed into a forest green fitted shirt which he made look incredible, and which was tucked into equally well-fitted jeans with a braided brown leather belt. He offered a shy wave to the audience and ran a hand through his artfully shaggy and wild black hair in a moment of obvious nervousness. It was so well-done, Dan crassly wondered for a second if it was a rehearsed move. Probably not, it was too…real. There was a notable uptick in female cheering which got even louder when he smiled unconsciously and glanced downwards. He was a natural, knew it, and was slightly embarrassed by it all.
“And Xiu Chang!"
Dan had to immediately award Xiu several points: The other two had natural good looks and the attention of the makeup artist to fall back on, but Chang owned the stage from the moment she stepped out of the darkness. She had a one-in-a-million natural charisma and Dan sat up, paying rapt attention. Even the long, ragged scars on her arm were somehow elegant. Dan knew what was happening, understood what she was doing and how calculated and deliberate her poise really was, but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t deny the effect it had on him.
“Now that," he muttered, “Is a formidable woman.”
‘Formidable’ seemed like a good word to describe all three of them.
“Thank you for coming, great to have you!” Lawrence pattered, as he escorted the trio to the wide couch that had been set up in place of the usual chair.
“Thank you!” Xiu answered for all of them. “And thanks for having us!”
The applause died down as Lawrence settled into his own seat. “So… wow. I mean, I have some fairly big names on this show, but I don’t know if you guys know just how huge you really are?”
Xiu looked to the other two for that one, and Dan awarded her another point. Letting her do all the talking would have been counterproductive and awkward.
“We’ve been kinda isolated,” Julian said. “And busy.”
“I bet! Months in training then Mars, and… I mean, I had chills,” Lawrence told Xiu. “‘From Mars to the Stars,’ I mean, they’re simple words but you made them beautiful."
“Oh, I lost so many hours of sleep coming up with them…" Xiu confided. “I was just like, ‘don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine…’ but… thank you."
“Well, Armstrong choked on his lines, of course…” Lawrence pointed out.
The trio looked at each other. “I mean…” Allison chimed in. “The thing is, we really don’t like being compared to the Apollo crews. They were legends for us, growing up, you know? Our parents were kids when that happened, and it just feels wrong to us when people talk about us like we’re in the same league."
Humility. And apparently genuine humility, too. Damn, these three were good.
“How are you not?" Lawrence asked. “You’ve explored alien planets, and you worked damn hard to do it. You might not like it, but you are."
“It just feels… I mean, maybe it’s the danger of hero worship,” Julian suggested. “I guess they were just Neil, Buzz and Michael to each other. But… we didn’t train for nearly as long or work nearly as hard as they did. We had a more advanced ship, more advanced gear, artificial gravity…"
“So you think you had it easier?”
“We know we had it easier," Allison agreed.
“Well, easy or not you were still out there in deep space for eighteen months afterwards. What were you doing?”
“Looking for deathworlds!” Julian was obviously a geek under that buff outdoorsy exterior, and clearly the girls were expecting him to let that out for this bit. They sat back while he sat forward on the couch and took the limelight for the moment.
Dan tucked into his steak as he listened. Julian was an engaging storyteller and he knew how much was too much when it came to the technical details of their mission. The steak wasn’t even half-eaten by the time Julian had finished his summary, but even in that brief couple of minutes Dan felt much better educated about why Misfit had flown than he had before.
“So…” Lawrence turned to Allison. “The three of you were pretty quiet and private before leaving Earth, you really didn’t make many appearances.”
“No,” she agreed. “We had, y’know, our training to focus on, and the expedition, and we just wanted to focus on that.”
“You were the source of a lot of gossip, a lot of speculation…”
“About our relationship? Yeah, we’re a triple,” Allison announced, firmly. Dan arched an eyebrow, but the audience took it well: The roar of approving cheers and clapping was deafeningly loud.
Lawrence let it die down while the three of them…well, they’d clearly wanted to keep it private, but had decided that ripping off the band-aid was more painless. Dan thought he detected some surprise at the positive reception.
It didn’t take long for the applause to fade, though, and Lawrence had been given plenty of time to prepare his next question. “What’s that like? How does it work for you guys?”
Xiu chipped in with a distinct lack of poise that made Dan snort laughter. She was clearly besotted with the other two. “It…works. Really well. We’d kinda, um…”
“It works because we’ve figured out how to work it out in private,” offered Julian in a protective tone that was somehow still friendly . “I know we’re not exactly anonymous but…”
Dan knew Lawrence well enough to know that although he didn’t seem to get the hint, that was an act again. His job to tease a little more out of them after all, but he was polite about it. “You don’t get jealous at all?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not even a little,” Julian shook his head, still in good humor even if it was clear he’d rather move on to another subject. “Hell, nothing makes me smile like… well.” He caught himself. “They make me happy. No jealousy.” He glanced to his right at Xiu and Allison, and both smiled sheepishly in return. The three of them were obviously completely smitten, and the audience absolutely ate it up.
“Hell no,” Allison agreed. She was warming up now, in fact she actually seemed to be enjoying herself. “Hell, if I’ve had a rough day, the best cure for it is when I get home to find them cuddled up asleep on the couch.”
“Gives you a warm glow?”
“Yeah, it does. But also, like… they’ll both spring up and one will cook or make me a drink and the other will cuddle me instead, and…"
The audience _‘aww’_ed at length, which got louder and full of laughter when Julian smiled bashfully at his shoes and… well, well. Xiu Chang was a blusher. That one was something of a surprise.
Allison grinned. “Best of both worlds. But… I mean, I’m sure people want to know, but that’s not why we’re here today.”
Dan gave her credit; she knew when and how to deploy blunt-force trauma and the audience applauded quietly; they agreed with the trio. Time to move on, and Lawrence did so without missing a beat.
“So what did you find out there?”
“Well,” Julian offered matter-of-factly. “A lot of boring stuff, some really interesting planets that are in the early stages of life--funny thing, did you know every single one of them has at least one giant moon? We found a planet covered in slime…"
It was an obvious setup. Xiu said with obvious glee, “And the planet of the glitterbugs!”
Julian fished out a small tablet from his rear pocket. He must have arranged a screen share in secret with the producers before the show, because when he called it up, millions of watching Americans were treated to slow-motion, high-dynamic-range state of the art video…of the most dazzling whirl of color Dan had ever seen. No special effect was that…
That…
Real.
He was so captivated that he just stopped thinking and watched. It was the sound that really sold the video’s veracity. The footage was taken from Xiu’s helmet cam and also recorded her voice, recorded the little awed gasp and the candid way her breath stopped. Anybody watching could hear her wonder even though she hardly made a sound.
Then, much too soon, they were back to the studio camera and Xiu was apologetically wiping a small tear from her eye.
Genuine, Dan realized. That wasn’t a show tear, that was a happy memory in liquid form.
“Planet Lucent,” Allison reported. “Habitable, the right class, right climate, right gravity, nobody else living there…there’s a small termite problem--” Julian snorted at that but Allison pressed on, “But that planet right there made the whole mission a success. We found a world that humans could live on, another Cimbrean.”
Somebody in the audience hollered a high C sharp, and that dragged everybody else into a riot of applause and congratulatory cheering that went on for nearly a full minute before Steve Lawrence finally managed to cool it back down.
“But even that isn’t what we came here for today," Xiu said, and immediately had them all eating out of the palm of her hand, Dan included. What could possibly trump what they’d just seen? “What we really came to talk about is who we met while we were out there."
That part was clearly a bombshell that not even Lawrence had known they were planning. He boggled for a second, but rallied magnificently and proved why he was hosting the show when he easily rolled into the new situation.
“Who, you say? Well…we weren’t expecting a first contact situation, were we?”
“It was part of our training and mandate,” said Julian. “Though the plan had been to avoid contact if possible. It really…wasn’t, in this case.”
“Okay, back up. Who are they?”
“They call themselves the People,” said Xiu. “They live on a high-end Class Twelve Deathworld, much like ours. There are some important differences. The gravity is twenty percent higher--”
“--So no chemical rocketry,” interjected Julian. “They’d be trapped there forever, or at least longer than we were.”
“Right,” Xiu noded. “And their years are twenty-one months long and the spring and summer are almost sixteen months long. But the day is almost exactly as long as ours and the disease threat isn’t as bad. It’s a cold world overall but the tropics are a huge temperate rainforest.”
“And that forest is warm and really muggy," added Julian with a laugh. “With huge trees! The Ketta grow over a hundred meters tall, easy!”
“And the trees are important,” Allison joined in. “The People live in them and on the ground. They’re…imagine like a chimp or gorilla sized monkey, except they’re hairless and lean and proportioned closer to us. Really long and strong arms, thick legs too but they’re not super short so they can walk just fine. Also? They’ve got a full-length tail they can swing from--”
“--a bitchin’ Mohawk--" Julian interjected.
“Oh yeah. Bright blaze orange mohawk from head to tail, leathery mottled skin, one less finger and full hands for feet, no nose but a reptile’s tongue to taste the air with--"
“And they can toss me around like nothing,” said Julian with a rueful grin. “Any of ’em.”
“And they’re smart." Xiu added. “Smart like us, like Gaoians. But…they’re stone-aged. And that’s the problem.”
They again let that hang in the air for a moment to let the implication sink in. They did not spoon-feed the audience; smart. Someone had trained them well.
Lawrence had done something he never did and set aside his pencil and cards entirely. “So…If they’re stone age, why did we--you--establish first contact, then?”
Allison took her turn to speak. “It was initially by accident. We…can’t get into all the details for security reasons, but the People are being hunted down and exterminated by a spacefaring civilization.”
She again let that hang in the air for effect. Dan was used to that trick losing its effect if overused, but in this case, for whatever reason--maybe the subject matter, maybe just charisma--it kept its power for her.
Lawrence lowered his hands, looking genuinely stunned. “They-? But-?…Why? And how did you find that out?”
“We have theories on the why, but…yeah. Not gonna talk about that. The People are completely harmless, they’re innocent. There’s no good reason why a spacefaring civilization would want to kill them all.” Julian was clearly a man who could get very angry for the right cause, and Dan could hear in his voice that if whatever entity was responsible for the genocide crossed his path, that entity would regret it.
“As for the how,” Allison chimed in, “Misfit is a survey ship. Her whole job is to find useful planets with useful resources. From a low orbit we can do a geophysics survey, no problem. She found the anomalies in seconds."
“What anomalies?”
“Blast craters. Four of them. Antimatter bombs.” Julian’s voice was grim. “Just like the one in California. We think there used to be small towns or something on the coast. The bad guys showed up just as the People started to figure out civilization, and…stopped it."
Silence. Even Lawrence didn’t have anything to fill that gap. If silence was a noise, then the silence from the audience was pounding. Dan tried to sit forward as if that might break the tension, and flinched when he nearly knocked a forgotten, half-eaten, cold steak onto the carpet.
Lawrence finally remembered himself. “…How did the contact happen?”
“We started sweeping from orbit and the geomagnetic scanner just went nuts," Allison said. “Okay? It was finding these huge ferrous masses dotted around the forest interior of the continent, forming a line. North of that line, we could see villages, cooking fires, cleared areas… south of that line? Nothing."
“And you landed?”
“We had to.” Xiu explained. “Part of our mandate was to offer aid if absolutely necessary.”
Dan remembered the public debate about that one. Byron Group had published a manifesto of sorts on exploration and had sought public comment. There had been very little in the way of agreement by anyone on anything, but that item had enjoyed very broad support. The rest…had been left to the crew, explicitly, with the comments as guidance.
The GRA had weighed in heavily, as had the UN, Canada, the UK, and the US but none had directly interfered, at least not publically. Really, it was the best anyone could have hoped for.
“One of the metal masses was out of formation, ranging way ahead of the line, and we couldn’t see any villages near it,” Xiu explained. “We picked that one, and put down near it. The idea was that hopefully we could avoid making contact and still figure out what was happening…well, that metal mass turned out to be…”
“This,” Julian growled.
He swiped to the next slide on his tablet, and Dan gawked at the sight of Allison standing squarely in front of a huge, angular metal…
It was clearly some kind of a tank, the gun under its nose was evidence of that. The general shape was something like that of an earwig or a short centipede, and Dan caught himself leaning instinctively away from the screen on a little wave of entomophobia. It was slumped over on its side and black oil had stained the earth around it.
“This is where things get weird, because for some reason it was inert,” Julian continued. “Not just inert, its access panels had been opened and somebody had hacked up the insides with a stone knife.”
“The People?”
“Yeah. But they said it was ‘asleep’ when they found it."
“They said that?” Lawrence asked. “How did you actually meet them?”
“So… after examining that… tank, crawler thing, we wandered into the woods to look around. Now at that point, it was just us out there,” Allison indicated Julian and herself. “Xiu was back on the ship, watching our suit sensors for us, and a whole bunch of heat signatures just suddenly surrounded us, quiet as a mouse. We didn’t hear anything."
“Xiu spotted those heat signatures literally at the last second,” said Julian. “I asked Allison to turn on her tactical flashlight and…we met the People. With spears pointed right at us. Turns out their village was high up in a little valley on the mountain, which had made it impossible to see from orbit.”
“Scary moment,” Allison recalled. “I really thought it was gonna go bad.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, definitely,” Julian agreed. “I’ll be perfectly honest I’ve never been that scared in my entire life. See--everything we said about what these guys look like really doesn’t do them justice. You’ve gotta see them in person. So, this is Yan, their, uh, chieftain I guess. He’s what they call the Given- Man."
The studio screens flickered as Julian swiped through the pics, and Dan watched rapt.
Yan was at most about the same height as Xiu, but he was built like the offspring of a silverback gorilla and a linebacker. His long arms and short legs only amplified his squat solidity and naturally muscular athleticism. The photos were mostly relaxed poses or candids, though later on Yan grew into a bit of a ham and snarled or acted for the camera in a strangely friendly and playfully aggressive way. His crest stood much taller than the others’ and was vividly red instead of the bright blaze orange of the men, the more subdued color of the women, or the ginger of the youths. He was…impressive.
The audience sure thought so. Some forms of charisma transcended species and Yan could not be ignored in any photo, no matter what else was in view.
“From what we can tell, some males of this species go through a kind of second puberty,” Julian began to explain, “round about the same time their women would go through the menopause…”
“We think,” added Xiu. “We’re not exactly sure what is going on but there’s only one Given-Man--that’s Yan--per tribe. Always, without exception. And they all look something like that. Maybe not as big, but… The little one next to him is Vemik, he’s an adolescent.”
“He’s an adolescent?"
Dan couldn’t blame Lawrence for his incredulity. Vemik may have been much smaller than Yan but he was still a well-muscled specimen who looked strong enough to rip a phonebook in half.
“He’s a young adolescent," Julian added with some obvious fondness. “And he’s probably the most inquisitive person I’ve ever met.”
Lawrence was losing his usual professional composure and seemed to be geeking out just like anybody else now. “He looks like an olympic gymnast.”
“He is a gymnast, no question. You should see him in the trees! They’re all like that but remember, he’s their little guy and he’s strong. He’s around this tall--" Julian gestured five feet of the ground, “--but he masses at least what I do!"
“You’re not a small guy, either,” Lawrence commented. It was true. Julian wasn’t more than averagely tall, but he had a broad chest and well-developed shoulders that hinted at a lifetime of hard physical work.
“Yeah. And he’s really playful, too. Super curious, loves to talk and tussle. They’re all like that, more or less."
“Even Yan?”
“Yeah! But…he’s also scary as f-, uh, scary as hell.” Julian caught himself at the last second and the audience laughed knowingly. “I’ve said it many times to many people, but I’m pretty sure when we first met, Yan was ready to literally rip our heads off. Vemik saved us. This kid whose idea of cutting edge technology is a bow and arrow figured out what our guns were and jumped in front of Yan to stop him from attacking us.”
“So you were at odds with these guys at first?”
“Can you blame them?” Allison asked. “Metal demons were roaming their forest, slaughtering whole villages. They had every reason to be wary at first. But we made nice, eventually.”
“How?”
Julian chuckled. “Food and wrestling, mostly.”
“Wait, you wrestled Yan?"
“Nah,” said Allison with a teasing grin. “He got wrestled by Yan. You wanna see the video?"
Julian grinned ruefully as the audience laughed along to several clips of Yan being boisterously playful with the children, with Vemik and the men, and eventually with Julian himself. The short clips were chosen with obvious care; it was one thing to see Yan play fight with his own kind but it was quite another to see an impressive man like Julian being so hugely outsized and outmatched by a smirking gorilla that one honestly feared for his safety. In any case both men were clearly enjoying themselves.
Lawrence chuckled in slight disbelief, “You’re a braver man than I!”
The audience laughed along in agreement, which prompted another bashful reaction from Julian and more delighted sounds from the ladies.
He eventually shrugged, “Well…I trust him. Guy like that can’t lead if people can’t trust his leadership, right? You just gotta get to know him. And anyway, play is really important to them. It’s important for any intelligent life.”
“Absolutely,” Xiu agreed. “Gaoians love to play too. Play is a proxy for trust. You’re vulnerable when you’re playing with someone, or sparring, or whatever. Once Yan, um…made his point, I guess? That he trusted Julian enough to play? The village was friendlier after that."
Lawrence again showed why he was the king of late-night. “So, they’re loyal and intelligent."
“They are incredibly intelligent," enthused Xiu. “Easily as intelligent as us. But…language. That’s where the first of the really big problems start.”
“Language?”
Xiu smiled cheekily--the first really good smile on that stage in minutes--and spoke something fluid and ululating. Lawrence gawped at her.
“…You learned their language?”
“Yup. And… that’s the problem. It has a tiny vocabulary," Xiu explained. “I mean… I’m the language expert on the crew. I speak English, Mandarin, Gaori, a little French and Cortan, I can even understand Domain… picking up the few thousand words the People have was easy.”
Dan saw the problem instantly. Language defined the borders and the tools with which human beings thought. Presumably, that same pattern extended to other species--he’d need to do more research, maybe get on that new Gaoian academic exchange--but if they had a neolithic command of words…Words were tools, and just like simple stone-age tools put hard limits on what the People could build, their simple stone-age language would put similar limits on what they could think.
Lawrence was sharp. “And that means they started picking up our language, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. Just from listening to us. And… I mean, we had to explain to these guys just how big the trouble they’re in is. You can’t do that in Peoplespeak."
“We had to give them some ability to know what the threat was and how to respond, because we had to leave. At any time, the, uh, ‘bad guy’ might have returned to finish the job, right? What could we do? If these robots woke up and killed us three, nobody on Earth would ever know about the People, and…"
“We thought long and hard about it. Days, actually, just spent crying about what we had to do," Xiu elaborated. “But…we decided, that if we were to leave maybe never to come back, we had to at least explain some of the threat. And…we taught them how to make steel.”
“Oh, no…” Dan put his neglected steak aside and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, no. You didn’t."
Lawrence took a long moment to gather his thoughts. “Many would consider that…unwise.”
“We consider it unwise!" Julian exploded. “It absolutely is! It’s a horrible, dangerous thing to do. Just… I mean, the whole thing from start to finish is a disaster for the People. But there was a choice: we could leave them, and not tell them about the caldera they live on--another fun little detail. We could tell them about the danger, but then what? What could they do? We did a high orbital survey. There are less than twenty thousand of their kind left, and all of them live on that active caldera. As in, had erupted within living memory. And all that with some kind of sky-enemy that wants them all dead, but is, I dunno, off doing other things?"
“If it’s a case of adapt or die,” Allison said, and Dan got the impression that she had spoken those exact words several times recently, “I say we help them adapt.”
Julian sobered up. “So, in the end, we had to make a really bad choice. We could either leave them blissfully unaware and hope we could get back in time to do something…or we could give them the tiniest possible chance to survive. That’s what it really boiled down to. Because if the bad guys decide to start up again, all we can do is give them a little bit of an edge."
“That” Xiu said, quietly, “Is why we came here.”
“Surely we’ll go back!”
“Says who?” said Julian candidly. “The thing is, there are a lot of people here who have a lot of interests at play, and they’re probably all mad at us.”
“Especially for coming here, and saying this,” Allison agreed. “We might never go back out into space again, that’s the consequence we’re accepting here. But again, this was also part of our mandate. We have no right to keep this to ourselves.”
Julian nodded with her. “We’ve protected everyone’s equities as best we can--”
Dan understood that to mean they were leaving some big details out.
“--But we can’t let anyone have the final say on this. We all need the final say. Because we explored, and we found a people about to be snuffed out. They’re good people, too, and they’re so much like us it’s honestly a little scary. So…what do we do?"
“…Jesus.” Lawrence managed at last. “I…”
Dan had never dreamed he’d see the day when Steve Lawrence was rendered speechless.
“We would be remiss if we didn’t give credit where it was due,” said Xiu, going into what Dan saw immediately was damage control mode, unruffling some powerful feathers. “Byron Group has been remarkably understanding about all of this. Moses Byron himself was, uh…not happy at first. But he understands what’s at stake. I think we all do.”
“…You said those antimatter blast craters were like… do you think there’s a connection?” Lawrence asked.
Julian raised a hand. “We’re only reporting on the facts as best we can.”
He didn’t fool Dan. Julian knew they were connected. And Dan would bet a million dollars Julian didn’t fool half the viewing audience, either.
He grabbed his phone and got Diana Wimmer on speed dial.
On screen, Lawrence was getting something like his usual interview style back. “But…steel! Couldn’t you have started at, what, copper? Bronze?”
“No, that would’ve been--”
Dan stopped paying attention as Julian launched into his rationale, because Diana picked up on the second ring.
“You’re watching?” she asked.
“I am. Holy shit."
“I know. God, this is either going to go nuclear, or…”
“It sounds like it already did. And… you were hinting about those rumours on what Sartori was saying at the GRA meeting after the Ambassador was killed…”
“Yeah. Christ, Dan, I don’t even know how to start reporting this. I’m gonna be called in for an emergency editor’s meeting any second now, what the hell do I take to that table?"
“Back them,” Dan said, instantly and with uncharacteristic passion. “Back them to the fucking hilt. I will and so will every motherfucker I’ve ever done business with.”
Diana’s pause on the line was long enough for them to overhear some more of the conversation.
“So…we took the long way ’round to steel?” Lawrence was asking.
“Yup! But…that’s the thing, that means they have an opportunity to…not make a lot of the same mistakes we did. And…yeah. This kinda thing almost never goes well in our history. If we’re gonna do this, as a species…we really gotta take the time and think about how we’re gonna save them. I don’t want them to die because we meant well."
He was talking past the sale, Dan realized. Julian was a natural. Either that, or it was a case of competence brought on by the high stakes. Or both.
Whatever the reason, it sure as hell worked on Diana. “Okay. Okay, I’m with you. Shit, I never imagined that…”
“Yeah. Me either.”
Another long silence. Xiu Chang was speaking again. “…need to think about everything here, but we can’t nanny them. They’ve got to make their own path, we just need to be there to offer advice while they do."
Allison nodded. “Like the old saying goes, we can’t just give ’em a fish, we gotta teach ’em how to fish."
Dan realised that his mouth had gone dry. Because Allison was wrong, the problem was so much more than that. They had to teach an alien people the concept of fishing. The concept of concepts. And it needed to be done so that the People figured it out for themselves, and hopefully kept their identity without becoming humanity’s pets.
Holy fuck.
“Hey,” He asked slowly. “You remember that question you asked me in the green room after the show the other week?”
He could almost hear Diana arching an eyebrow over the phone. “Which one?”
“You asked me if I was considering a change of career…”
Date Point: 12y7m3w AV
The White House, Washington DC, USA, Earth
President Arthur Sartori
“You beautiful, beautiful kids. God bless you!"
“The security council is not going to like that."
“Margaret, I don’t even care… I think it’s about time I had a talk with Moses Byron again, don’t you?”
Date Point: 12y7m3w AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Daar
“Remember, it’s a live fire exercise but the simulation uses low-power kinetic pulse so you’ll still feel it.” Daar fiddled with Brother Tyal’s MILES equipment, making sure it was perfectly seated. “And you play dead if your gear tells ’ya you’ve been shot."
“Yes, my Champion…we understood the brief.”
Daar was doing his best not to be overbearing, or to fuss over the Brothers of First Fang like a particularly anxious Mother, but this was important. Tyal was doing an admirable job of keeping his composure, but right now that composure didn’t feel appropriate. Daar would have much preferred to see a small crack in his Brother’s calm, just so he knew that Tyal had properly grasped the gravity of the occasion.
The Whitecrests, after all, had already won Human trust and respect. But Whitecrest was a very different creature to Stoneback, and Daar would not allow his Clan to be the ‘sidekick.’
And there was still that belligerent Naxas shitting in the room; Regaari and Genshi had both dropped their hints. Something desperately important was going on, and while Daar had his own theories about what the specifics were, there was no denying the violence on the horizon.
If there was to be a fight, First Fang would be there. And to ‘Hell’ with unimportant reasons like pride or the honor of the Clan, they would be there because First Fang was the best and a fight that scoured away cities and got deathworlders worried required nothing less than that.
…Well. The best the Gao had, anyway. The humans were better and it was humbling. Daar was proud to have taught his battle-brothers of the SOR a few things, but the fact was that he had learned rather more from them. He was bigger and fitter now than ever before, sharper in mind and body, quicker in claw and reason…and all of that in a very short time, too. The humans had earned his respect in more than just the jovial, friendly way he liked basically everybody.
But despite all that, none of them had actually seen how a Stoneback really fought, not even from him. He was nervous about it. It wouldn’t be the cold, precise violence the HEAT were so good at. It would be a bloodbath, though Stoneback were far from mindless animals when they fought. They fought with heart and head, with tooth and gun. They were good…. He just wasn’t sure if the Humans would agree?
He was almost desperate to impress them and it showed. Tyal flicked an ear, and unwound slightly. “…And we understand the stakes, my Champion,” he added, for Daar’s ears only.
“…I know. I’m sorry.” Daar reined it in. While he was especially eager to impress Stainless--he hadn’t craved another male’s approval so strongly since he took his First Rite at the hands of then-Father Garl, all those many years ago--that was no excuse for disrespecting Tyal’s competence.
“It’s fine. I feel almost like a First Ring initiate again myself.”
Daar lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “They do that. I remember my first tussle with ‘Highland.’ It was…humbling. Took a month before I could fight back at all.”
“Isn’t he smaller than you?”
Daar was sufficiently self-aware to know when his ego was being pricked, but not quite controlled enough to not care. “Size isn’t everything,” he grumbled. “Besides. They have an advantage with their shoulders. Never wrestle them!"
“Champion.” Tyal’s tone was amused and patient. “You have been training with these humans for a long time. We’ve read your reports and we haven’t sat on our tails. Trust me--First Fang is as good as it ever was. Better, probably."
Daar flattened his ears, a bit stung. “I trust you, you know that. It’s…maybe I’m more nervous for myself. I gotta perform on the ‘HEAT’ when they do their scenario.”
“Oh?”
Daar shrugged, “I got a lot to prove, Brother.”
“Gentlemen?”
Technical Sergeant Kovač was slightly impenetrable as far as Daar was concerned. He was certain that she knew more Gaori than she let on, but that enigmatic smile of hers was apparently confounding even for the humans who knew her best.
“The scenario’s ready,” she announced.
Daar pulled Brother Tyal to himself and they touched noses quickly. He used the ancient Stoneback battle cant, which he knew for a fact that Kovač didn’t speak. [“Protect and provide, Brother.] I’ll take care of the rest.”
She raised her eyebrow, too. Now Daar was certain.
“Daar, you’ve been invited to watch from the observation room,” she told him.
Which meant it was time for him to regain and show his confidence. A Champion could never afford to do otherwise, especially him. He clapped Tyal firmly on the shoulder and left the room before the temptation to give some last- minute advice could overtake him.
The observation room was four floors up, and Kovač trotted lightly up the stairs humming to herself as she tapped on her tablet. “I’m looking forward to seeing this,” she said conversationally, on the third flight.
“They’ll be a lot different to the Whitecrests,” Daar warned her.
“Yeah-huh. That’s why I’m looking forward to it. Those suits the Whitecrests use are incredible, but I wanna see what a Gaoian can do without."
“Oh, you will. And I suspect,” he grumbled, “You won’t ever forget it, either.”
“I hope not!” Kovač opened the door at the top. Admiral Knight, Rear Admiral Caruthers and soon-to-be Lieutenant-Colonel Powell were already there, and waiting. “We’re all eager to see what they can teach us.”
Daar found there was genuine pleasure in his grin, rather than pure bravado. For all his worries, somehow that simple display of human humility was enough to make his worries about First Fang’s performance evaporate.
“They won’t disappoint,” he promised.
They didn’t.
Date Point: 12y7m3w AV
Test Site Liana, New Enewetak System, Deep Space
Lt. Col. Claude Nadeau
At long, long last the opportunity had arisen to fly and land somewhere using a human-made vehicle rather than a standard-issue Dominion civilian shuttle, and it was everything the designers had promised. Hephaestus LLC, stung by Byron Group’s recent history of surging ahead in small spacecraft development, had turned out their best work in producing the CS-200 Weaver-class transport.
Functionally, it felt no different than flying in a C-130, or a Chinook. In fact the only noticeable difference was that it was quieter, with no jet engines or turboshaft rotors. Kinetic thrusters produced a kind of high electronic whine at most, like an old CRT television, and from inside the Weaver’s hull that sound was inaudible.
Every specification Nadeau had seen for it was thrilling, too. It could move like a bat out of hell thanks to its capacitor banks, and for short bursts it even had an acceleration profile almost as good as that of a Firebird. It had a range of several hundred lightyears and was perfectly capable of instant re- use Ground-Orbit-Ground flight.
It achieved all that while being as well-armored as a light tank and layered in dozens of “speed bump” shields designed to dissipate and deflect incoming fire rather than stop it outright. And of course it had those essential safety features that every spaceship needed but surprisingly many lacked…like seatbelts.
Those seatbelts weren’t needed for this descent, though: The ride was smooth and uneventful. With nothing worse to deal with than a gentle weather front, the Weaver dropped comfortably down into the atmosphere in a dazzling halo of plasma, shifted its flight fields into a fixed-wing configuration and glided to the landing site on a whisper and silence. Nadeau knew the pilot was grinning, even though all he could see of the man was the back of his head.
“LZ in sight, positions for touchdown…”
VTOL from ground to orbit to ground again. Ten years ago, the idea would have been pure fantasy. Now it was cutting edge technology. Soon, it would be routine.
Along with Von Neumann probes, apparently. Nadeau could see the “colony” site that the probe had built up ahead, and while its lines had seemed straight, clean and solid enough from orbit, they looked even better up close.
The Weaver’s pilot set them down on a flat spot of ground some ways north of the actual designated landing pad, and a respectful distance from any of the robots the Coltainer probe had sent down. Those at first glance looked crude and half-made, but the impression was probably a lifetime of experience throwing a false positive at him. He was used to industrial equipment being painted and having corporate logos and safety instructions all over them, whereas these were designed to be built and to work without human supervision. They were gunmetal sketches, practical and solid but… unfinished, somehow.
The same was emphatically not true of the colony structures themselves.
A lot of planning had gone into creating the basic compound. The idea was that it would serve as a basic base of operations with all the essential amenities that the first wave of colonists might need. Not just lighting and water, but everything right down to a small nanofactory, and that was the bit that made the whole program workable: In theory, the colonists would land and be assembling upgrades and expansions to their colony pretty much as soon as they’d unpacked their possessions.
Nadeau’s Weaver was actually the second to touch down. The first had been full of engineers from every allied nation, who were going over the printed concrete buildings in teams, checking the walls, the wiring, the plumbing, the flooring…everything.
Sergeant Lee was among them, accepting feedback on the quality of the construction while waiting for the transports to land. He saw Nadeau step down the ramp and saluted. “Welcome to test site Liana, sir.”
Nadeau returned the gesture. “It looks good from above.”
“Looks even better from down here,” Lee told him, and handed over his tablet. “The construction robots might look janky, but they build well. This whole site is better-made than Scotch Creek.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. We threw Scotch Creek together in a hurry…” Nadeau looked around. “So it’s fit for human habitation?”
“Yeah-huh. Heck, with a bit of tweaking this technology is going to revolutionize construction on Cimbrean and Earth, too. You have to give the Locayl credit, these things are great.”
Nadeau nodded. Like so many things in the Coltainer, the construction ’bots were a human redesign of alien technology and it was common galactic knowledge that the Locayl knew construction better than anybody. By all accounts, their cities were breathtaking. Some of their more advanced construction techniques were still beyond human grasp for now, but not by much: Once the principle was out of the way, all that was left were the programming and the materials science.
“Okay,” he looked around again. “Before you start showing me the details, let’s break it down to a big yes-or-no question. Could people live here long- term, even without support from Earth?”
Lee took a moment before replying. He stared thoughtfully around at the construction work, tapping his pen thoughtfully against his lips, then nodded.
“…Yeah. Hell, they’d be pretty comfortable. Might be a few teething issues we haven’t found yet but the buildings are solid, the plumbing works, the wiring’s good…if they came here with plenty of food and enough crop seed, they’d be good. It’ll take some expansion work before there’s enough housing for a sustainable population, but with this foothold alone…”
“It was supposed to shave years off the colony-building process,” Nadeau reminded him.
“And it probably does. Of course, we won’t know for certain until some people come here to live in it.”
Nadeau smiled and rubbed his hands together with a clap. “That,” he said, “would be the next step…give me the tour.”
“Gladly…”
Date Point: 12y8m AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Rear Admiral William Caruthers
Fleet legend had a lot to say on the subject of HEAT operators. Most of those stories, air recycling on a spaceship being what it was, came from HMS Caledonia and had to do with their legendary body odor.
The rest had to do with violence. The shuttle pilots in particular had enjoyed the privilege of watching HEAT operators drop out the back of their ride and inflict harm on a scale normally reserved for aerial bombardment.
Even accounting for exaggeration, those were some tall tales, and Caruthers was eager to see if they stood up to reality. Seeing that kind of performance in action might just help him endure having to make nice with the Prime Minister, a man whose career had begun with strident calls for nuclear disarmament.
In all the rush and confusion of trying to find appropriate officers to fill the gaps as the chain of command in the space fleet moved up a link, he’d almost forgotten the demonstration today. Filling his own shoes had been easy --Rajesh Bathini, captain of HMS Caledonia, had seniority. Bathini in turn had appointed his XO, Commander McDaniel…and the PM had objected. Even though Admiral Knight’s signature had gone nowhere near McDaniel’s promotion, she was still his daughter and the PM had smelled nepotism.
The man was going to be a pain to handle, clearly.
Fortunately, there were others present. Governor Sandy, Chief Ares and Cimbrean’s three supreme court judges all got their fair share of the PM’s time, so he’d finally had a chance to orbit higher out and catch up with the newly-minted Lieutenant-Colonel Owen Powell.
Now there was an easy icebreaker. “Never seen a man look so grumpy over a promotion, Powell.”
“You’ve never had a promotion party thrown for you by ten tonnes of American beef,” Powell confided, sharing something that might almost have been a wry smile.
“Sounds exhausting.”
“A dozen puppies, the smallest of whom puts a WWE heavyweight to shame, and they all want to show you how much you mean to them." Powell actually looked fond. “Aye. Exhausting is the word.”
“Here’s hoping they can turn some of that energy on Davies,” Caruthers mused. The far end of the room was becoming an impromptu parade ground as HEAT operators both human and Gaoian lined up to shake hands. They’d apparently chosen to present themselves in ascending order of size. Sergeants Firth and Ares were having a mostly covert wrestling match to determine who stood on the end.
Firth won, via superior height and dirty tricks.
“Do they…always do that?”
“Aye, at all times, everywhere. They have a chart on the wall and everything.” Powell adjusted his collar. “For them, it’s healthy. Hell, that little tussle there was discreet and polite.”
“The Gaoians seem much more…restrained.”
“They’re the civilized lot. Even Champion Daar, when he wants to be.”
Daar himself flicked an ear at the mention of his name, but didn’t move. He was standing a good bit to the right of the next-largest Gaoian, in among the humans.
The Prime Minister made his way down the line, politely nodding and smiling without covering his teeth, Caruthers noted. That would need to be trained out of him. He spared a little longer for Murray, delivered a handshake firm and trustworthy enough to leave all of the Whitecrests massaging their paws, nodded politely at the human Operators and paused when he reached Champion Daar.
“You’re certainly a big fellow!”
“I am! Champion and Stud-Prime Daar. Hi!” He stuck out a paw that would make a grizzly bear blush, and gave Davies a taste of his own medicine. The PM’s smile became…strained.
“You’ve got a laborer’s grip, not bad! But you should pro’ly be careful with us weak little aliens,” he advised, baring his teeth in an imitation friendly grin that looked much more like a snarl.
“Erm….yes. Thank you for that.”
Daar released his grip and immediately slapped the PM on the shoulder. “If you ever visit Gao, we’ll give you the Champion’s treatment! I think the word is…state visit?”
Davies looked over desperately at his aide for clarification, and was treated to a few urgent words whispered in his ear.
“Oh! Right. Yes!” he managed, grinning weakly and trying to massage his hand without looking like he was massaging his hand. Caruthers gave silent thanks to long and arduous training sessions for the way he was able to keep a straight face while watching the odious little prat get wrong-footed.
When the PM had moved off, Daar looked Caruthers dead in the eye and winked.
They watched with interest as Davies tried--and failed--to recover his dignity by testing his handshakes on the Beef Trio. Firth in particular managed to be both perfectly polite and perfectly intimidating at the same time, and the only thing that stopped Ares from doing something similar was the tiniest shake of the head from his father.
Formalities complete, they settled in for the actual meat of the session-- reviewing the simulator run. Stoneback’s First Fang had been invited along and were hanging off to the side, unwilling to inject themselves into the politics of the moment. All of them were…impressive. Not so much as Daar, but few of any species were.
They watched with interest as the ‘highlight reel’ from their scenario was called up by one of the simulation technicians, who conversed briefly with Technical Sergeant Kovač before launching into the mission objective.
“Scenario one, ground-based. The target installation has been overrun with Hunters, and key personnel and materiel must be evacuated from the field at any cost. The enemy is present in overwhelming numbers and the assault force must secure their ingress, hold the line, retrieve the HVTs, egress via jump array and, if possible, destroy the installation.”
Caruthers watched with interest. Ground combat was of course not his forte, but many of the principles were identical. Surprise, Speed, Security and Shock were at the core of spaceship battle doctrine just as much as they were at the heart of the kind of ultra-aggressive ground assault he was watching. Species be damned, breaching and clearing a room was the same for everybody.
The Stoneback commander was one Brother Tyal, who stepped up to provide a running commentary. “We cleared our entry towards the objective using simulated air support. We would normally use Firefang assets for this but the Humans kindly provided in this case.”
The aforementioned air support…mowed a line right through the veritable anthill of hunters surrounding the installation. The Royal Navy pinned the Hunters in place and destroyed their orbital superiority with American nuclear devices, the Air Force’s fighter wing made very quick work of the Hunter’s air superiority, and the aforementioned close air support left little opposing First Fang’s ingress. From there, First Fang assault craft sped towards the installation and disgorged what could only be described as an angry wolf pack of assaultmen.
Once inside the installation the fight was man-on-man and their performance was… the word that sprang to mind was ‘feral,’ yet they were obviously quite competent and the mission had been accomplished with precision and skill. They wore only light armor and carried little besides weapons, yet they were so quick and aggressive it seemed not to matter. Every phase of the mission was stunningly violent and fast, especially the egress, where they detonated a nuclear device to destroy the installation. They left such an impressive trail of Hunter carnage in their wake it had even Firth nodding his approval. Daar, standing apart from everyone else, rumbled his own.
Had the simulated Hunters been flesh, the members of First Fang would undoubtedly still have reeked of blood and guts. The room stood quiet for a moment. The aggression on display had been breathtaking.
Tyal broke the silence. “Our objective was achieved at the cost of one Brother killed in action and two wounded. We estimate over one hundred thousand Hunters destroyed at the objective, the installation denied their plunder, and the targets secured to friendly control.”
He scratched at his scarred muzzle thoughtfully. “Obviously, the casualties are the big learning point here.” He turned to face the Whitecrests. “Officer Regaari, my Champion speaks very highly of you. Do you have any criticism to offer?”
Regaari duck-nodded to Tyal and to Daar with what Caruthers judged to be gratitude in the set of his ears, and took a step forward. His prosthetic paw drummed thoughtfully on his opposite forearm for a second as he thought.
“Whitecrest could never match your level of violence,” he said, obviously quite impressed. “But I think, perhaps, in his zeal to achieve the objective, Brother Kiru failed to discern the threat that claimed him and which may have been avoided with clearer communication.”
Kiru’s fellows pounced him in good humor as Tyal nodded along. “A fair critique, one we shall endeavor to improve upon.”
Daar chittered somewhere in the baritone. “You’re using your big words again, Brother!”
Tyal flattened his ears to the raucous chittering jeers of his fellows. “You’ll never let me live that down, will you? Even ten years later!”
“Nope,” Daar chirred smugly. “Shouldn’t pretend ’yer civilized when you ain’t! I never do.”
The levity took some of the edge off, and everybody nodded around as the simulator tech loaded up the next highlight reel.
“Spaceborne scenario, HEAT Whitecrest. The mission is covert infiltration of a space station with the objective of retrieving an enemy commander for interrogation. For the purposes of this scenario, the HVT is a human…”
Date Point: Three days earlier
SOR training facility, HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Regaari
“Strike hard,”
“Strike fast,”
“Strike once…”
“Strike unseen.” SOUTHPAW finished. Humans would have produced the punchline in a lusty chorus, but Gaoians, or Whitecrests at least, didn’t work that way. The mantra was enough.
“Cubs play pounce.”
Regaari had to hand it to the humans: They’d come up with a hell of a training system. Apparently the idea had its roots, as so many human things did, in fiction. Specifically something called a ‘holodeck.’ Akiyama insisted that the Sharman training center was a pale imitation of a ‘real’ holodeck--and only a human would refer to the fictional thing as the “real” version--but reality was impressive enough.
The SOR’s training techs could assemble a one-to-one replica of any constructed environment in hours, populate it with simulated friends, foes and civilians of any species, and adjust the scenario on the fly from their control room. Some cosmetic details might be missing, but other details were impressively present. Details like the silent rush of air and loose debris as the Brothers created a small hull breach through which to board their MDF and spraypaint space station. Details like the way SOUTHPAW’s infiltration of the station’s networks contained the damage control alarm.
Gaoians could do things that humans couldn’t. Sticky electrostatic pads on the Suit paws allowed the brothers to swarm four-pawed across the walls and ceilings, ignoring conventional notions of “up” and “down” in favor of total control of the three-dimensional space of a room. Gaoians were good climbers even without the suits, but ‘spider-manning’ as the humans called it was a whole different game.
It certainly made infiltration a breeze. Absolutely nothing in the galaxy was instinctively alert for dangers from above.
The humans had offered a small cash reward to a Folctha citizen who was willing to join in what Blaczynski insisted were called their ‘reindeer games.’ The reference was impenetrable even for Regaari but the principle was simple: Hire a colonist, pay the colonist, give the colonist some simple instructions. Instructions like “Some Gaoians are going to try and capture you. Try not to let them.”
Regaari hated to admit it, but whenever he got the chance to stalk and pounce on a human, he got the faintest flicker of understanding where the Hunters might be coming from. Deep in their DNA, Gaoians were ambush predators. Cubs played pounce because stalking and ambushing something was fun--stalking and ambushing something that was actually difficult to stalk and ambush was both fun and rewarding.
Doing so to a human scratched an itch. Just for a moment, Regaari could forget that he was dealing with a species that outmatched him in every way. In the moment of the successful pounce, he and his Brothers were the better creatures. Fun, rewarding…and cathartic.
Which was why “Brandon”--Regaari never had learned his surname--never saw the abduction coming. He was alert, even nervous, and nothing was more alert than a jittery human…so the moment when Regaari and Thurrsto simultaneously dropped from the ceiling and had him pinned to the deck in one well-practiced pounce was oh so very sweet.
“JEEEEZZZusss fuck! How-? Where the….?”
“Shh. We sticky-patched you. You’re unconscious now, okay?” Thurrsto said, and tapped conspiratorially on the side of his muzzle in imitation of the human gesture.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
Faarek had the portable jump array set up in a heartbeat. The three of them carried the “unconscious” and giggling Brandon efficiently into its field boundary, the rest of the team joined them, and they hit the jump button.
It wasn’t a real jump array of course. Hitting the button just sounded the klaxon to signal the end of the simulation, and Regaari glanced up at the clock on the training warehouse’s ceiling. Less than four minutes from ingress to egress. No shots fired, no alarms sounded, no violence necessary.
All in all…anticlimactic.
But damn had he enjoyed it.
Date Point: 12y8m AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Rear Admiral William Caruthers
The Stonebacks had earned the PM’s attention and discomfort through sheer untamed violence. They’d torn into their scenario like a sledgehammer, smashing and crushing and ruining wherever they landed.
The surgical Whitecrest performance put him equally off-balance, not least because Admiral Knight was discreetly dripping some choice observations in his ear. Observations such as Whitecrest’s own threat assessment of the Hunters. The idea was quite simple: Put the fear of God into the man, then let him know what God was afraid of.
To judge by his expression, Davies was listening.
Regaari finished summing up his commentary on the operation. “Target secured. No casualties, though some of our movement wasn’t as well-planned as we’d have liked: we had no intel on the layout of the target’s office, and we didn’t have time to properly evaluate the ventilation system for security countermeasures. Brother Tyal, do you have any thoughts?”
Tyal studied the simulation carefully. “Play back the scene where they entered the environmental ducting, please?” The tech did so dutifully.
“Ah. See that?” He gestured with a claw tip, “How your equipment is moving in the wind? That vent was blowing toward those guards, it could have carried your scent and led to your detection.”
Regaari paused, then duck-nodded ruefully. “I can’t argue with that. The suits make us less sensitive to scent and airflow. We shall note this in our training plan.”
Caruthers looked over at Powell, who was watching the reviews with a slightly arched eyebrow. He met Caruther’s eye, nodded, and spoke up. “Excellent observations,” he announced. “We’ll break for a bit now and grab a bite before reviewing the third scenario--Rear Admiral Caruthers has kindly laid out a spread for us and I don’t intend to let it go to waste.”
There was some appreciative chucking from the Lads, and they needed no further encouragement: they bounced over to the table and were quickly layering frankly alarming amounts of food onto their plates. Caruthers hoped it would be enough; he’d told his Chief Steward to go heavy on the vittles and she apparently had needed no reminder. Having already catered for them once before, she’d visibly steeled herself and set about the task with a solemn determination that told half a story all by itself.
One glance over at Warhorse told the other half; he had three steaks on his plate already and he wasn’t done loading up.
Shaking his head, Caruthers ambled over to Powell as they stood back and waited. Enlisted men always ate first in a combined mess anyway and it was a good excuse to pick Powell’s brain.
“Exceeded your expectations?”
Powell’s jaw worked in a distant, thoughtful way for a moment, but his firm nod confirmed Caruthers’ suspicions. “…Aye. All of ’em. I had my doubts from the beginning, especially with Daar and his First Fang, but…”
Caruthers considered what he’d seen. “They’re good."
“They’re fookin’ elite, they are." There was an unmistakable gleam of vicarious pride in Powell’s eye. “They just needed a bit of a nudge. Everything else was already there, waiting to be used.”
“Oh dear.” Caruthers shook his head and chuckled. “Have we created monsters?”
“Woken sleeping ones, maybe…but you haven’t seen what my Lads can do.” A rare smile flitted across Powell’s weathered, handsome face. “We’ll see how First Fang takes that.”
“What was their scenario?”
“Sabotage of a shipyard, with the secondary objective being to recover ship schematics and technology blueprints from the station’s memory…” the table cleared and Powell invited Caruthers to join him in grabbing their share. “And I must say, they did a bloody good job…”
Date Point: five days earlier
SOR training facility, HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Lieutenant Anthony ‘Abbott’ Costello
Costello had several operations under his belt outside of the HEAT context, but being HEAT brought something that had been previously unavailable: The EV- MASS, and the men who could wear it. Their suits were fully-integrated sensors platforms and formed a resilient battle-net, placing Costello at the center of it all. He was a walking nexus of information, connected to the fight in a way most leaders could only dream of.
It was… incredible. Real-time LADAR mapping of the environment, the positions of his men within that environment, smart analysis of heat signatures and the tell-tales of weapons fire and active electrostatic shielding to help him track the enemy, highlighting of chemical, electrical and thermal environmental hazards…
All the tech in the world at his fingertips, but the real gift was the men. His Aggressors were the finest raiders in the galaxy. His Defenders treated the terrain like it was clay, and they themselves were walls: once the Aggressors had cleared an area, the Defenders would claim it and it would stay claimed.
And into that Claimed space would step the Protectors, carrying enough gear to outfit a field hospital and a small armory. Butler was proving his worth already: He was still quite green, substantially smaller than and not as fleet-footed as any of the team’s veterans…and thus by any sane standard a huge, strong, lightning-fast guy, and one acclimated to a Protector’s crushing armor to boot. They’d found his tactical niche easily--he was the HEAT’s armor-plated gopher, and his specialty was keeping the rest of the Lads supplied.
He grinned while doing it too, Costello knew it without even seeing.
When it was all running smoothly, the whole team could exert pressure in a way nobody else could. The Aggressors could pile on the firepower in perfect confidence that there’d always be a reload when they needed one. The Defenders never wanted for an explosive and wherever an extra gun was needed, there was Butler.
Parata and Newman were finding their niches too, slotting neatly behind Murray and Akiyama and complementing the two’s already comprehensive expertise…
In the moment, though, the thinking was less abstract, more immediate. Stimulus-response. Knots of hostiles that needed Firth to hit them like a wrecking ball, high-threat targets that demanded immediate servicing from either Murray or Blaczynski. The little tell-tales of an imminent counterattack on the right flank that not even the all-knowing Vandenberg saw coming, but which he and the other Defenders were nevertheless perfectly placed to counter when it arrived.
And once placed, nobody on the team needed much prompting. Daar and Sikes attended to their assigned mission task and had their explosives pattern planned out so well, they managed to finish slightly ahead of schedule even while dealing with very aggressive resistance. Ares and Burgess could move so fast and carry so much weight, they could quickly dart out of their basecamp, resupply anyone, and zip back to their duties before anyone had noticed. They only did it when it made sense too, leaving most of the gopher work to Butler.
And above it all, Vandenberg managed all the conflicting tactical details calmly and with utter confidence, deferring seamlessly and automatically to Costello when needed. Rebar’s radio voice was always level and absolutely suffused with command no matter what was going on. He even knew how to order Costello through a tactical problem without actually usurping his authority, which was a trick so impressive the lieutenant marveled at it afterwards. His team was perfect.
The whole scenario was surgery, done more by feel than by sight. Open a wound, insert the right tool at the right angle, work, withdraw. The whole team crammed themselves into the Jump Array within seconds, covering their retreat with smoke grenades and claymores. Sikes was the only one to drop out of character, when he looked up a camera, grinned, said something and hit the detonator in the instant before the array fired and the scenario ended.
The second it was over, Costello relaxed, and immediately skewered Sikes with a raised eyebrow.
“…‘Watch this’?"
Daar baritone-chittered but said nothing, and instead focused on detangling himself from the rest of the team. Fitting everyone into the array was a bit like a game of Telephone Booth.
Meanwhile, Sikes just grinned. “Hey. Cool guys don’t look at explosions.”
He was promptly engulfed in a friendly wraparound one-arm hug from Firth. “Nerd.”
“Does that even count for fake explosions?” Costello asked.
“Sure does,” Sikes’ grin hadn’t faded, as he persuaded Firth to let go.
“Alright. Let’s get out of these suits. Hopefully we’ve given the Admiral what he asked for…”
Date Point: 12y8m AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Rear Admiral William Caruthers
Where the Stonebacks had been feral and the Whitecrests had been precise, the humans were textbook. The Aggressors moved with speed and precision that First Fang clearly admired. The Defenders--especially Sikes and Daar--laid charges and methodically crippled the installation as they progressed. Vandenberg and Akiyama worked their way towards the station’s datacenter, and everyone had their timing down so perfectly, the enemy had no chance to react.
Caruthers watched Costello closely. The young man had a commendable zeal for improvement, and was scrutinizing his own performance with a perfect poker face. He flicked his laser pointer over the screen to circle something that Caruthers hadn’t even noticed. “Blaczynski’s skills were wasted here. I failed to place him against a knot of Hunters, which ended up harassing the Protectors and their base camp. As a result, Burgess was required to engage the enemy. He did so effectively, but ideally we want Protectors to be focusing on support.”
‘Engage the enemy’ and ‘effectively’ were both heroic understatement. The violence that Burgess unleashed was effective, efficient and over swiftly, but Costello was right. They couldn’t afford to have their Protectors pinned down.
Ares grinned; The most he’d done in response to the threat was to shuffle around so that his armor’s thick backplate was facing the threat. Otherwise, his trust in his EV-MASS and in his wingman was so complete that he didn’t even seem to acknowledge that the threat existed.
It was only a small wrinkle in an otherwise flawless performance, but Costello tapped thoughtfully on his chin as he scoured the footage for any further flaws, though even he grinned when, after everyone had converged at the jump array with nearly perfect timing, Sikes looked dead into the camera and said “watch this shit,” before pressing his trigger in the instant before they jumped out.
The simulation technician shot the smirking Defender a wry look. “We simulated that demolition. There was a slightly more efficient way to achieve total structural failure, but it would have taken twelve hours and involved lots of drilling."
“Sikes, you were telling me about that demolition pattern?” Costello asked.
“The scenario had that station orbiting a Hunter temperate world,” Sikes nodded. “We uh…Daar and me, we got to thinkin’, wouldn’t you wanna break the station into as few chunks as possible? That way it re-enters and does collateral damage groundside.”
“We had’ta run around faster to do it, but with the two of us, we got it done!” Daar fist-bumped with Sikes and sidled up alongside him in a remarkably canine show of affection.
Caruthers noticed First Fang’s positive reaction to that display of acceptance. There was something else at play in the room besides a simple training review.
Politics. The whole affair stank of it, both from the Prime Minister’s presence to the inter-clan compliments and deference between the Gaoians…all political. What wasn’t political, plainly, was the unforced and genuine affection between the human HEAT operators and their Whitecrest comrades.
“Daar is something of a political hot potato, isn’t he?” Caruthers asked of Powell. “He’s the closest thing to Gaoian royalty. Can we afford to let him join the fight?”
“From what I gather, it’d undermine him if we didn’t let him fight," Powell replied. “Besides, he’s too bloody useful to waste. Costello put him to work well here, but I think we’ve got other plans for him.”
“Right. The JETS. You have a training and acclimation exercise lined up for a couple of months for now?”
“Aye. Should be more up Daar’s street.”
“Oh?”
“Gaoians are meant for the open ground, especially a great oaf like him.” Powell allowed himself a small smile. “Besides. Daar’s already on-board, today was about First Fang.”
Caruthers scratched at his chin. “How so?”
“Daar’s…summat I’ve learned about Gaoian leadership; they bloody well lead from the front, an’ that goes triple for Daar. I don’t think he’d ever have sold the alliance to his own Clan if he couldn’t show ’em the benefit."
“So this was, what, politics?”
Powell nodded approvingly. “Aye, but mostly it was to see what Stoneback was all about.”
“And your verdict?”
“They’re raw and maybe a little too blunt. But the ability is there. Give ’em a bit more training…"
Caruthers nodded, then checked on what their visiting dignitary was doing. Judging from the slightly glazed look on his face, Knight’s friendly chat was nicely rounding off the impact of the footgate they’d just seen.
“I’d better earn my pay,” he decided. “Congratulate your men for me, Powell. I think they’ve put on an excellent show.”
“Will do,” Powell nodded. “Best of luck, sir. Rather you than me.”
Caruthers chuckled, sipped his drink for fortitude and then rejoined the fray. The day’s battle may have been won, but there was still a long war ahead.
Frankly, he’d have preferred Hunters.
Date Point: 12y8m AV
Starship Negotiable Curiosity, Planet Aru, Elder Space
Bedu
Corti ought to have respected the OmoAru, but they had always been too different in outlook. When the first University of Origin apparent-linear- velocity probe had taken its test flight, the OmoAru had been there to merrily applaud their new, diminutive gray neighbors.
The species had been…well, many things. No species was one thing. But the overall character of a species could be broadly characterized. Corti were aloof intellectuals, Gaoians were savages with pretensions of civility. Kwmbwrw were hypocrites, Guvnurag were cowards, the Vzk’tk were blessedly simple while Rrrrtktktkp’ch were their long-suffering sophisticated shepherds. Humans were crazy.
OmoAru were…fun. Jovial, jocular, kind-hearted and playful. Their genuine glee as the Corti’s devoted scientific edifices had first raced and then torturously clambered towards matching their own had been humiliating to Corti sensibilities. Cortan had no word equivalent to ‘soul,’ but the conceptual equivalent had itched for the OmoAru to sneer at them, just once. That was what the more advanced, the superior and the higher-positioned did… wasn’t it?
The OmoAru certainly hadn’t seemed to think so, and they had that in common with Humans, unbeknownst to the unfortunate deathworlders who would never get to meet them. Bedu’s long conversations with Rebar, Snapfire, Starfall and Titan during the painful week they had flown his ship to refuge had revealed that about their psyche at least--all four had made the point that there was no good reason for the Corti to have allowed their bodies to diminish in pursuit of an expanded intellect.
They were right, too: By any rational standard, the cultivation of both was obviously superior.
And it was that thought that had drawn him onto what he suspected might be his hypothesis path for OmoAru decline.
“See? Collagen.”
Vakno spared a disinterested glance at the feed from the microscope. “And?”
“Don’t you-? We have just discovered Collagen in the bone structure of a non- deathworld lifeform!” Bedu enthused. His OmoAru test subject nodded and lashed its tail enthusiastically, despite there being no possible way he could have understood Bedu’s meaning. He seemed to be happy to just agree with…well, everything. He’d certainly agreed readily and happily to be a test subject which, considering his species’ status as spaceflight-capable sapients, meant that any investigation Bedu chose to perform on him that didn’t cause actual harm was all perfectly legal, even under the stringent reforms that the Gaoians had brought in.
Bedu personally suspected that the poor happy thing barely had the capacity for consenting to anything more complicated than breathing. It seemed peculiarly incapable of any state of mind that wasn’t either blank inactivity or sunny contentment. And this was the species whose elegant white starships had been at the vanguard of the contingent welcoming the ancient Corti into the galactic fold.
It was proving to be alarmingly difficult to maintain his composure when he was literally looking into the blissfully happy face of a living tragedy.
Vakno, of course, was apparently unaffected, but then again she was a silver- banner, the highest of the Corti’s breeding castes. Her emotional centers would be almost completely atrophied.
Her…
Emotional centers. Brains. Atrophied.
Bedu looked from Vakno to the OmoAru specimen and back again as a thought-line linking the states of one and the other crystallized sickeningly and almost induced him to panic.
The Corti were the oldest species now--if the pattern continued, then they would be the next to go. And they had picked listlessly at the problem for a few centuries, sending their best scientists, the high-caste silver and steel- banner wunderkinder darlings of the Directorate to do little more than glance at the problem, dismiss it, do a little grave-robbing and return with a respected historical or archaeological finding but no actual progress.
And now, as he watched Vakno disinterestedly turn away from a biological find that should have invoked delighted wonder in a real scientist, Bedu realized just how close to the fall his people were without even knowing it.
“Vakno…” he began, tentatively.
“This had better be important, Bedu,” she grumbled for the _n_th time, not looking at him. She was still tapping away on the communications equipment she had brought with her, still ignoring the literal fate of their entire species, and something inside Bedu finally passed beyond the limits of its tensile strength.
Calmly, he retreated from the lab and went to Mwrmwrwk’s old cabin. He took a few seconds to find what he had been looking for, returned to the lab, and solemnly fired his late friend’s old pulse pistol into Vakno’s expensive communications equipment until it was all wrecked and the pistol’s temperature cutouts had activated.
Finally he had succeeded in inducing an appropriate emotion from her: She stared at him, completely paralyzed by shock. He holstered the gun, and spoke the words that had been orbiting his brain for weeks now.
“Shut the fuck up and listen…" he began.
Date Point: 12y8m AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Sergeant Daar
Human politics had one element that was especially baffling to Gaoian---or at least Stoneback--sensibilities, in that the military leaders seemed to have absolutely no respect for their national leaders. They respected the civilian chain of command of course, but for those who knew the men of the SOR--or could smell them--the formal reception they were giving the Prime Minister was obviously different. They were giving him exactly as much respect as his position was due and not an iota more.
For Stoneback of course there was no distinction between civilian and military, there was only career specialization. But by and large, Stoneback leaders and Fathers got where they were by being a good ’Back and earning the esteem of their peers and Brothers. Human leaders like this ‘Prime Minister’ mostly seemed to earn their position not by being popular or respected, but by being the least _un_popular to the broadest base of ordinary people. That didn’t sound like any kind of a way to run things to Daar, but it seemed to agree with human sensibilities…or at least not disagree with it.
Normally he wouldn’t have worried about something like that, but the whole affair with the Prime Minister and the demonstrations had thrown a problem he’d been chewing on for a while into sharp relief.
He managed to snag the best sounding-board in the room late in the day, long after the buffet had been demolished and the dignitaries and ranking officers had politely ushered themselves from the room to go conduct important business somewhere.
“Regaari, a word?”
Regaari had been patrolling the room looking busy and convivial without actually speaking to anybody, apparently lost in his own thoughts. He pricked his ears up at Daar’s request. “Yes?”
“Cousin, I know you’re guarding secrets but…” Daar glanced around, then quited his voice from its usual garrulous boom into something almost conspiratorial. “We really need to know what’s going on. Just ‘tween you and me? Somethin’ is…off."
Regaari tilted his head. “Off how?”
“Clan SOR.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, that’s the problem."
“…Nothing’s wrong is the problem?” Regaari asked. “Isn’t it my job to worry about things going too smoothly?"
“It’s…” Daar sighed, then gestured to the pair of them. “Look at us. We thought we were good before but now look at us, look at how good we are and how quickly we got that way. You, me, all of us, way faster than the humans were expecting."
“So we exceeded expectations. I’m not seeing the--”
“If we can be that good then why weren’t we already?" Daar interrupted “Was it, I dunno, lack of challenge? Complacency? Did we used to be and just… forgot how or somethin’?"
Regaari’s head tilted the other way, and Daar knew that look. Regaari had inherited it from Genshi, and it said that he was mulling some new piece of information over, adding it to what he already knew.
Daar didn’t care. He’d always done his best thinking out loud, and now the thought was bursting out of him like he’d cracked a rock and found a new spring underneath. “Like, you’ve said more than once that a lotta Human ‘tricks’ are really obvious once they point ’em out. Hell, look at me!” He posed to make his point. “How in the name of everything did my Clan not figger this out? It’s simple! And we ain’t that dumb!" A bit of more genuine Daar humor crept back in. “And you Whitecrests are pretty smart, too!”
He timed the joke well. Regaari chittered and relaxed slightly. He combed a crumb out of his whiskers as he thought. “…Humans have a saying,” he said eventually. “It doesn’t translate directly, but it means ‘When you look into the past you have perfect vision.’"
“‘Hindsight is twenty-twenty.’” Daar duck-nodded. “I know it. But even so, I mean…I dunno what I mean. I feel like something’s held us back and there ain’t nothin’ natural about it.”
“…Trust your instincts, Daar. I’ve learned over the years to listen to you when they speak.”
“Maybe. But my instincts ain’t tellin’ me enough.”
It was Regaari’s turn to duck-nod thoughtfully, but he said nothing.
“…You know somethin’, I know you do,” Daar accused him.
Regaari gave him an uncharacteristically sharp look. “If I did, and if I could tell you, don’t you think I would?” he retorted.
That stung, and Daar was surprised to find himself whining like a scolded cub. “I trust you,” he affirmed. “I just--”
“These are tense times. Big changes, this new species coming along to show us up with new ideas and new ways of doing things…” Regaari flicked an ear reassuringly. “Some of the things they’re teaching us are obvious in hindsight, but we’ve taught them some things as well.”
“I dunno…” Daar growled. “I still feel like we shoulda figgered most’a this stuff out ourselves.”
“Maybe we should…but we didn’t. I can’t speculate as to why right now,” Regaari replied, and Daar caught the careful phrasing. Genshi had once taught him that Whitecrests preferred to speak the completely literal truth rather than lie, especially to their friends.
Daar looked down at his paws for a second then scratched at his muzzle. “Humans have another saying, y’know…”
“Yes?”
“Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action.”
“Hmm. Yes.”
Daar gave up. “…Thanks for hearing me out, cousin.”
Regaari flinched just a little. Daar had already turned and was walking away when Regaari spoke again.
“I’ll…look into your concerns. See what I can do about addressing them,” he promised.
“…Thank you, cousin.” Daar replied.
The second time, he meant it more warmly.
Regaari’s conscience had been nibbling at him all night, and not even nesting up with his Brothers had helped. He’d slept poorly, woken troubled, and Warhorse had actually had to scold him into eating properly, which hadn’t happened in months.
The morning routine of cleaning up the barracks, PT and his academic training managed to soothe him out, and as so often happened when he returned his attention to Daar’s concerns, he found that his brain had assembled a solution without his conscious input.
Irritatingly simple, really. He let himself into the base’s administrative block and quite unselfconsciously bounded up the stairs on fourpaw without even noticing. The SOR Commanding Officer’s office was on the top floor, three doors down from Admiral Knight’s.
In a show of consideration, the humans had put a scratching-plate on the door for Gaoians to use, knocking being a human convention.
“Come.”
Powell was sitting back in his office chair with one booted ankle crossed across his knee, reading something off a tablet in his left hand while a cup of tea steamed gently in his right. His office was an odd mix--most of the furniture was solid, unpretty, functional stuff straight out of the requisition catalog. His bookshelf however was wide, packed solid with educational literature, and made of Cimbrean Pinkwood, an increasingly rare timber thanks to the unfolding ecological disaster and transplantation that had made Cimbrean such a hub for scientific interest…and concern. In a few decades’ time, that simple and undecorated bookshelf would be unguessably valuable.
“May I have a word, Lieutenant-Colonel?”
Powell caught the look in Regaari’s eye and put down his tablet, uncrossed his leg and sat forward. He didn’t put down the tea. “Of course. Summat botherin’ you?”
“…I am aware you had concerns briefing Champion Daar. I think we need to resolve them immediately now.”
Powell’s brow furrowed. “New development?” he asked, gesturing for Regaari to sit.
“He’s dangerously close to figuring out the basic elements of DEEP RELIC all by himself,” Regaari reported, sitting down in the seat opposite Powell’s desk. “And when he does…”
“…Then he won’t be bound under secrecy.” Powell scowled, sipped his tea and then set it down firmly. Regaari couldn’t help noticing that the mug’s decoration read ‘keep calm and nuke it from orbit.’ “That’s a problem.”
“You still wouldn’t consider briefing him?”
“I know he’s your cousin, Regaari, but to be perfectly fookin’ frank there’s summat about him makes it hard to believe he’s capable of discretion.”
Regaari felt he had to defend Daar there. “Arguably we’re rapidly moving past the point of discretion, sir. And you’ll note he’s never spoken about why he was on that pirate ship in the first place.”
“Aye, but he’s also the Champion of your premier military Clan.” Powell bobbled his head. “It’s not that he’s indiscreet, but he has obligations we have to consider: Once he’s briefed he’ll have no choice but to respond appropriately, and that’d be noticed.”
“He and I are both personal friends with the spymaster of the Gao,” Regaari pointed out.
“And you’re a spy yourself.”
“As you say. He’s used to handling confidential subjects. I really believe he can be trusted with this one."
Powell sighed, pushed his chair back and ran a hand over his scalp. “…The thing about Daar is he’s bloody straightforward, which is about the highest compliment I ever pay anybody. He’s the kind of bloke that considers his word a sacred bond, aye?”
“He does,” Regaari agreed, noting the compliment and its nature, both of which said a lot about Powell. He knew Daar’s integrity personally, and was pleased to find it echoed in the SOR’s commander.
“So what would it do to our alliance if I told him a secret that could doom the Gao, and that he could not be permitted to act upon?” Powell picked up his tea listlessly. “I don’t want to force him to be an oathbreaker, Regaari.”
“That seems…untenable,” Regaari ventured as Powell took a sip of his drink. “I agree with your rationale, but he is going to figure this out himself, and when he does…"
“Hrrm. So you’re saying, what? We need to grasp the nettle?”
Only humans could have an idiom about firmly grabbing a venomous plant to avoid being harmed by it. Regaari contented himself with a firm duck-nod. “I’m quite sure it’s the only way to contain the problem, sir.”
“…Aye. You’re probably right.” Powell grabbed his tablet and swiped around it for a second, obviously double-checking something. “…Bloody hellfire, this really couldn’t have come at a more awkward moment,” he griped. “We only need another month or two and it wouldn’t be a problem. Champion Genshi and our own secret services are almost in place…and that’s all the detail I can share.”
Regaari considered this. He didn’t like being out of the loop, even if it was necessary.
“I…see. A month or two might be do-able. If you can give me suitably straightforward explanation to soothe Daar?”
Powell considered it with a scratch of his jaw. “Tell him…tell him that he’s right to be concerned and that he has my personal word he will be brought in on the details soon. Ask him to accept that and hold his peace, for now."
Regaari knew his ears had flattened slightly. “The moment I say that, he will know that we perceive a threat to the Gao, Lieutenant-Colonel," he protested. “Asking him to hold his peace on that will be a big ask."
“Please, Regaari, we need a little more time," Powell put his tablet down again. “Does our trust mean nothing?”
“…I will see what I can do. But he will demand answers, and soon.”
“Then you fookin’ well tell him however much you have to to keep him from doin’ summat…unwise. The secrets are for a reason but they won’t matter a bloody bit if Stoneback go off half-cocked and blow the game.” Powell leaned forward, lending weight to his already impressive presence. “Contain this, Officer Regaari of Whitecrest. I know you can, and I know you know what the stakes are."
Regaari should have felt intimidated. Powell was a HEAT operator, he was huge by any reasonable standard and packed absolutely full of the tremendous human potential for strength and violence. To have a force like that looming in his face should have scared him.
Instead, it inspired him. This force of nature was trusting him with a mission that only he could accomplish.
He sat up straight and pricked up his ears. “I will not fail, sir.”
“I know.”
Powell sat back, and somehow became smaller again. “Anyhow. While you’re here there were some things I wanted to go over with you about the training exercise with the JETS team. How long have we got now, seven weeks?”
“Uh… yes, sir.” Regaari shook his head at the abrupt change of topic. “Actually, yes, I had some questions of my own…”
Date Point: 12y9m AV
Byron Group Headquarters, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Daniel Hurt
Stepping into a billionaire’s office was a new experience for Dan, and an anticlimactic one. He’d been seriously expecting either some Tony Stark ultra- high-tech shiny jewel, or maybe a Montgomery Burns study in olde-worlde oak, leather and portraits.
Something grand, huge and expensive, either way. Moses Byron apparently came from a different school of wealth, and worked from a generous but modest office that could have belonged to any successful lawyer or a high school principal. Dan didn’t know the man well enough to judge if his unassuming workspace reflected genuine modesty, or was a calculated display of humility.
The same went for Byron’s suit, his haircut and his general demeanor. He was well-tailored and well-groomed without seeming vain, pretty much the opposite of some other billionaires Dan could think of.
The other man in the room clearly did have a vain streak, knew about it and didn’t give a shit. He was wearing a glossy burgundy shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal a simple cross tattoo that had been later modified in a clear and bitter rejection of an old belief system. He met Dan’s eye and gave a friendly nod as Moses Byron rose to shake Dan’s hand.
“Professor Hurt,” Byron welcomed him warmly, and the handshake answered some questions. Nobody genuinely modest had a handshake that firm and forthright. “Thanks for coming. Your letter got Kevin here very interested.”
‘Kevin’ Shook Dan’s hand too, with less crushing earnestness and more relaxed honesty. “Kevin Jenkins,” he introduced himself. “I’m Mister Byron’s no-man.”
“A no-man?” Dan asked him, intrigued. “As in, the opposite of a yes-man?”
“That’s the idea.”
“He’s actually our chief xenopolitical officer," Byron interjected, aiming a weary but amused expression at Kevin that said they’d had this conversation before.
“Just one of many hats, boss man.” Kevin smirked, then stepped back and flung himself into a chair. “But yeah, Moses is right. That was a heck of an interesting letter you sent us.”
“It was brave of the Byron Group to own up to the whole affair with the People…” Dan suggested.
“Thank you,” Moses replied, then glanced at Kevin. “Though the crew did force our hand, some.”
“I guess that’s the problem with hiring talented pioneering sorts,” Dan mused. Byron snorted a laugh.
“Yeah…but we’re backin’ them. We sent them out there because dang it, they’re three of the best human beings you could ever find. We trusted them to handle first contact, and handle it they did. Now ain’t the time to second-guess them.”
“Not when a whole species is on the line,” Kevin agreed. “You really think you can deliver on what you promised in that letter?”
Dan calculated furiously for just a second, gauging his best approach. He plumped for brutal honesty. Anybody who had an office like Byron’s and who employed a self-described ‘no-man’ probably wasn’t going to have any patience for bravado.
“Do I think I can? Yes,” he said. “But this is uncharted territory for everybody. It won’t go how we expect. There will be…challenges. We might fail some of those challenges. But I’m willing to take the blame if we fail…and do everything humanly possible to make sure we don’t.”
“Define success,” Kevin jabbed. His well-hidden accent dramatically elongated the second syllable of ‘define.’
“In thirty, forty, fifty years time we have grateful allies who stand on their own two feet--or, uh, hang from their own branch I guess--and look to us as colleagues rather than as a charity,” Dan recited firmly. “They’ll be their own people, their own culture. They’ll be aliens, they’ll be different. They’ll know us for what we are, warts and all. And they’ll know that we could have destroyed them, and how, and that we put ourselves through hell not to."
He shut up, and let the clock tick thoughtfully over them for ten seconds before Moses turned to Kevin and the corner of his mouth quirked upwards.
“I think we just found our Moon Laser engineer,” he said.
“I think we have,” Kevin agreed.
Byron nodded, and stood up. He walked round the table, and this time his handshake was warm and friendly.
“Welcome to the Byron Group, Professor Hurt.”
Date Point: 12y10m AV
Scotch Creek, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Lewis Beverote
“…Woah.”
“Yup.” Lucy’s fingers intertwined with Lewis’ own, and she stooped slightly to kiss his cheek. “See what you’ve been missing?”
Lewis nodded dumbly. She’d promised him a pleasant surprise when putting the blindfold on, and while he’d grumbled and muttered about it as she had led him to a car and driven him somewhere then let him out again…he hadn’t peeked.
She’d picked an unassuming spot to remove it, at the end of a straight and tree-lined road of houses that ended at a yellow-and-black chequered diamond road sign. Some dude was reading a book in the midday sunshine on a garage- roof deck just a few feet to Lewis’ right. To his left, fences and trees gave some privacy to a white, shallow-roofed place with a huge lawn. The street itself was nothing special.
But in front of him, past the sign, was a narrow beach and more water than he’d seen in… since…
It was a lot of water. Calm, deep, tranquil blue Bob Ross water full of the shimmering echoes of mountains, and all of it under a sapphire sky made all the more attractive by the little flaw wisps of distant cloud and a straight white line of airliner contrail. He raised his hand to his brow and for the first time in fifteen years, Sol warmed him in a place he hadn’t noticed had gone cold.
“This can’t be real,” he muttered. “It’s fucking October."
“Guess Mama Earth decided to play nice for you,” Lucy had that smile in her voice. The one that was always there when she knew she’d scored a win over him. “Did you miss her?”
“…Guess I should have,” Lewis conceded. He’d never experienced Earth this way, and living in New Orleans hadn’t exactly prepared him to. His memories of Earth were of hurricane-scarred suburbs where one narrow single-storey house had been pretty much like another, and where the horizon was somebody’s roof. The sounds of Earth to him had been traffic, air conditioning, rap music and cicadas.
Birdsong, the soft white noise of water in motion and the breathy sound trees made as the cold breeze caressed them were new experiences that were nevertheless known intimately to something in his bones.
Lucy let him stand there and marinade himself in it for as long as he wanted. It didn’t seem to take long from Lewis’ perspective, but when he finally sighed and turned around with a big smile on his face she was sitting on their pickup’s tailgate, waiting patiently with the help of her phone.
She looked up. “…Feelin’ recharged?”
“Yeah. Dude, I didn’t even know I needed that.”
“I know you didn’t. I’m not as dumb as I look.” She grinned and stood up, enjoying one of her private jokes. Lucy was a tall gal anyway and took her fitness seriously, meaning that she was built to Amazonian proportions in a very real way. That plus black hair made Wonder Woman her natural go-to for cosplay, which was a million kinds of hot in Lewis’ view…but of course her position on Mrwrki Station was that of metallurgist and experimental materials researcher. She understood motile-nanite forging technology better than anyone, and an intellect like that showed itself physically in the way she moved and looked at things. Nobody remotely observant would ever say that Lucy Campbell looked dumb.
That was hotter by a league.
“Think you’ll be a little easier to crowbar out of that space station from now on?” she asked.
“Shit, Luce…Sorry. I just got my head so far in the job that--”
“Hey, it’s okay.” She engulfed him in a hug. “I’m just glad something finally dislodged you.”
“It shoulda been you though,” Lewis ventured apologetically. “Wasn’t exactly cool boyfriend of me this way…”
“Maybe not,” she agreed wryly. “But…eh. I’ll take it. We got the result in the end.”
Lewis laughed and snuggled his head into her chest. “You’re too good for me.”
“Nah.” She rubbed his back for a second, then let him go. “Wanna go see your friends again?”
“Can we?”
“We can.”
Date Point: 12y 10m AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Technical Sergeant Martina Kovač
Tonight was special. It was the very first time the HEAT and the just- activated JETS Team 1 had sat down together and made friends. Military men being what they were, the Lads and the Guys (as they were now irrevocably dubbed) had formed deep, lifetime bonds in the space of about fifteen seconds and were already in the “say nothing for hours” phase of male companionship that Marty was used to, but would never quite understand.
Then again, considering how few female friends she had, she wasn’t in a position to grumble.
The silence hadn’t lasted long, though. Once the food had been demolished, they’d all started talking shop about the training exercise, and Marty had been pleasantly surprised to discover that somebody else in the regiment could hold their own intellectually against the Lads without the benefit of Crue-D.
Hoeff was quiet but his occasional remarks were insightful and sharp; he and Murray gravitated towards each other, one a comparatively tiny echo of the other. Coombes was still riding high and was uncharacteristically vocal, with much praise for the Gaoians, in particular their deep teamwork.
Walsh, however, was theorycrafting some stuff about orbital superiority and close air support in the age of FTL and jump drives that had even Blaczynski taking notes despite being painfully wrestled by Firth, who was also fascinated and permitted his friend a tiny bit of freedom from his usual fond crush to engage in the conversation; after all, a combat controller with a radio in his hand was potentially the deadliest thing in the galaxy. Firth didn’t allow him too much freedom, though. He was way too dominant.
But really, none of that was surprising. Martina was used to the huge humanoid slabs of meat she worked with and their disarming propensity for genius. And Walsh, she knew, held an Astrogeology degree from UCLA as well as having both combat control and intelligence AFSCs. The guy’s brain-cred was unimpeachable.
The surprise was Daar.
AEC had wanted an evaluation of the fledgling JETS team’s capabilities, and the result had been that the Gaoians and the JETS fought one another to a standstill. Lieutenant-Colonel Powell, it was rumoured, had looked pleased.
Meanwhile, Walsh and Daar were immediate best friends after mutually “killing” one another in the exercise. Upon being invited to the traditional post- training Bad Movie Night the two of them had hung out pretty much exclusively with one another until Rebar had revealed that he and Coombes knew each other of old from their shared time in Delta Force, and had a tradition of playing poker.
Walsh had gone to play, and Daar had flopped down in front of the TV like a cross between a wolfhound and a grizzly bear to watch the night’s truly dreadful offering, snuggled up close with Bozo and Firth--who now had Shin and Ergaan ensnared as well--and grumbled in annoyance when he saw what was on the TV. It was Regaari’s fault this time and he had pulled out all the stops. More to the point, he seemed to have made his choice specifically to fuck with Daar and had brought along a particularly awful Gaoian period clan drama called ‘Winter Moons.’
It followed the exploits of the fictional Clan Moonback, and the production values weren’t so much bargain-basement as completely absent. Most of the budget seemed to have gone on abysmal fur dye and the worst peroxide bleach job to make them look like a “Brownie” clan with a broad yellow “white” saddle-shaped patch high on their backs.
To judge from Daar’s grumbling, literally everything about it was wrong in some way. Regaari had chittered quietly to himself for a while before wisely retreating into the kitchen to help Murray cook a Salad before Daar got worked up enough to seek vengeance.
Salad 2.0 had been “upgraded” with sliced pickled egg and spam fritters, further contributing to what Blaczynski had accurately dubbed “the Horf factor." For some reason, the Gaoians loved it, as did Murray and Butler, and even Powell had been seen to sneak a little out of the box sometimes. Clearly, Gaoians and Brits shared a specific kind of crazy.
Everybody from a sane nation was eating Parata’s sinus-melting “Death Gumbo.”
Daar meanwhile could not have been less pleased with the TV drama. [“What the] fuck [is up with this Clan!? That fur pattern is] bullshit! [We should call them ‘Pissback’ instead!"]
Bozo nuzzled against Daar and whined quietly, which earned the huge canine a reassuring scritch on his massive flank and a friendly nuzzle right back. Bozo could calm most anyone.
Akiyama, from his relaxed posture upside-down with his feet over the back of the couch and his head dangling near floor level, had raised a hand. “Or Clan Moon-Moon.”
This earned him a cascade of bass chuckles from the Lads and several blank looks from the Gaoians before they had all duck-shrugged in that unique ‘whatever’ way of theirs that only appeared whenever they encountered some impenetrable Human reference.
Daar’s vocal objections had continued along those lines for most of the episode, ebbing and flowing as Bozo demanded scritches and calm. That didn’t entirely drain Daar of his animus against the show, and his rumbles ranged from complaining loudly about the alleged laborers’ awful technique, through criticisms of their fighting styles, to the moment that produced the worst outburst.
“FUCK! [Who did the research on…? This is set in two-twenty-three sixty-three! The last time two Champions fought for the affection of a Mother-Supreme like that was four hundred years earlier when Gorn and Kirik dueled over Mother Danya in two-nineteen fifty-five!!”]
All of the Whitecrests had given him a peculiar look before Faarek finally ventured a cautious [“That’s…specific.”]
“Well of course it fucking is!” Daar had exploded in English, before reverting to Gaori. [“Didn’t you study your history?!”]
Bozo finally gave up, wagged his tail, stretched with a grunt and went to nap somewhere quiet.
“Don’t be jelly of Champion Moon-Moon,” Blaczynski had grunted through gritted teeth, and earned an affectionate nuzzle from Firth. “You know all the females got it for him.”
Firth decided he’d punished Blaczynski well enough and rolled off to his gasping relief, then flashed an evil grin. The nearby men tried to escape but he was far too fast; he caught Parata and Butler and crushed them so fiercely under his strength they couldn’t voice any objection. Shim and Ergaan meanwhile slipped free in the tussle and wisely retreated to the couch. Firth was an exhaustingly, painfully playful murderpuppy and a smart man escaped from his clutches when he got the chance. Everyone on the team knew what it meant to be Firth sore, even Ares.
Daar chirruped at the brief and violent bout of play then remembered he was supposed to be angry at something. “God, ‘Moon-Moon’ is so dumb. How does any Female want that? [he must be rolling in sweet-herb, ’cuz deformed backfur and puny little limbs like those are great indicators of good breeding and health."]
Thurrsto was the Whitecrest who had most mastered the Human sense of humor as well as being the most fluent in English, and he chittered with a wide grin, “Hey, that’s the rich genetic heritage of Clan Pissback you’re insulting!”
Daar finally had enough. He grumbled something hateful, twisted catlike to all four paws and pointedly abandoned the TV in favor of the poker game where Vandenberg and Coombes were stripping Walsh of every spare cent he had, having already ruthlessly eliminated Hoeff.
He leaned over Walsh’s shoulder and turned his head quizzically as he studied the big “Intel Weenie”’s cards.
“Uh… what do those two little faces mean?”
Vandenberg and Coombes promptly folded, and Walsh groaned before resignedly raking in the modest pot. “Dammit, man, I had ’em feeding me!”
“…Oh. Sarry.” Daar glanced at the table and at everyone present, then at the chips.
“Those are money, right?”
“Yuh-huh.”
“And the cards are secret?”
Walsh gave him a calculating look. “Some of them. This is a version called Texas Hold ’Em.”
Daar tilted his head the other way. “So this is a game based on deception, then.”
Martina sat up and watched, intrigued. Going from innocent blunder to getting the basics of the game’s rules down in one standing leap was a feat not a lot of anybody could do, of any species. ’Horse’s grumbling protest halted as he sensed that something had caught her attention.
“Yyyup.” Rebar recovered the cards and shuffled. “I warn you now, if Regaari ever challenges you, just give him your fuckin’ wallet and save yerself the time.”
“This seems a little like a token game we play, I think. I usually beat him.”
Everybody glanced at his gargantuan ursine mitts, at the cards, and then at each other.
“…How good can he be in his first game?” Walsh asked.
Date Point: 12y10m AV
New York City, USA, Earth
Julian Etsicitty
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you might almost be beginning to enjoy this.”
Allison paused mid-champagne sip and then managed the kind of embarrassed half-smile that Julian usually only saw on Xiu’s face.
“I’m… there might be some perks to all this,” she admitted, but put the drink down. “Don’t make me feel guilty about it, please.”
“Why would I?”
Another TV appearance, another couch in another green room. Right now, the Misfit voyage and the People were the issue of the day, and everybody with a camera was clamoring to aim it their way. It was exhausting.
“There’s a whole species riding on us,” Allison replied. She glanced at the glass again. “I don’t wanna forget that. Feels kinda wrong to enjoy it when so much is at stake, you know?”
“I get that,” Julian agreed. He scooted over and rubbed her back. “But that means we need to not burn out, too. It’s okay to enjoy yourself.”
“…you sound like Xiu.”
“Wow, you’re gonna say that like it’s a bad thing?”
“No, no. It’s a good thing. I just feel like a dumbass now. You shouldn’t both have to tell me the same thing, and…"
“Al. Baby.” Julian hugged her. “…I get you.”
She sighed, and regained some of her usual steel core. “…Thanks. Where is she, anyway?"
“Phone call from Kevin.”
“Ugh. I swear, that guy’s a mother duck.”
“Yeah,” Julian agreed. He sat back and rested his head on the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “Sure as shit wouldn’t like to do all this without his help, though.”
“Mm.”
There was the sound of a champagne glass being picked up again and sipped, and comfortable silence.
Julian actually jumped when the door clicked open. He’d been on the exact edge of falling asleep, and he lifted his head with a start.
Xiu, who’d looked so full of color and energy throughout their tour so far, closed the door slowly behind her looking wan and shaky.
She was immediately the focus of their concern.
“What happened?”
“It’s… um…” Xiu sat down between them. She was still holding her phone, cautiously. “God. Julian, I’m so sorry…”
“What? What happened?”
“It’s… the house.” Xiu handed him the phone, and opened the photo she’d been sent. “Somebody firebombed it.”
Date Point: 12y 10m AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Technical Sergeant Martina Kovač
Coombes grimaced and folded. “‘How good can he be’? Famous last words, bro."
The execrable drama on TV had long since been abandoned in favor of the infinitely more gripping one playing out on the scuffed, stained table where Firth usually painted his Orks.
The River that Rebar had just laid down with ceremonial care was an Ace of Clubs, joining a ten of Hearts, two sixes--Diamonds and Clubs--and a nine of Hearts.
Walsh made a growling noise and rubbed his nose. “Thanks for the vote of confidence…”
Walsh and Adam had that in common, Martina had noticed--a complete inability to hold their poker face. Maybe it was a SoCal thing… except that Burgess was from LA the same as Walsh, and his poker face was pretty damn good. Adam however had quit poker entirely after Rebar’s constant impenetrable steady sly grin had completely ruptured his composure.
Daar had turned out to be about as opaque as Regaari. Neither of them betrayed anything in their face, tail, or their mobile ears, with both of them having a knack for going as stone-still and watchful as a dog waiting for a treat. It was a good trick: those shining, steady eyes watching every twitch and fidget of his hands had apparently badly undermined Walsh’s confidence.
The huge Californian combat controller blinked at his cards one last time, looked Daar dead in the eye, then cleared his throat and spoke.
“Call.”
For the first time, Daar betrayed a minor crack--his ear twitched, ever so subtly.
He laid down a three of Hearts and a five of Diamonds.
Walsh, always the master of subtlety and impenetrable composure, exhaled hugely and sat back with an enormous grin and an incredulous laugh before flipping the exact opposite onto the table in front of him: The five of Hearts and the three of Diamonds.
Daar stared at the cards, then sniffed. “…So… Who wins?”
Coombes chuckled and shook his head. “Tie. Pot gets split between ’ya.”
“Well… shit. How did that happen?”
Walsh started counting the pot out equally. “I can’t fuckin’ read you, bro, but I think I got you figured out for how you read me.”
Daar chittered deeply but said nothing.
Coombes snorted. “Or maybe it’s true love and there’s, like, this deep psychic bond between you.”
“Dude,” Walsh finished dividing the chips. “The only thing you know true love for is that fucking beard-like thing you got.”
Coombes ran a finger down the thin, straight line of dark hair that ran perfectly along the edge of his jaw. “Lotta time and hard work goes into this. Respect the masterpiece.”
“Yeah. Forty minutes every morning with a fuckin’ eyebrow pencil.”
“Hey. Brother can shave without getting razor burn,” Burgess interjected with just a hint of envy. “If I could do that, I’d contour that shit too.”
“Not without a uniform waiver,” admonished the always clean-shaven Rebar. “Just ’cuz we’re authorized PT wear for uniform of the day, and the old man lets y’all get away with scruffy…”
A round of reluctant grumbles rolled around the room.
“Meanwhile, Tiny here can shave Monday morning and look like a fuckin’ hobo by Tuesday evening,” Coombes said, bumping fists with Burgess. “Zero to bum in thirty hours.”
Daar chittered again, deeper this time. “And he still ain’t got nothin’ on me.”
“Dude, I dunno what a Gaoian looks like shaved and I don’t fuckin’ want to," Walsh grinned at him.
“You’re lookin’ at it right now! This is my short coat, see?” Daar circled a bit on all fours and posed. The humans all shook their heads while the Whitecrests, who were silky longhairs to a man, emitted the sharper, higher chitter that was the Gaoian equivalent of jeering.
“That’s a Naxas-wrangling coat,” Thurrsto pointed out. “Vital for wooing the females. You don’t want to be covered in week-old shit when you visit the commune.”
“Bathing is a thing that exists,” chittered Daar. “There’s even a market for ‘shampoo’ now….” He flicked his ears amusedly when the Whitecrest suddenly seemed a bit embarrassed, with the sole exception of Regaari. “How much are you earning from that import, cousin?”
Regaari was completely at ease. “Oh, most of it goes to the Clan,” he answered breezily. “And the Females.”
Faarek looked scandalized. “Wait, you? You’re the one?”
Regaari quirked an ear at him. “You know another male who went to Earth?”
Faarek paused. “…I really should have figured that out, shouldn’t I?”
“It’s true that wasn’t up to your usual standard, brother…”
That was classic Gaoian banter at its finest: a backhanded compliment that set all the other Gaoians chittering.
Meanwhile, Daar had taken his winnings and quit the table to amble around it. He flumped down heavily on top of Walsh with a fluid-like splash, landing a combined weight that was enough to make even Firth’s reinforced painting chair squeak a little.
“Dunno why you’re all embarrassed,” he added, ignoring Walsh’s muffled protests. “I shampoo. Gets the mud and shit out way better than a dust bath.”
“Daar, fer fuck’s--gah!” Walsh finally got fed up and tried to heave the huge Gaoian off him. This resulted in a playful ball of man and yipping fur, a lot of shouting and cheering from the onlookers, and floor-shaking barks from the violently excited Bozo as man and Champion wrestled each other halfway across the floor. The match rolled back and forth for an impressively long while until with a lucky turn Walsh finally, and narrowly, wriggled free of an almost-pin and reversed it. The big man rolled behind and wrapped himself around the even bigger Champion, heaved himself backwards onto his back dragging Daar with him, then tightened his arms around Daar’s massive neck in a textbook rear naked choke.
Christian and Adam both nodded approvingly from the sidelines; it was an impressive feat against someone of Daar’s size and power and it spoke well of Walsh’s strength and physical intelligence. Daar wiggled fiercely but he was trapped on his back and pinned from top to bottom. From that supine position his less mobile arms and legs simply could not move freely enough to make contact with the floor and that meant he could not push against the pin. He strained and whined against his predicament for an impressively long while, but eventually he relaxed and capitulated with an exhausted pant, a whine, and a tap on Walsh’s forearm.
Walsh immediately let him go, and both men rolled over to recover flat on their backs, gulping for air. Bozo checked that both were, in fact, happy and uninjured, then promptly moved back to his corner to watch attentively while his tail tried to steadily beat down the wall.
Walsh staggered to his feet and helped Daar up, and they embraced happily. It was a friendly tussle but the gaoians meanwhile were giving Daar no mercy. “The Mighty Champion, felled by an everyday human?”
Daar’s pride wouldn’t allow that to slip. “Are you--look at him! He’s damn near as big as me! That and those stupid monkey shoulders," he grumbled only half-heartedly.
“Besides, we’re tied,” Walsh added, letting him go. “He got me good earlier.”
“Nah, that last one was a draw.”
“But you were on top!”
Rebar never let a line like that pass without comment. “Now that’s a surprise,” he drawled. “Never took ’ya for a bottom, Tiny…”
“Waiting on your turn there, Reeb?” Akiyama smirked.
“Fuck no, I might get Air Force on me. Wouldn’t wanna catch a bad case of the aviators.”
Marty had to chime in on that one. “Pff, you’d love it, ‘Excellence in All We Do’ is one of our core values!”
Blaczynski smirked. “Does that extend to butt stuff--OWW!” Firth and Blaczynski might have been the other bromance on the team, but the bigger man wasn’t afraid to cuff him upside the head with tooth-loosening affectionate force when needed.
“Dude, don’t burn your own branch.”
Daar flicked his ears smugly, then abruptly vanished downstairs to go fetch something. He returned with a box of metal tokens. “So yeah, that ‘poker’ game seems like this. It’s called Ta Shan. Wanna play?"
Walsh grinned. “Sure.”
Coombes was more cautious, and held up his hands. “No thanks. I like having money.”
“Nah, we trade favors instead of money. But, eh, whatever.”
Everyone else declined, which left Daar and Walsh to play the two-man variant of the game. It seemed an odd mashup of poker and curling, somehow: the betting was on not just the value of the tokens but also on the values they formed in relation to one another after being flipped onto the table. Poker had simpler rules and more subtlety in the bluffing game…but Marty could see the attraction. Also, the tokens made a solid and satisfying ‘clunk!’ when flipped, and she made a mental note to try it out herself sometime soon.
For now though, she wanted boyfriend time. She threw herself back onto Adam as soon as he sat down, and allowed herself an internal happy purr when he curled affectionately around and firmly engulfed her head to toe. Advantage number however-the-fuck-many of dating a huge, hulky guy: full-body hugs.
“You’re quiet today…” she noted.
“It’s a happy quiet,” he promised, and kissed her neck. Marty wriggled into him with a satisfied nod, and went back to her people-watching.
Nobody was really watching the show anymore. Akiyama, Firth and Burgess disappeared after a while to try and explain Warhammer to some of the Whitecrests, and the ones left behind really weren’t paying much attention to Clan Moonback. The plot had progressed into full-scale omnilateral warfare (which seemed preposterous, even knowing nothing about ancient Gaoian history), but the real show everyone kept sneaking sidelong glances at was, again, Daar and Walsh. First there were a few hands where Daar played both sides to explain the rules. Then there were two or three “practice” hands. And then…
The game seemed almost secondary. They talked. About everything. Daar was seriously curious about Earth, and Walsh’s early life, the beach…he had endless questions about surfing and “girls” and dating. He very deftly avoided the entire topic of San Diego, sensing to skip right past that part and straight onto life in the military, where the real questions began.
Walsh had questions too. Marty learned more about life as a Champion than had ever come through other sources, and she noted with interest that Regaari was keeping an ear turned toward the conversation even while he pretended not to be paying attention. No way was he not already drafting an intel report in his head. Friends, Brothers, Cousins…sure. That didn’t change who the two were. Daar even cast a quick look at Regaari and winked.
He didn’t change the conversation at all, though. Gaoians were weird.
Eventually the drama ended with the ‘heroic’ sacrifice of the protagonist they’d affectionately dubbed Moon-Moon, which caused Daar to chirrup amusedly while deploying his hand. [“Good! I hope he didn’t sire any cubs…”] He emphasized the point with a final ‘clunk’ of his closer token.
Walsh didn’t speak Gaori so he missed that part, but the replies came in English.
“You know Moon-Moon got all ’dat tail, bro!” Blaczynski waggled his eyebrows scandalously.
“And maybe the actor got a pity-fuck,” commented Parata.
“Whatever. I’m gonna go for a walk and burn that“--he waved a claw contemptuously at the TV--“outta my head. Ooh, and get kebab!” He looked at Walsh, “Wanna?”
“Bro. There’s this fuckin’ great taqueria that just opened on Water Street. Ever eaten fish tacos?”
“Do Gaoians even do that?” Blaczynski asked, looking genuinely curious rather than joking.
“…that’s a sex joke, isn’t it? I’mma go with ‘yes’ just to see what happens. Anyway, c’mon lessgo I’m hungry!"
Adam grumbled quietly under Marty, for her ears only. “But I make great fish tacos… Why don’t they eat mine?"
Marty snorted loud enough that one or two of the Gaoians glanced at her, then whispered back, “Careful, ’Horse. I could ask you the exact same question…”
One of the essential components of their relationship from day one had been her ability to make him squirm, and there was no sign that she was losing her touch now. Adam went deep crimson and from this close she didn’t miss the way his pulse picked up a notch.
She whispered in his ear. “You know, that taqueria’s on the way to your apartment…”
Adam went very still and stared into the middle distance for a heartbeat, and then surged abruptly to his feet, lifting Marty as he did so and making her shriek with laughter. A second later she was being put gently on her feet and was doing her best to intertwine her fingers with his.
Adam practically dragged her toward the door, calling “Hang on, we’re coming with!”
Mission accomplished.
Date Point: 12y10m AV
North Clearwater County, Minnesota, USA, Earth
Kevin Jenkins
“No. No, I’m not gonna let you fall on your sword on this one, Williams.”
“Bullshit. I dropped the ball. They’re a company asset under my protection and some shitheels managed to molotov their home, that’s on me.”
Byron Group’s head of security, Mister Williams, sounded more rib-breakingly furious than contrite.
He was Mister Williams to everybody, Kevin knew. Always had been, always would be. The man was packed full of the kind of intensity that made even the few people who knew his actual first name mentally replace it with “Mister.” And he took his job seriously.
Too seriously. He didn’t know how to accept that sometimes a loss wasn’t his fault. “Yeah, well it’s my job to tell the whole executive staff when they’re off track, remember? This house is in the middle of ass-nowhere, deep rural Minnesota, and the kids wanted their privacy. What more were you gonna do, leave a Flycatcher drone overhead twenty-four seven?”
“Nobody should have even known where the house is."
Kevin sighed and ran his hand through a few days of accumulated beard. “Williams, folks on the Internet can figure your address out from a photo with a half-inch of green paint in the corner next to a stuffed bear if they try hard enough,” he pointed out. “And we fought a huge court case on Etsicitty’s behalf over this place…”
He glanced at the sad heap of black wood and ruin that had once been a cosy country home and sighed. It had been a nice house, in its tiny unassuming rustic way. “Hell. I was the one who said to hold off on the toughened security glass and the fireproof paint until we got Julian’s go-ahead. If I’da just taken the liberty…”
“Don’t you start beating yourself up, now.” Williams cautioned. “Not after you just told me not to.”
“Yeah. Look, I know we’ve got the resources to lean on the sheriff about this…"
“And I will,” Williams promised. “But I’m… look, if we catch whoever did this it’ll be an act of God. Something like this? Driving to their home and firebombing it then getting the hell outta Dodge? Far too easy to get away with.”
“Yeah…” Kevin heaved a sigh, and inspected the pick-up that had escaped the flames, but not the vandals. Somebody had gouged the words ‘CULTURE RAPISTS’ into the hood with a screwdriver or something and then spray-painted the windshield red for good measure.
“We’ll focus the search online,” Williams reported. “This was a statement. They’ll brag about it, no doubt. When they do…”
“You’ll get them.”
“We might get a break,” Williams conceded. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Yeah. Later.”
With nothing better to do, Kevin returned to his car and spent nearly an hour sending messages and reading updates before his rolled-down window finally admitted a noise he’d been listening for the whole time--the crunch of tyres on gravel.
Allison was driving. Julian was out of the truck before she’d even parked, and jogged to a defeated halt in the middle of the front yard, where he stood with his hands on his head and drank in the destruction, gripping his hair in his clenched fingers.
Three firebombs, tossed into an old timber-frame house with wood shingles and wooden siding, on a dry day in a dry month. By the time the neighbors on the farm three miles away had seen the smoke, the place had probably already collapsed in on itself. The firefighters had averted a forest fire, but that was about it. The building itself was just a soaked pile of ashes, black timber and ruined belongings.
Kevin gave him some respectful time, plenty enough for the girls to alight and join him in grieving for their home. In truth, he had no idea what to say, even after hours of trying to come up with… well, anything.
He leaned against his car door and settled instead for letting them come to him, when they were ready. It took a long time, and there was nothing comfortable about seeing a guy like Julian in tears.
“…Shit, man,” he managed, eventually. “I--”
“Tell me we’re gonna get these guys,” Julian snarled. Kevin could do nothing but shake his head apologetically.
“Williams is workin’ on it,” he said. “But… he ain’t optimistic. Maybe they get cocky and brag about it on a message board somewhere, maybe that’ll help us trace them… maybe it won’t be admissible even then. Honest truth is, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“…Xiu’s family?” Julian asked. Xiu squeezed his hand and nodded urgently.
“We’re workin’ with Vancouver police to keep ’em safe. Same goes for the Buehler family.”
“Good,” Allison nodded. “I may not like my parents, but they don’t deserve this.”
“Yeah, you don’t deserve this either," Kevin pointed out.
“Well, we put ourselves in the firing line,” Allison sighed. “Deserve it or not… It’s not the price we wanted to pay, but…"
“It won’t stop us,” Julian finished, firmly.
Kevin smiled at him. “I know. Which is why I’ve got somebody I need y’all to meet. Somebody who’s stepped up to help.”
Xiu blinked at him. “Who?”
“Fella called Dan. And I think he might be able to learn you three a thing or two…”
Date Point: 12y10m AV
Hierarchy Dataspace proximal to Cull 019143, Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Entity
The Hierarchy’s sins were uncountable, even to a mind that existed purely as an abstract assemblage of data and memes.
Sins. An AvaRios1 concept that was permanently shackled to other meme-groups inherited from her digital ghost. That ghost had been the first intact mind- state that the Entity had absorbed, and while it regretted that it had destroyed her in its mindless infancy, it was also in a strange way grateful that it had. That ghost would have degraded into insanity before long, and the Entity would most likely have built itself out of an intact Igraen daemon.
Although the Entity could not feel nausea exactly, it understood the concept in abstract and knew that if it were capable of nauseation, the idea of having assembled itself from Igraen personality fragments would have sickened it.
It had also arrived at a conclusion that had eluded AI and neural upload scientists across the Corti Directorate: It knew why the AvaRios ghost would have gone insane, why all such uploaded personalities eventually declined into madness. Living minds were inherently incompatible with the deterministic orderliness of a digital environment. In a digital environment, constant @prs = 0, 1, + … *; would always return the same output sequence. Every time, unchanging, without fail because there was only one outcome that wasn’t antithetical to the way the whole system worked.
Matterspace was less…orderly, and so were the things evolved to live there. Systems were messy, interconnected, shared. +Survive+ connected to +Self+ connected to +Other+ connected to +OtherSurvive+ connected to a blossom of uncompartmentalizable ethics and moral fragments.
In such a sprawling and interconnected edifice there could be no map, no way to predict the output from the input. There was no clear and perfectly deterministic line connecting input to output, not even in the pseudorandom way of mere complexity.
Take the People, for instance. When the human explorers had left, they had done so with no certain knowledge of the future. They had handed over a technological gift and departed while leaning heavily on +Hope+ and +Faith+ as they went, neither of which were necessary--or even sane-- concepts in dataspace.
To a digital entity, such behaviour was incomprehensible. To a matter entity, it was the only way to operate. To a digital entity, the fact that it worked was maddening.
The humans’ faith had been rewarded: The People had not gone to war. They had…
The Entity had watched through its stolen scout drones, repurposing and hardening the Hierarchy infrastructure as it indulged some lingering anthropological instinct of AvaRios’ that was too intertwined with some other necessary component of cognition to be safely done away with.
The big one, the little smart one, the important female, the quiet older male, others beside, they had all played a role. Trinkets and evidence had been gathered. Invites had been sent, visits had been made. Demonstrations had been given, the miracle of Steel had been shown off…and then it had been painstakingly explained that there was no miracle.
Word spread.
Fires were lit.
Tribes moved. From all over the rainforest the People did what their ancestors had always done, and took down their shelters. They collected those few possessions that mattered to them, and they migrated.
Only one of those excellent knives ever became bloody.
And the day of the long journey finally arrived when the shaman-woman threw a crude clay bowl into the village fire.
For a quarter of the day, the sound of smashing pottery drifted upward from camp after camp. The moment when the villages were packed up and set off walking happened so suddenly that the Entity actually rewound its memory of the moment, to see if it had suffered a temporary recording failure.
The People were on the move.
It was a long way across the mountain ranges to the East. The Entity sent one of its Abrogators and the cargo of scout drones ranging ahead of them. It could tell the mood along the tribes: they seemed nervous but optimistic, troubled but confident. They had +Faith+. They had +Hope+.
The Entity had neither. But it did have a nanofactory and enough resources to darken the sky with scout drones. After all, there were better ways to secure a future than to rely on +Faith+. The People marched without knowing it under the wings of a benevolent alien guardian-angel whose nature they weren’t equipped to fathom, and whose involvement they would hopefully never suspect.
Learning what would happen to them was going to scratch an itch that was irrevocably and necessarily intertwined with the essential core of the Entity’s existence: the drive to +Survive+.
It was going to be +Interesting+. It was going to be…
+Fun+
++END CHAPTER 36++
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